Chapter 1: The Breakup Jackpot

When I was forced to propose to Carter Voss, I caught a glimpse of his group chat—and right then, my stomach plummeted. My mom’s voice was still echoing in my head, the whole universe shoving me toward a cliff I never chose.

“If she dares bring up marriage, I’ll dump her on the spot.” The words sat there, ugly and blunt, like a slap. No sugarcoating, no mercy. That was Carter, stripped down, talking to his guys.

I blinked, then felt a rush of excitement—ridiculous, but real. A wicked spark flickered inside me: If he actually did it, that meant payday. My heart did a quick, reckless tap dance in my chest.

Every one of Carter’s ex-girlfriends walked away from their breakups with a massive payout. People whispered about hush money, a “severance package,” a legal settlement—call it what you want, it was real, and it was big. I’d heard enough to know it wasn’t just rumor.

I’d waited three years. I’d surprised myself with how patient I could be—counting months, biting my tongue, keeping the peace like it was a second job.

Finally, it was my turn. The thought was wild, a little awful, and honestly, kind of thrilling. My own exit package. My own clean break.

My third year with Carter Voss.

My mom suddenly called to pressure me about marriage. The timing couldn’t have been worse. She always had a sixth sense for calling when my life felt tangled.

“Lila Manning, when are you and Carter planning to get married?” I could picture her pinching the bridge of her nose, all drama, convinced I was rewriting her script.

“Carter doesn’t have any plans to propose right now.” My voice was flat, as if I were giving the weather report—overcast, with a chance of irritation.

I frowned, feeling more annoyed than ever. It wasn’t just the question—it was the way it carved into me, over and over, like I was a deadline, not a person.

But my mom wouldn’t let up—she never did, not when “the good life” was within reach. “If he won’t propose, can’t you take the initiative?”

“You’re almost twenty-eight. What you should do is hurry up and marry Carter. No matter what career a woman pursues, it can’t compare to marrying a good husband.” I could practically hear my own internal eye-roll. I’d fought this battle before, and lost every round.

“Remember when I was sick? If Carter hadn’t found that doctor to operate on me, I might have died. And your dad’s business—without Carter, it would’ve gone under long ago.” She stacked up his good deeds like evidence in a trial.

“A man like Carter is a real catch. You can’t let him slip away. Sometimes, a woman just needs to go after what she wants.” She meant well. It still landed like a brick.

The call ended, but her words stuck to me. I sat on the sectional in a daze, staring at the ceiling until the paint swirls blurred, until the silence in the room felt too loud.

It wasn’t until Carter came in, his lean, strong arms wrapping around my waist, that I snapped out of it. He had that way of moving, like he owned every room he entered.

When I looked up, that devastatingly handsome face was right there, moving closer. His eyes softened on instinct, the way they always did when he wanted something.

His perfectly shaped lips brushed against mine. The kiss was practiced, familiar—a thousand repetitions, all muscle memory.

As our breaths mingled, I caught a thick rose-heavy perfume clinging to him. It wasn’t his usual clean scent; this was sweet, almost too much, the kind that sticks to your clothes and leaves a faint headache behind.

For three days in a row, I’d noticed this scent on him. It wrapped around him like someone’s signature.

But when he left the penthouse this morning, he’d still smelled fresh, like gardenias. I always noticed these things. He never noticed that I noticed.

I thought about this as I lay back on the couch, my brain flipping between my mom’s voice and the scent on his collar.

Carter leaned in close to my ear, his voice low and rough—he always dropped the last syllable when he wanted to sound like trouble. He knew exactly how to dial up temptation, even when the timing was all wrong.

“Am I not kissing you deeply enough? What’s got you so distracted?” His whisper was part tease, part demand.

I didn’t want to deal with him. I closed my eyes and said nothing. Sometimes silence was safer than picking a fight I couldn’t win.

When he tried to go further, I stopped his wandering hand. Boundaries mattered, even if he liked to pretend they didn’t exist.

“I’m on my period today…” The practical truth landed like a wall between us.

My cycle was always regular. He knew that in theory, but never in practice.

Carter never bothered to remember. He lived in big gestures—feelings, money, power. Details just slipped off him.

He frowned, clicked his tongue in annoyance, then got up and left the room with decisive footsteps. The petty sound, the dramatic exit—classic Carter.

A moment later, I heard running water in the bathroom. Maybe he was rinsing off his frustration. Or maybe he was scrubbing away someone else’s perfume.

I adjusted my collar, took a slow breath, and glanced around. My eyes landed on the phone he’d left on the sofa. He was always careless when he felt in control.

The screen lit up with a new message—a notification bright as a flare.