Hooked on my Ex's Uncle!

Chapter 1: The Ghost of Forever Sloane Harper The courthouse smelled like bureaucracy and broken dreams—stale coffee, polished wood, and the faint tang of desperation. I stood in the hallway, clutching the marriage license so tightly the edges crinkled, my heart hammering against my ribcage like it wanted out. Today was supposed to be it. The day Archer Blackwood and I sealed six years of chaos, love, and promises with a signature. My white sundress, simple but elegant with its lace hem, felt like a costume now, too bright for the gray linoleum under my feet. I glanced at my phone again. 10:15 a.m. He was fifteen minutes late. “Sloane, you okay?” The clerk, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a too-tight bun, peered at me from behind the counter. Her nametag read *Marjorie*. I forced a smile, my lips trembling. “Yeah, just… waiting for my fiancé. He’s probably stuck in traffic.” The lie tasted bitter. Archer wasn’t stuck in traffic. He was never stuck in traffic. He was always *choosing*—choosing work, choosing excuses, choosing anything but me. Marjorie nodded, but her pitying look said she’d seen this story before. I turned away, my Converse sneakers squeaking as I paced the hall. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows on the walls. My phone stayed silent. No calls. No texts. Just the weight of my own stupidity pressing down on me. Six years. Six years of molding myself around Archer’s moods, his ambition, his *chaos*. I’d been twenty-six when we met, a bright-eyed graphic designer with big dreams and a soft heart. Now, at thirty-two, I felt worn at the edges, like a sketchbook left out in the rain. I checked my phone again. Nothing. My thumb hovered over his name—*Archer*—with that stupid heart emoji I hadn’t deleted. I typed, *Where are you?* then deleted it. Typed it again. Hit send. The message sat there, mocking me with its single checkmark. No reply. “Tick-tock, darling,” my mother’s voice echoed in my head, her words from last Sunday’s brunch still stinging. “You’re not getting any younger, Sloane. When’s the wedding?” My family’s weekly interrogations had become a ritual, each question a jab at my unraveling life. Archer knew I was drowning in their expectations. I’d begged him for clarity, cried for it, and just when I was ready to walk away, he’d pulled out all the stops—a grand, public proposal at the rooftop bar we loved, with fairy lights and strangers clapping. Ring. Knees. Applause. I’d said yes, but it felt like a puppet show, my strings yanked by his glittering promises. My phone buzzed. I nearly dropped it, hope flaring like a match in the dark. A text from Archer: *Caught up with work. Rain check?* Rain check. Rain. Check. The words blurred as my eyes stung. Work? Seriously, Archer? After six years, after I’d poured everything into us, this was what I got? A half-assed text, like I was a meeting he could reschedule? My knees buckled, and I sank onto a bench, the license crumpling in my fist. The hallway spun, Marjorie’s concerned voice fading into static. I wanted to scream, to throw my phone at the wall, to find him and demand answers. But all I could do was sit there, my dress pooling around me like a lie. I don’t know how long I stayed like that—minutes, maybe an hour—before I stood, wiped my eyes, and walked out. The Manhattan air hit me like a slap, thick with spring humidity and the honk of taxis. I didn’t go home. I couldn’t face my tiny Brooklyn apartment, with its stacks of sketches and the engagement ring still on my dresser, taunting me. Instead, I wandered, my feet carrying me to a dimly lit bar in the East Village called *The Rusty Anchor*. It was a dive, all chipped wood and neon signs, the kind of place where dreams went to drown. I slid onto a barstool, ordered a whiskey neat, and let the burn of it scorch away the ache in my chest. The bartender, a guy with a sleeve of tattoos and a bored expression, slid another drink my way without asking. “Rough day?” he said, barely looking up. “You could say that.” My voice cracked, and I hated it. I wasn’t this person—weak, broken, the girl who got ghosted on her wedding day. I was Sloane Harper, damn it. I designed album covers for indie bands, ran 5Ks for fun, laughed too loud at bad jokes. But tonight, I felt like a ghost of myself. “Want to talk about it?” he asked, wiping a glass with a rag that looked dirtier than the bar. “Nope.” I downed the second whiskey, the heat spreading through me. “Just keep ‘em coming.” He shrugged and turned away, leaving me to my misery. The bar was half-empty, a mix of hipsters and tired office workers nursing their own regrets. I was about to order another when someone slid onto the stool beside me. I didn’t look up, but I felt him—his presence, like a storm rolling in. The air shifted, charged with something I couldn’t name. “Bad day?” His voice was low, smooth, with a hint of gravel that sent a shiver down my spine. I