The city was a blur of noise and motion, but Claire barely noticed.
She sat hunched over a half-empty cup of coffee in a corner booth of a small café, staring blankly out the window. The glass was fogged with condensation from the chilly autumn morning, and beyond it, the world moved on—oblivious to the storm raging inside her.
Her fingers curled loosely around the mug, but she didn’t lift it. The coffee had long gone cold, much like the numbness spreading through her chest.
It had been three weeks since she walked out of Grayson Westwood’s hotel suite.
Twenty-one days since she had turned her back on the man who had made her believe in something she had long stopped hoping for.
She had left without looking back.
And she had promised herself she would forget him.
But she hadn’t.
Because Grayson was everywhere.
She saw him in the stranger with silver-flecked eyes who brushed past her in the subway.
He was in the husky laugh of the man behind her in line at the bookstore, a cruel echo of the way Grayson had chuckled in her ear that night.
She even caught herself searching for him in a crowd once—half-expecting to feel the warmth of his gaze, only to be met with the cold indifference of strangers.
She hates herself because she misses him, she is dreaming about him and she is aching for him.
She told herself a million times that she should move on with her life, but moving on was easier said than done when Grayson Westwood’s face was plastered across every tabloid in the city.
His name filled the headlines...
The billionaire’s engagement to socialite Evelyn Harrington splashed across glossy covers.
Paparazzi photos of him at exclusive galas and charity events, Evelyn’s hand casually resting on his arm.
Evelyn Harrington is looking so elegant, a perfect woman any man could ever dream of being his wife.
And Claire?
She was just a fleeting memory, forgotten the moment she slipped out of his bed.
She told herself it was nothing—just one night, never meant to be anything more.
But her heart didn’t listen.
She snapped out from her reverie when she heard her best friend's voice, Emma, calling for her attention.
“You’ve been off lately, Claire,” her coworker Emma remarked one evening, frowning slightly as she stirred her drink. They were at a small wine bar after work, the low hum of music blending with the clink of glasses around them.
Claire forced a smile, swirling the glass in her hand.
“I’m fine,” she lied softly, her voice too steady, too practiced.
Emma’s eyes narrowed slightly, clearly unconvinced.
“Fine? You barely eat anymore. You’re pulling extra shifts you don’t need. You’re…” Her eyes softened. “You’re not yourself.”
Claire’s fingers tightened slightly around her glass, the stem cold against her skin.
She wanted to tell Emma everything.
About Grayson, and about the night that wrecked her, about the the man she still couldn’t get out of her head.
But she decided not to.
Claire smiled at Emma, trying to act normal and casual.
“Oh, I'm just tired,” she murmured softly.
And the lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
A few weeks quickly passed by, she threw herself into work, taking on extra hours at work. She buried herself in late nights and early mornings, hoping that exhaustion would dull the sharp ache in her chest.
But no matter how hard she worked, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about him.
His voice still lingered in her memory—the low, rough timbre of it... The way he had called her beautiful in the soft hush of dawn.
And she hated herself for wondering if he had ever meant it...
================================
It was a lonely Sunday night for Claire.
Claire sat curled up on her small couch, wrapped in a worn gray blanket. The television flickered softly in the dim living room, casting a pale glow on the coffee table littered with an empty wine glass and the remnants of her dinner—a half-eaten salad she had barely touched.
She was trying to watch a movie she had already seen twice before, some romantic comedy with predictable jokes and a neatly packaged happy ending. But she wasn’t really watching. Her eyes were on the screen, but her mind was elsewhere, clouded with thoughts she had been trying to outrun for weeks.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Emma, asking if she wanted to grab drinks next weekend. Claire glanced at it, but she didn’t respond. The thought of being out in the world, making small talk, pretending she was fine—it felt exhausting.
She sighed and tucked her feet beneath her, pulling the blanket tighter around her body. She reached for the remote, intending to shut off the movie and head to bed.
But just as her finger hovered over the power button, the channel switched to a glitzy evening talk show. The host’s voice was light, enthusiastic, dripping with admiration.
“And speaking of power couples, Grayson Westwood and Evelyn Harrington dazzled at the annual Luminary Charity Ball last night,” the woman said, her voice almost a purr.
Claire’s hand froze mid-air.
Her eyes snapped to the screen.
And there he was.
Grayson Westwood.
The camera panned to him stepping out of a sleek black car, dressed in a sharp, perfectly tailored tuxedo that hugged his broad shoulders and lean frame. His hair was styled with an effortless perfection, not a strand out of place. The strong, chiseled lines of his face were as devastatingly handsome as ever.
And on his arm was Evelyn Harrington.
The cameras loved her. She was the image of sophistication, her champagne-colored gown flowing elegantly around her frame. Her hand rested lightly on Grayson’s chest as they smiled for the cameras. She leaned into him, her lips just close enough to brush his cheek, her manicured fingers grazing the lapel of his jacket.
Claire’s stomach twisted. She gripped the remote with trembling fingers, but she didn’t change the channel. She couldn’t look away.
The screen cut to footage from inside the ballroom. Grayson and Evelyn glided across the dance floor, his hand resting confidently at the small of her back, guiding her with practiced ease. Their movements were fluid, intimate, their eyes locked in a seemingly adoring gaze.
Claire’s throat tightened painfully. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her skin—the way he had once held her, just like that, with the same possessive tenderness.
Her chest ached as the host’s voice floated through the room, bright and chipper.
“They really are the perfect match,” the woman gushed. “Rumor has it they’re planning a lavish summer wedding in the South of France. Can’t wait to see those wedding photos!”
The words landed like a slap.
Claire couldn’t breathe.
Her vision blurred slightly, and she suddenly realized she was gripping the remote so tightly her knuckles had gone white. With a strangled breath, she finally clicked the television off. The screen went black, leaving the apartment in heavy silence.
She sat there, staring at her own reflection in the darkened screen—her eyes glassy, her face pale.
And then she laughed softly, bitterly.
A hollow sound that barely made it past her throat.
Of course they were planning a wedding. Evelyn Harrington was exactly the kind of woman Grayson Westwood was supposed to be with. Elegant. Sophisticated. Untouchable.
Not some fleeting memory he had once pulled into his bed.
Claire slowly lowered the remote onto the coffee table. Her hands were trembling slightly as she rubbed them over her face, trying to block out the image of him with Evelyn.
But she knew it would stay with her.
Because no matter how hard she tried to forget him, Grayson Westwood was still everywhere...