His Duty, Her Heartbreak

Chapter 2

MIRANDA

The plane touched down in New York just after midnight, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

Not because I was scared — though I was.

But because this was the first time in my life that every step I took belonged to me.

No parents.

No Ashford legacy weighing on my shoulders.

Just me.

Miranda.

Or… whoever I was about to become.

The airport was buzzing with people dragging suitcases, hugging loved ones, rushing toward taxis. I stood still in the middle of it all, clutching my single suitcase like a lifeline.

My phone buzzed.

Sloane:

I’m outside. Don’t make me come in there and drag you out like a kidnapped heiress.

A laugh escaped me — small, shaky, but real.

I followed the signs to the exit, the cold New York air slapping me awake the moment the doors slid open.

And there she was.

Sloane Mercer, leaning against a cherry‑red convertible like she owned the city. Her hair was wild, her eyeliner smudged, her leather jacket hanging off one shoulder. She looked like trouble wrapped in glitter.

She spotted me and grinned. “Holy s**t, you actually did it.”

I didn’t get a chance to answer. She launched herself at me, arms tight around my shoulders, squeezing the breath out of me.

“You’re insane,” she said into my hair. “I love it.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” I whispered.

She pulled back, her expression softening. “Yeah, you did. And you chose yourself. That’s badass.”

I swallowed hard. “My mother said I’m no longer her daughter.”

Sloane’s jaw tightened. “Good. You deserve better parents anyway.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t have the strength.

She grabbed my suitcase with one hand and jerked her head toward the car. “Come on. New York awaits. And you look like you’re about to pass out.”

I slid into the passenger seat, and Sloane peeled out of the airport like she was fleeing a crime scene.

The city lights blurred past us — neon signs, towering buildings, people still awake at 1 a.m.

New York felt alive in a way California never did.

Chaotic. Loud. Unpredictable.

Free.

Sloane glanced at me. “So. How does it feel to be a runaway heiress?”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Terrifying.”

“Good,” she said. “Means you’re doing something right.”

We drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes before she spoke again.

“You know,” she said casually, “my parents asked about you.”

My chest tightened. “What did you tell them?”

“That you’re visiting. That you needed a break. That you’re my emotional support heiress.”

I snorted. “Sloane.”

“What? It’s true. I emotionally support you. You financially support my impulse to buy overpriced matcha.”

I shook my head, smiling despite myself.

Her parents were the opposite of mine — warm, affectionate, chaotic in the best way. They adored Sloane, even when she dyed her hair blue or dropped out of Stanford to “find herself.” They would’ve welcomed me with open arms.

But I wasn’t ready for that.

We pulled up to her building — a converted warehouse with exposed brick and giant windows. The kind of place artists and tech geniuses lived in.

Sloane dragged my suitcase up the stairs, talking the whole way.

“I cleaned your room. Well, I shoved everything into my closet and prayed nothing breaks. Also, I stocked the fridge with snacks. And wine. And ice cream. And—”

“Sloane,” I said softly. “Thank you.”

She stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to me.

Her eyes softened.

“You’re my family too, Miranda. You don’t have to thank me for choosing you.”

My throat tightened.

I didn’t trust myself to speak.

She unlocked the door and pushed it open with a flourish.

“Welcome to your new life.”

The loft was messy, colorful, alive.

Clothes draped over chairs.

Half‑finished paintings leaning against the wall.

A neon sign that said Chaos Queen flickering above the kitchen.

It was everything my parents hated.

And everything I needed.

Sloane led me to a small bedroom with a bed, a desk, and a window overlooking the street.

“It’s not Bel Air,” she said, “but it’s yours.”

I sat on the bed, running my fingers over the soft blanket. “It’s perfect.”

“Good. Because we have work to do.”

She disappeared into her room and returned with a folder — thick, organized, terrifying.

She dropped it onto my lap.

Inside were:

A new ID.

A social security card.

A bank card.

A résumé for a girl with a normal life.

And the name: Miranda Dane

I stared at it.

“Dane?” I asked.

Sloane shrugged. “Short. Sweet. Untraceable. Like you’re about to be.”

I touched the ID with trembling fingers.

A girl with no legacy.

No arranged marriage.

No suffocating expectations.

“What about a job?” I asked.

“Handled,” she said proudly. “You start tomorrow at a coffee shop in Midtown. The owner owes me a favor.”

I blinked. “I’ve never worked in a coffee shop.”

“Perfect,” she said. “You’ll be terrible at it. Men love that.”

I threw a pillow at her. She dodged it easily.

“Get some sleep,” she said, heading toward the door. “Tomorrow, you become a normal girl.”

I lay down, staring at the ceiling.

My parents’ voices echoed in my head.

My mother’s cold dismissal.

My father’s quiet heartbreak.

But beneath all that…

Aunt Eleanor’s voice whispered:

“Love is the only thing worth choosing.”