turned, and my breath caught. He was older, maybe early forties, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through me. His dark hair was tousled, streaked with silver at the temples, and his jawline could’ve been carved from stone. He wore a black leather jacket over a fitted gray shirt, the kind of effortless style that screamed money and danger. I laughed, bitter and sharp. “Bad day doesn’t cover it.” He tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Try me.” I don’t know why I answered. Maybe it was the whiskey, or the way his gaze held mine, steady and unjudging. “Got stood up at the courthouse. Supposed to get married today. My fiancé decided ‘work’ was more important.” I spat the word like it was poison. His smirk faded, replaced by something softer, almost… sad. “That’s a hell of a way to break a promise.” “Yeah, well, promises are his specialty. Breaking them, I mean.” I swirled the ice in my glass, my chest tight. “Six years, and I’m still the i***t waiting for him to show up.” “You’re not an i***t,” he said, his voice firm. “He is.” I looked at him then, really looked. There was something familiar in his features—the sharp cheekbones, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. But I couldn’t place it, and the whiskey wasn’t helping. “You don’t even know me.” “I know enough.” He leaned closer, his arm brushing mine, and my skin prickled. “You’re sitting here, still fighting, even after he gutted you. That’s not weak. That’s fire.” My throat tightened, and I looked away, afraid I’d cry if I held his gaze. “Thanks, I guess. But I’m not exactly feeling fiery right now.” He signaled the bartender, who slid two more whiskeys our way. “Then let’s fix that.” He raised his glass, his eyes locked on mine. “To burning it all down and starting over.” I clinked my glass against his, the sound sharp in the quiet bar. “To burning it all down.” We drank, and the silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was electric, like the moment before a storm breaks. He leaned back, studying me. “What’s your name, fire girl?” “Sloane.” I hesitated, then added, “Sloane Harper.” “Vincent.” He didn’t offer a last name, and I didn’t ask. Something about him felt… off-limits, like a door I shouldn’t open but desperately wanted to. We talked—or rather, I talked, and he listened. I told him about Archer’s proposal, the way it felt like a performance. About my family’s endless pressure, my mother’s voice in my head. About Rosemary, Archer’s “sister,” who wasn’t his sister at all, with her lingering touches and possessive glares. Vincent didn’t interrupt, just watched me with those blue eyes, like he was memorizing every word. “You deserve better than being someone’s second choice,” he said finally, his voice low and intense. “You deserve someone who shows up.” My heart stuttered. “And you think you’re that guy?” The words slipped out, half-teasing, half-challenging. His smirk returned, slow and dangerous. “Maybe I am.” I laughed, but it came out shaky. The whiskey was making me bold, reckless. “You don’t even know me, Vincent.” “I want to.” His hand brushed mine on the bar, deliberate, and my pulse skyrocketed. His touch was warm, steady, nothing like Archer’s fleeting affection. “Let me take you home, Sloane. No strings. Just a ride.” I should’ve said no. I should’ve remembered Archer, the ring, the life I was supposed to have. But all I could see was Vincent’s face, all I could feel was the fire he’d sparked in me. “Okay,” I whispered. We left the bar, the cool night air a shock after the stuffy warmth. His car—a sleek black Audi—waited outside, and he opened the passenger door for me, his hand grazing my back as I slid in. The drive to Brooklyn was quiet, the city lights blurring past, but the tension between us was alive, crackling. When we pulled up to my building, he turned to me, his eyes dark in the dim light. “This isn’t over, Sloane,” he said, his voice a promise. “Not by a long shot.” I nodded, my throat too tight to speak, and climbed out. As his car pulled away, I stood on the sidewalk, my heart racing, my dress still crumpled from the courthouse. I was done playing sweet, done swallowing my pride for Archer’s love. Vincent was a stranger, a dangerous one, but he’d seen me—really seen me—in a way Archer never had. I climbed the stairs to my apartment, my mind spinning with whiskey and possibilities. My phone buzzed as I reached my door, and I froze. A voicemail from Archer, his voice thick with something I couldn’t name. “Sloane, I’m so sorry. I messed up. Please, let me explain. I’m coming over tomorrow. We need to talk.” My heart lurched, torn between rage and the old, stupid hope. I was about to play the message again when a knock at my door jolted me, sharp and urgent. My breath caught. Archer? Already? Or… someone else? I reached for the knob, my hand trembling, the sound of my pulse drowning out everything else. *Who was standing on the other side?*