Chapter 1

The scent of vanilla and old parchment clung to my baking notebooks. I was carefully placing them into a worn cardboard box, next to my grandmother's rolling pin, when the door opened.

Jackson.

He tossed his keys onto the marble countertop. They skidded, loud in the sudden silence of our apartment.

"What's all this?" he asked. His voice was light, a little amused. Like I was rearranging furniture, not my entire life.

I didn't look up. "Packing."

He came closer. I felt his shadow fall over me. "Packing for what, Em? Another one of your little baking retreats?"

Seven years. Seven years, and he still called my passion 'little baking retreats.'

He picked up a small, chipped ramekin. "You're not still upset about the party, are you?"

Upset. That was one word for it.

The party. His engagement party. To Blair Kennedy. Splashed across every society blog, held at the Harrington Grand, his family's flagship hotel.

I finally looked at him. His usually perfect brow was furrowed, but not with concern. More like impatience.

"The ring you gave me, Jack," I said, my voice flat. "The one you said was 'all about the sentiment.' It was cubic zirconia, wasn't it?"

He had the grace to look away for a second. "It was symbolic, Emily. You know I'm not about flashy things."

Not flashy for me, anyway. Blair's diamond, caught in a hundred paparazzi flashes, could probably blind someone.

He'd proposed on our seventh anniversary. A small, dull stone in a thin band. I'd cried, thinking it was real, thinking *we* were real.

Then, when we'd gone to City Hall to ask about a marriage license – my idea, a quiet, simple wedding – he'd balked at the fifty-dollar fee.

"Fifty bucks for a piece of paper? That's a total rip-off, Em."

He'd said it with a charming laugh, the one that always made my stomach flip. Back then.

Now, that laugh echoed in my memory, cold and sharp.

Blair Kennedy didn't get cheap zirconia or complaints about fifty-dollar fees. She got a five-star resort, a guest list from the social register, and a headline: "Hotel Heir Jackson Harrington III to Wed Childhood Sweetheart Blair Kennedy."

My grandmother saw that headline.

She was back in our small Midwest town, the only family I had. She'd been so excited about my "engagement." She'd started knitting a ridiculous lacy shawl for my "wedding."

The news hit her like a physical blow. Her heart, already fragile, gave out. A massive coronary, the doctor in her small-town hospital said.

She needed surgery. A specialized procedure. One hundred thousand dollars.

Money I didn't have. Money Jack had.

Or rather, money *I* had earned, bartending on weekends, selling my pastries at local markets, every spare cent given to Jack to "invest" for our future. He was the finance guy, after all, Ivy League education. I trusted him.

I'd found him at 'Le Cirque,' one of those places where the water glasses cost more than my weekly grocery budget. He was with Blair. Laughing. Her hand, heavy with *his* diamond, rested on his arm.

I waited until she went to the powder room.

"Jack, I need to talk to you. It's Grandma." My voice shook. "She had a heart attack. She needs an operation. I need the money, Jack. My money."

He sipped his wine, his eyes cool. "Emily, really? Now?"

"It's urgent. Please."

He sighed, a put-upon sound. "Look, I know things have been... awkward. But showing up here, making a scene..."

"It's not a scene! It's my grandmother's life!"

He leaned forward then, his voice dropping to a low, cutting whisper. "You always did have a flair for the dramatic, didn't you, country girl? Trying to guilt-trip me? It's not a good look."

Country girl. He'd said it affectionately once. Now it was a weapon.

"It's my savings, Jack. The money I gave you to manage."

He actually smirked. "Our finances are a little more complicated than your bake sale earnings, Emily. And frankly, I don't appreciate you trying to imply I owe you something just because your grandmother is... unwell."

Unwell.

Before I could say more, two large men in dark suits, the restaurant's security, were suddenly on either side of me.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Harrington?" one of them asked, his eyes on me like I was a piece of trash.

Jack waved a dismissive hand. "No problem. Just a... misunderstanding. She was just leaving."

They didn't touch me, not at first. But their presence was enough. Humiliation burned through me, hotter than any oven. I was escorted out, past tables of curious diners, their faces a blur of judgment.

"Gold-digger," I heard someone mutter as the heavy doors closed behind me.

Back in the apartment, Jack picked up one of my grandmother's old, handwritten recipe cards. "So, what's this really about, Em? You want money for her? Is that it?"

He still didn't get it. Or didn't want to.

I pulled the card from his grasp. "She needs surgery, Jack. Or she'll die."

He scoffed. "Oh, come on. How bad can it be? Old people get sick. It's what they do."

The casual cruelty of it stole my breath.