Hooked on my Ex's Uncle!

Chapter 2.

Chapter 2: Shadows of Promises

Sloane Harper

The knock echoed through my apartment, sharp and insistent, like a heartbeat I couldn’t ignore. My hand froze on the doorknob, Archer’s voicemail still looping in my head—*“I’m so sorry. I messed up. Please, let me explain.”* Was he here already, ready to spin another excuse? Or was it Vincent, his dangerous blue eyes and reckless promises chasing me across Brooklyn? My pulse thundered, drowning out the hum of the city outside my window. I took a shaky breath, the whiskey from *The Rusty Anchor* still buzzing in my veins, and opened the door.

Liam Navarro stood there, his dark curls damp from the spring drizzle, his brown eyes wide with something between worry and fury. My childhood friend, my rock, the one person who’d always shown up when Archer didn’t. His leather jacket glistened under the hallway light, and the scar above his eyebrow seemed sharper in the shadows, a reminder of the boy who’d climbed trees with me and patched my skinned knees.

“Liam?” My voice cracked, relief and confusion tangling in my chest. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer right away, just stepped inside, his boots leaving wet prints on my hardwood floor. He shut the door behind him, too hard, and ran a hand through his hair. “Sloane, what the hell happened? I called you three times. I thought—” He stopped, his gaze dropping to my crumpled white dress, the one I’d worn to marry Archer. His jaw tightened. “He didn’t show, did he?”

I swallowed, my throat raw. “How did you know?”

“Your mom called me,” he said, his voice low, like he was holding back a storm. “She was freaking out, said you weren’t answering. I got on the first flight back from Paris. Landed two hours ago.” He stepped closer, his hands hovering like he wanted to touch me but didn’t dare. “Sloane, talk to me. Are you okay?”

Okay? The word felt like a joke. I wasn’t okay. I was a mess of whiskey and heartbreak, my life unraveling faster than I could sketch it back together. I sank onto my thrift-store couch, the one with the faded floral print, and buried my face in my hands. “He ghosted me, Liam. At the courthouse. Sent a text about ‘work.’ A *rain check*.” My laugh was brittle, sharp. “Six years, and that’s what I get.”

Liam crouched in front of me, his hands resting on his knees, close but not touching. His eyes, warm and steady, held mine. “He’s a coward, Sloane. You deserve better than this.”

“Better,” I echoed, the word tasting like Vincent’s whiskey toast. *To burning it all down.* I thought of his smirk, his touch, the way he’d seen me in that bar when I felt invisible. My cheeks burned, and I looked away, afraid Liam would read it on my face. “I don’t even know what that means anymore.”

He stood, pacing my tiny living room, his boots scuffing the rug. “It means someone who doesn’t leave you standing alone in a courthouse. Someone who fights for you.” His voice cracked, and he stopped, his back to me, shoulders tense. “I’d never do that to you.”

My heart stuttered. There it was—the thing we never talked about. Liam, my best friend since we were ten, the boy who’d carried my books and laughed at my terrible drawings, had always been there. But in the years since he’d left for his photography gigs in Europe, something had shifted. His letters, his calls, the way he looked at me now—it wasn’t just friendship anymore. And I didn’t know how to handle it.

“Liam, I—” I started, but my phone buzzed on the coffee table, cutting me off. Archer’s name flashed on the screen, and my stomach twisted. I grabbed it, my thumb hovering over the ignore button, but Liam’s hand shot out, stopping me.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice sharp. “Don’t let him drag you back in.”

I yanked my hand away, the phone clattering to the table. “I’m not. I just… I need to know why.” My voice broke, and I hated how small it sounded. “I need to know why I wasn’t enough.”

Liam’s face softened, but his eyes burned. “You’re enough, Sloane. You’ve always been enough. He’s the one who’s not.” He sat beside me, close enough that I could smell the rain on his jacket, the faint cedar of his cologne. “You don’t need his answers. You need to let him go.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to lean into his warmth, his certainty, but the weight of Archer’s betrayal clung to me like damp clothes. And Vincent—God, Vincent. His voice, his touch, the way he’d called me *fire girl*. I couldn’t tell Liam about him. Not yet. It felt too raw, too wrong.

“I’m trying,” I whispered. “But it’s not that simple.”

