MARRIED TO THE MAN WHO DENIED ME

(Cassandra's POV) Rain has a sound I’ll never forget — soft, lonely, cruelly calm. It used to lull me, like a lullaby that promised everything would be alright. Tonight, it mocks me. Every drop that taps against my window is a tiny hammer striking my chest, a relentless reminder of what I’ve lost. I’m sitting on the cold hardwood floor of my apartment, knees pulled tight to my chest. The room is a mess of discarded tissues, half-empty coffee mugs, and the quiet chaos of someone whose heart has been broken so thoroughly that even breathing feels like a chore. My phone won’t stop buzzing. Pamela’s name lights up the screen for the tenth time, maybe more. I can’t answer. I don’t have the energy to explain, not after what just happened. Cameroon broke up with me tonight. No argument. No fight. No warning. Just that flat, lifeless tone — the one people use when they’ve already made their choice and no longer care to sugarcoat it. “I can’t do this anymore, Cassie. I’m sorry.” Sorry. That’s all. Just that word. Two years of late-night conversations, laughter over nothing, long walks through the city streets hand in hand… gone. All of it vaporized into the kind of silence that presses against your ears and leaves you hollow. I glance down at the shattered picture frame lying on the floor. Our smiles frozen behind broken glass, forever caught in a moment that doesn’t exist anymore. My eyes sting as I stare, but I can’t look away. The shards glint in the dim light of the apartment like tiny knives. It feels like my life itself has split in two, and I’m stuck on the side that hurts. I want to scream. To throw something. To make the world feel my pain. But my voice has abandoned me. All I can do is sit here, shivering in my own skin, replaying his words over and over like a cruel tape I can’t stop. Pamela calls again. I let it ring. Her voicemail chimes in, soft, worried. “Cass, please pick up,” her voice trembles slightly. “You don’t have to be alone right now.” But I am alone. And maybe I deserve it. Silence, darkness, and a bottle of cheap wine sitting half-empty beside me. I reach for the glass, the burn of the liquid warming my throat, and for a moment, I almost feel alive again. I drink another sip, then another, chasing the numbness like it’s a lifeline. Anything to quiet the memory of him, of us, of what I thought we had. Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. Time doesn’t exist when your heart is broken. When I finally force myself to my feet, the rain has stopped, but the city hasn’t. New York moves on, indifferent to heartbreak. The streets are alive with noise, neon lights slicing through the darkness, cars honking, music drifting from every corner. People laugh, talk, live. And I… I drag my feet along, a ghost wandering through their lives. I don’t know where I’m going. I just keep walking. Somehow, the neon signs and the hum of the city lead me to a rooftop bar downtown — the kind of place Cameroon liked to take me when he wanted to impress his friends. Everything here gleams: polished glass tables, gold-accented lights, people who look like they’ve never faced disappointment in their lives. I slide onto a stool at the bar, signaling the bartender. “Something strong,” I mutter, my voice brittle. He raises an eyebrow, a knowing look in his eyes. “Rough night?” I laugh. The sound is cracked, jagged, unpleasant. “You could say that.” He pours something amber into a glass and pushes it toward me. I don’t even ask what it is. I just drink. The first sip sets my throat on fire. The second numbs the edge of my thoughts. By the third, I can almost breathe again. Almost. And then I feel it — the weight of someone watching me. Not the casual glances of drunk men, not the forced stares of strangers trying to flirt. This is different. Heavy. Intent. I glance sideways. He’s sitting a few seats away. Dark hair, tailored black suit, posture like he owns the world and knows it. Everything about him is deliberate, controlled. And yet… there’s something else. Something soft, something lonely, hiding behind that polished exterior. For a moment, the noise of the bar fades. His gaze doesn’t leer, doesn’t hunger. It’s quiet. Curious. A little… sad. I look away, pretending I don’t notice. Pretending I don’t feel the strange flutter in my chest. Time slips past me. Another drink. Another song. My phone buzzes again — Pamela. I ignore it. I’m tired of pity, tired of everyone trying to fix me when I don’t even know if I want fixing. When I look up, he’s standing beside me. Calm, confident, deliberate. “Rough night?” His voice is smooth, deep, but not the kind that demands attention. The kind that quietly settles in the space around you, impossible to ignore. I manage a small laugh. “Is it that obvious?” He shrugs, a hint of a smile touching his lips. “Only to those who’ve had a few of their own.” I stare at him. There’s no pretense here. No game. Just… presence. I find myself wanting to talk, to explain without explaining. He offers his hand. “Jordan.” I hesitate, but then my fingers brush his. “Cassandra.” “Beautiful name,” he says, softly. Honest. No smirk. No hidden agenda. Something inside me shifts, tiny and fragile, like the first crack of sunlight through storm clouds. Maybe it’s the drink, maybe it’s exhaustion, maybe it’s the loneliness that has been my only companion for hours. But I start talking. About my job, about the streets I love, about how rain makes me feel like it knows me too well. And he listens. Really listens. His words are measured, cautious, like he’s protecting himself. But I see it — warmth buried under the careful exterior, embers under ash. Hours pass. Music blends into the background. Conversation fades to a gentle hum. The city outside seems to shrink until the bar, the lights, the smells, and us are all that exist. “Do you want to get some air?” he asks eventually. I nod before thinking. Outside, the air is cool and crisp. The city spreads beneath us like a glittering promise, indifferent to human heartbreak. I shiver. He notices and, without a word, slips his jacket off and drapes it over my shoulders. Warm. Grounding. The scent of cedarwood and rain lingers on the fabric, and something inside me relaxes. “Who hurt you?” he asks, his voice gentle, careful. I look away, unable to meet his eyes. “Someone I thought I knew.” He nods, as if he understands too well. “Love’s dangerous. It gives too much and takes more.” “Maybe,” I whisper. “But I still believe in it.” There’s a pause. He looks at me, really looks, as if trying to decide whether to envy me or pity me. Then his hand brushes my cheek. Tentative. Unsure. And then his lips find mine. It’s not fireworks at first. It’s not passion. It’s two broken souls leaning on each other, desperate for something to hold onto. Pain, need, exhaustion. But it works. Somehow. The world tilts, spins, stops — and for the first time tonight, I feel something other than loss. When I wake up, sunlight spills through floor-to-ceiling windows. The bed is too soft. The sheets too expensive. My head throbs, but the ache in my chest is gone — replaced by confusion. I sit up slowly. The smell of cedarwood lingers in the air, familiar, grounding. And then I see the note on the nightstand. Simple, white, neat handwriting. > Last night shouldn’t have happened. Forget it did. No signature. No explanation. But I know who it’s from. Jordan Alvarez. New York’s youngest billionaire. The man who told me to forget him. I press a trembling hand against my stomach, a strange unease crawling through me. I don’t know it yet, but that one night… that one mistake… is about to change everything.