Celine Monroe stirred her espresso slowly, her crimson nails tapping against the porcelain cup like a ticking bomb.
Across from her, Ex Husband Number Seven, Nolan Smith sat with his lawyer, oozing fake charm and greed. The table was set for lunch, but nobody was eating.
"I'm only saying," he began, adjusting his overpriced cufflinks, "we can settle this quietly, Celine. You transfer the properties to me, and I'll drop the mental instability claim."
Celine arched a brow, her eyes cold as winter marble. "You're calling me unstable because I screamed at your mother for trying to burn sage in my penthouse?"
"She said you threatened her," the lawyer chimed in smugly, sliding a manila envelope across the table. "We'll be filing for full asset control. Given your estranged relationship with your family and… pattern of marriages, the court may favor—"
"Finish that sentence and I'll pour this espresso in your lap," she said sweetly.
Her seventh ex-husband chuckled, leaning in. "Just sign it, Celine. It's only fair. You don't have anyone left, no family, no sympathy. Be smart for once."
When she didn't move, he tried again, softer now.
"I loved you. Still do, in some twisted way. But you? You're incapable of love. That's why no man stays. That's why you'll lose this in court. They'll say you're unstable, and I'll get everything anyway. Let's not make it messy."
Celine's face didn't shift. Not a blink. Not a twitch.
She picked up the transfer form, browsed it like she was reading a lunch menu, then slowly folded it in half.
"I see," she murmured.
He leaned forward, a flicker of hope in his eyes.
She met his gaze with ice.
"You'll get nothing," she said, rising to her feet. "Because I stopped playing fair after husband number three."
And with that, she walked out, heels clicking like the sound of a gavel.
Celine walked briskly, heels cutting through the chatter of the city as her sharp eyes scanned nothing in particular. The strong façade she wore like armor began to crack with each step she took away from that suffocating restaurant booth.
By the time she turned into a quieter street, the weight pressed in.
Her back hit the wall of a closed boutique, and she exhaled shakily. Her fingers, now trembling, dug into her clutch. She brought out the tiny orange bottle, popping the cap with practiced ease.
Two pills dropped into her palm.
She glanced around once before tossing them into her mouth, swallowing dry. The bitter aftertaste lingered, but she didn't flinch.
The noise of the city barely reached her, honking taxis, music blaring from a café, lovers laughing. It all felt distant, like a world she was watching through glass.
Celine didn't cry. Not anymore.
She'd mastered the art of breaking in silence.
She leaned her head back, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.
This wasn't defeat.
Since it was the Thanksgiving period, getting a taxi in the city was nearly impossible. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to be… except her.
She exhaled as she continued walking.
She had seen the red flags in Nolan, cocky smiles, fake promises, the way he hid his phone, but she had walked away before it got worse. Or so she thought. Now he wanted her properties? What an asshole.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn't see the small figure dart into her path until it was too late.
She bumped hard into something, or someone.
A sharp cry snapped her out of it.
She looked down, stunned, to see a little boy, no older than three, on the ground, tears welling up fast.
Celine crouched instinctively, her heart slamming against her ribs as guilt and confusion tangled in her throat.
"I–I didn't see you," she stammered, reaching out, unsure if she should touch him.
The boy's wail rose, louder, sharper, ripping through the air like a siren.
Passersby turned. Brows furrowed. Judging eyes narrowed on her like she was some monster who had shoved a child to the ground on purpose.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. Panic crawled up her spine, tightening her breath.
"Hey, hey… don't cry. I'm sorry. It was an accident, I didn't mean—"
"Bad aunty!" the child screamed. "Foolish aunty!"
Celine gasped, blinking. Did he just—?
The words slapped harder than a hand. A few bystanders chuckled. One woman shook her head disapprovingly, muttering something under her breath.
Celine swallowed, lips parting to respond, but no words came.
Of all the days. Of all the people.
She was being cursed out by a toddler in the middle of a crowded street.
The child was relentless, tiny fists balled at his sides, red-faced and furious.
"You blind or what? You big ol' mean aunty! You broke my knee! My soul hurts!"
Celine's jaw dropped. "What—your soul ?"
"I'll tell my daddy!" he barked
Celine was seconds from losing it, when a calm, firm voice cut through the chaos.
"Liam."
It was a single word, but it sliced the tantrum in half. The boy stiffened immediately, his head whipping around.
Celine followed his gaze,
A man closed the distance with an easy confidence, his broad shoulders filling the narrow street as the late afternoon light traced the hard planes of his face. The apron hugged his muscular arm, each movement flexing sinews that spoke of strength and hours spent mastering his craft. A streak of flour dusted across his chest and down one arm, the faintest hint of sweat glistening on his skin beneath the fabric.
He ran a finger through his black tousled hair, leaving a smudge of white against the dark strands, then let his hand fall to rest casually on his hip. The apron's tie dug slightly into his waist, emphasizing the lean power of his torso.
"Liam," he said again, voice quieter now. The scent of freshly baked bread and something sweeter, perhaps caramel or roasted nuts, wafted from him, wrapping around the moment like an unspoken promise.
His eyes locked on Celine, sharp and intense, like he was sizing her up in a way that left no room for pretense. There was a heat beneath his gaze, a fire barely contained beneath the calm exterior.
"What did we say about throwing insults?"
The boy sniffled. "Only when people deserve it…"
The man gave Celine a once-over. "And did she deserve it?"
"…She made me fall."
The man bent down and scooped the boy into his strong hands, ruffling his tousled hair with a gentle smile.
Celine's anger flared instantly. "This kid's yours?"
"Yeah, why?" he asked, calm.
She frowned. "He cursed at me."
The man's smile softened. "I apologize. He's not usually like this, I promise. How about I treat you both for Thanksgiving?"
Celine fixed him with a sharp look before turning away. "I can't stand unruly kids," she said firmly, her voice cold. Without waiting for a reply, she strode off, leaving him and the boy behind.
The man's eyes lingered on Celine's retreating figure, a knowing smile curling his lips.
He turned to his son and said softly, "Looks like someone is having a bad day."
The boy sniffled, clutching tightly at his father's shirt, while the man's gaze softened with quiet understanding.