“It could be,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. He reached for my hand, his fingers calloused from years of gripping cameras. “Sloane, I’ve been gone too long, but I’m here now. And I’m not leaving unless you tell me to.”

My breath caught. His touch was steady, grounding, everything Archer’s hadn’t been. But it was too much, too soon. I pulled my hand back, wrapping my arms around myself. “I need time, Liam. Today was… a lot.”

He nodded, but the hurt in his eyes cut deeper than I expected. “I get it. Just—promise me you won’t let him hurt you again.”

“I promise,” I said, but the words felt hollow. I didn’t know if I could keep them.

Liam stood, glancing around my apartment like he was memorizing it. My sketchbooks were piled on the coffee table, half-finished designs spilling out. The fairy lights I’d strung along the windows cast a soft glow, making the room feel smaller, warmer. “This place hasn’t changed,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Still feels like you.”

I managed a laugh. “Messy and chaotic?”

“Alive,” he corrected, his eyes locking mined. “Always alive.”

We fell into silence, the kind that used to be comfortable but now felt heavy with unspoken words. My phone buzzed again—Archer, probably—but I ignored it. Liam noticed, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t push. Instead, he grabbed his jacket from the arm of the couch. “I should go. Got a hotel nearby. But I’m here, Sloane. Whenever you need me.”

“Thanks,” I said, standing to walk him to the door. “For coming back. For… everything.”

He paused in the doorway, his hand on the knob. “You don’t have to go through this alone.” Then he was gone, his boots echoing down the hall, leaving me with the ghost of his words.

I locked the door and sank back onto the couch, my head spinning. Liam’s return, Archer’s voicemail, Vincent’s dangerous pull—it was too much. I grabbed my phone, my thumb hovering over Archer’s message. I hit play, bracing myself.

“Sloane, I’m so sorry,” his voice crackled, thick with something I couldn’t name—guilt, maybe, or fear. “I messed up. I know I did. Work went to hell, and I… I panicked. Please, let me explain. I’m coming over tomorrow. We need to talk. I love you.”

I love you. The words I’d clung to for years now felt like a blade. I deleted the voicemail, my hands shaking, and tossed the phone onto the couch. I was done being his puppet, done waiting for him to choose me. But Vincent’s face flashed in my mind—his smirk, his intensity, the way he’d made me feel seen. And Liam, his quiet strength, his unspoken love. My heart was a battlefield, and I didn’t know who I was fighting for.

I stood, pacing to the window, the Brooklyn skyline glittering under the night sky. My apartment was a cocoon, but it couldn’t shield me from the chaos outside—or inside. I needed to move, to breathe, to figure out who I was without Archer’s shadow. I grabbed my sketchbook, flipping to a blank page, but my hands froze. For the first time in years, I didn’t know what to draw.

A soft chime broke the silence—my phone, a text this time. I hesitated, expecting Archer again, but the name on the screen stopped me cold: *Unknown Number*. My heart thudded as I opened it.

*“Sloane, it’s Vincent. Got your number from a friend at the bar. Can’t stop thinking about you. Meet me tomorrow? Coffee, 10 a.m., The Bean on 7th.”*

My breath hitched. Vincent. How had he found me? And why did my pulse race at the thought of seeing him again? I typed a reply—*How did you get this number?*—then deleted it. Typed *Okay* and deleted that too. I was still staring at the screen when another text came through, this one from an unknown number too, but the tone was different, colder.

*“Stay away from him, Sloane. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”*

My blood ran cold. The message had no signature, but I knew. Rosemary. Her face flashed in my mind—those icy blue eyes, her possessive grip on Archer’s arm. She’d always seen me as a threat, an intruder in her perfect world. But why warn me now? And who was “him”? Archer… or Vincent?

I clutched the phone, my heart pounding so loud it drowned out the city. The room felt too small, the walls closing in. I glanced at the door, half-expecting another knock, but the silence was deafening. Rosemary’s words echoed, a shadow creeping over the spark Vincent had lit. I didn’t know who to trust, who to run to, or who to run from.

And then, from the street below, a car engine roared, too close, too deliberate. I rushed to the window, yanking back the curtain. A black car idled across the street, its tinted windows hiding whoever was inside. The headlights flicked on, blinding me for a moment, and then it peeled away, tires screeching.

*Who was watching me?*