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I came home to an empty apartment. Not "he's out getting groceries" empty. Stripped. Gutted. Marcus took the furniture, the curtains, even the damn shower curtain. Three years of my life, and all he left behind was a sticky note on the kitchen counter. Five words: *You were never worth it.* I stood in the middle of the living room—if you could even call it that anymore—and laughed. Not because it was funny. Because if I didn't laugh, I was going to burn the building down. You know what's worse than getting your heart broken? Getting your heart broken AND your apartment looted. Like a breakup and a robbery had a baby, and it landed right in my lap. Three years. Three years of cooking that man's meals, folding his laundry, pretending his mother didn't call me "the placeholder" at Thanksgiving. Three years of pouring love into a man who treated my devotion like loose change. And he left me a sticky note. *You were never worth it.* Fuck you, Marcus. My phone buzzed. Landlord. *Rent is 3 weeks overdue. Final notice. Vacate by Friday or we proceed with legal action.* Friday. That gave me four days. I had $43 in my checking account, a maxed-out credit card, and a job I'd been laid off from two weeks ago because the company "restructured." Which is corporate speak for: *We don't need you anymore.* I sat on the bare floor and cried. Not the cute kind. The ugly, gasping, snot-running-down-your-face kind. The kind where your ribs ache and your throat closes and your whole body shakes like it's trying to reject the pain physically. --- Jade called twenty minutes later. Because Jade always knows. "What happened." Not a question. A demand. "He left. Took everything. I'm sitting on the floor of an empty apartment with an eviction notice and forty-three dollars." Silence. "I'm going to kill him," Jade said calmly. "Get in line." She came over with wine and a laptop. God bless that woman. While I drank straight from the bottle—classy, I know—she scrolled through gig listings. "Here," she said, spinning the screen. "Catering company needs servers for a black-tie gala tonight. Two hundred cash." I stared at the listing. Fancy. Expensive. The kind of event where people wore watches that cost more than my annual salary. Former salary. "I don't have anything to wear," I muttered. "They provide uniforms. Apply. Now." So I did. --- Three hours later, I was standing in the service hallway of the Monarch Hotel, holding a tray of champagne flutes like my life depended on it. Because it literally did. The ballroom was obscene. Crystal chandeliers. Gold-trimmed everything. Women dripping in diamonds, men in suits that probably cost more than my car. The air smelled like money and French perfume. I kept my head down. Moved between groups. Offered drinks with a polite smile. Invisible. Forgettable. Until I wasn't. A guest stepped backward without looking. My tray tilted. I grabbed for it—too late. Champagne went everywhere. All over the chest of the man standing directly in front of me. Time stopped. I looked up. And forgot how to breathe. He was tall—over six feet—with shoulders that filled his black suit like it had been sculpted onto him. Dark hair swept back from a face carved from marble. Sharp jaw. Cheekbones that could cut glass. And eyes so dark brown they looked black under the chandelier light. He was, without question, the most devastatingly beautiful man I had ever seen. And I had just soaked his suit in Dom Pérignon. "Oh my God," I gasped. "I am so sorry—" "Don't." One word. Low. An Italian accent wrapped around it like smoke. I froze. He looked down at his dripping shirt, then back at me. His expression didn't shift. Not anger. Not irritation. Something worse. Amusement. "Do you know how much this suit costs?" he asked. "I—I'll pay for the dry cleaning—" "You couldn't afford the thread." Heat flooded my face. Embarrassment curdled into something sharper. "Excuse me?" I said before my brain could stop my mouth. One eyebrow lifted. Barely. "There she is," he murmured. Before I could respond, a man in a dark suit appeared at his side, whispering urgently. The beautiful stranger nodded once, gave me one last look—long, slow, deliberate—then vanished into the crowd. I stood there dripping, heart hammering, tray empty. The rest of the night was a blur. I finished my shift, collected my cash, and changed in the bathroom. When I emptied my apron, something fell out. A business card. Heavy. Black. Embossed in gold. *Roman Castellano* *Castellano Industries* I flipped it over. Handwritten in sharp, slanted script: *Tomorrow. 8 AM. Don't be late.* ---

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