I felt pretty fucked.
And not in a fun way.
That’s when she arrived.
A flurry of gold curls, designer bags, and fur-trimmed everything swirled into the seat beside May, across from John.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, peeling off her sunglasses. “Got held up by the press. Aretheseyour little friends?”
The blonde from the second row.
She looked familiar.
Too familiar.
And as soon as her face came into full view, my breath caught.
Her long lashes blinked slowly as she studied the table. “What did I miss?”
“Not much,” John said, clipped. He straightened in his seat, disconnecting our bodies.
“And you are?” May asked, still not looking up from her knitting.
Otis choked on his drink.
“I’m Vivian,” the woman said with a bright, camera-ready smile. “John’s fiancée, of course.”
I should’ve guessed. The way she walked in like she owned the place. The way heads turned. The way the waitress appeared at her side the second she sat down.
Vivian Garner.The Vivian Garner.
Skin flawless like she’d stepped out of a luxury skincare ad. Hair curled to perfection. I could smell her lotions and serums from across the table.
White noise pulsed in my ears. A feeling I couldn’t put my finger on grew inside my gut.
IknewJohn was engaged. We’d been through that. A PR stunt. A farce. I’d fully expected him to switch into stage-John the moment she appeared—buttoned-up and camera-ready. Smile. Wave. Play the part.
But he didn’t.
He turned toward her, not away. Let his hands drift across the table to catch hers. Intertwined their fingers, gentle and easy. Then he gave her one ofhissmiles—the rare, private kind.
They had a real connection. That much was obvious. And she was a knockout. One of those women no one could help but fall for. Confident. Composed. Impossible not to admire.
I mean, I wasn’t sure I’d say no.
If she and I were books, she’d beThe Devil Wears Prada. I’d beInterview with the Vampire.
If she were a musician, she’d be Mariah Carey. I’d be The Cure.
We weren’t just different—we were opposites.
Which left me… jealous.
And ashamed of it.
Otis had been right. I liked John. The morally gray villain. The brooding nemesis in a shared writing competition. It was inevitable, wasn’t it?
Last night, I caught myself scrolling through pictures of him online. Replaying our conversations. It was honestly appallinghow easily he’d gotten under my skin. How quickly I’d become a cliché. A character in a bad romcom.
