Some heartbreaks creep in quietly. Mine smashed the door down.
It began with a sound.
A laugh.
Her laugh.
I froze in the hallway outside my apartment, the strap of my purse digging into my shoulder. I knew that laugh — warm, musical, the one that had pulled me through so many bad nights. Except now… it felt wrong.
A man's voice followed. Low. Familiar.
Too familiar.
My grip on the paper takeout bag tightened until the cardboard bent. Garlic noodles. He'd told me he was too tired to come over. I was going to surprise him.
The laugh came again, muffled this time — like someone trying to keep quiet.
No.
No.
I pushed the door open.
"—oh God—" she gasped.
He was shirtless, the muscles of his back shifting as he turned toward me. Her hands were still on him. Her hair — the same hair I braided for her last month while we watched terrible romcoms — spilled over my sweater. My sweater, bunched around her ribs.
The bag slipped from my hands. The clatter of plastic containers hitting the floor sounded louder than thunder.
They both froze.
"Sarah—" His voice cracked.
"Wait, I—" She reached for me, but the sight of her nails — painted in the shade I bought her last week — made my stomach twist.
I stepped back. "Don't."
"Please, it's not what—" he started.
I laughed once, sharp and ugly. "Don't insult me."
No one moved. No one breathed.
I turned and walked away. My legs felt steady, but inside, it was like someone had dropped me from the roof of a building. The pieces were still falling.
The night was too warm for rain, but the air was heavy, sticky — the kind of weather that clings to you. I wandered aimlessly until I ended up in front of a 24-hour diner. The neon "OPEN" sign buzzed faintly, bathing the sidewalk in red light.
I sat on a bench outside, staring at nothing, the smell of frying bacon drifting through the open door. My phone buzzed again. And again. I didn't touch it.
That's when I felt it — the weight of someone's eyes.
I looked up.
Across the street, leaning against a sleek black town car, was a man in an expensive charcoal suit. Tall. Sharp jawline. Hair so dark it almost blended into the night.
He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning either. Just… watching. Like he could see past my clothes, my skin, right into the mess inside me.
For reasons I can't explain, I didn't look away.
Rain began to fall in a thin, hesitant drizzle.
He tilted his head slightly, as though memorizing my face, then his phone rang. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled it from his pocket, answered with a clipped "Williams," and turned away.
When he looked back, I was gone.
-------
One week later, I walked into my first day at my new job — a decision made in the fog of heartbreak and necessity — and stopped dead.
The man from the rain was standing at the head of the conference table, talking to a room full of executives. His voice was smooth, controlled, with an edge that made you straighten without thinking.
"I'm Alex Williams," he said. "If you're here, you work for me. I expect results, not excuses."
His gaze swept the room… then stopped on me.
A flicker of something passed through his eyes — recognition, yes, but something else too. Interest.
My stomach tightened.
I dropped my gaze to the floor, pretending to take notes I didn't need. But my pulse was pounding in my ears.
I had no idea the man who saw me at my weakest was about to make me an offer that would change everything.