Chapter 1
2174words
The moment those words left Alex's mouth, I thought I'd finally won. Party lights transformed into fireworks before my eyes, music into a triumphal march. Eight months of waiting, eight months of what I called "high-value entertainment," eight months of midnight summons and dawn escapes—finally, tonight at this converted warehouse party in Brooklyn, in front of all his friends, I'd evolved from "a convenient choice" to "his girl."
I was wrong.
At three in the morning, I stood on a street in Williamsburg, my once-flawless black silk slip dress now a crumpled mess, carefully applied eyeliner smeared into two black tear streaks. Just half an hour ago, Alex had brought me back to his loft and said with that cruelly calm tone: "Chloe, you didn't actually think tonight meant anything, did you? I just needed a date. You're great, and convenient. Don't make things complicated."
Convenient.
I started laughing—laughing until tears streamed down my face, laughing until the taxi driver glanced at me with concern through the rearview mirror. I laughed at myself for believing those two words, laughed at all my fantasies over these eight months, laughed at the "perfect girlfriend" image I'd put on tonight in front of his friends.
The taxi drove across the Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan's lights casting broken reflections on the East River. Looking out the window, I thought of myself three months ago—that Chloe Miller who confidently believed she could control desire with rationality.
---
**Three Months Ago**
The sheets still carried last night's warmth as I curled up in Alex's arms, listening to his steady breathing. In his Williamsburg loft, morning light filtered through weathered blinds onto his profile—that face I could never tire of watching.
I gently traced the tattoo on his chest—a raven with spread wings, ink-black lines standing out vividly against his pale skin. Alex shifted slightly but didn't wake. Good. I didn't want to disturb this rare moment of tranquility.
These were our rules: no talk of the future, no promises, just enjoying the present. I called it "high-value entertainment"—satisfying physical needs while avoiding the complications of emotional entanglement. At least, that's what I told myself three months ago.
Alex rolled over, his arm unconsciously tightening around me. My heartbeat inexplicably quickened—a reaction that irritated me. After knowing him for only three months, I thought I was rational enough, detached enough, but he always managed to easily disrupt my rhythm.
I climbed out of bed carefully and began searching for my clothes scattered across the floor. My black lace underwear hung on his guitar stand, and my jeans were curled up in the corner like an abandoned animal. While dressing, I tried not to make any sound, not wanting to wake Alex up to hear what he always says: "Leaving so early?"
Because I knew if he woke up, if he asked me to stay in that lazy voice of his, I probably wouldn't leave. And that was precisely what I couldn't allow.
At that time, I didn't know that three months later I'd be standing on the same street, crying over the same man.
---
My name is Chloe Miller, twenty-seven, working as a senior designer at a design studio called "Chimera" in Brooklyn. From the outside, my life seems decent—my salary covers rent for my one-bedroom apartment, my job is interesting, and I have quite a few friends.
But if I were to honestly describe my love life, it would be carefully orchestrated chaos.
I have a "list"—five men, each fulfilling different needs in my life. Alex is passion, Ethan was supposed to be stability, Ben is the reversal of control, and Daniel and Felix each fill other voids. I call it "high-value emotional management," theoretically allowing me to enjoy the benefits of intimate relationships while avoiding all the risks of commitment.
Theoretically.
---
"Chloe! Perfect timing." Leo looked up from behind his desk with that signature smug smile. "You absolutely won't believe what I encountered on Tinder last night."
I'd just stepped through Chimera Studio's door and hadn't even put down my bag before being surrounded by Leo's excitement. As client director, Leo always had the energy of someone on stimulants, especially when discussing his latest "conquests."
"Let me guess," I said while hanging up my coat, "another 'perfect match'?"
"No, no, no, this time it's different." Leo stood up and described with animated gestures, "She's a yoga instructor, blonde, long legs, and most importantly—" he lowered his voice, "she asked me out for tonight."
"Wow," Mason peeked out from behind his three monitors and pushed up his glasses, "The great Leo is going to battle again."
Mason is our programmer, a typical tech nerd. His desk is always cluttered with at least three cups of coffee in various stages of consumption, along with gaming merchandise. Right now, one of his monitors was streaming a gaming broadcaster's live stream.
"You're one to talk?" Leo nodded toward Mason. "How long have you been watching Valkyrie's livestreams? Three months?"
Mason's face instantly turned red. "That's different, we have deep spiritual communication."
"Spiritual communication?" I couldn't help but laugh. "You mean how she reads your username every time you send her a rocket gift?"
At that moment, from the other end of the office came Liam's suppressed voice: "No, Jessica, I can't come home right now. There's an important project that needs to be completed... What? You think work is more important than you? I never said that..."
All three of us looked toward our project manager Liam, who was gripping his phone tightly, his face pale, beads of sweat visible on his forehead. The voice from the other end was sharp and accusatory—even from a distance, we could feel that suffocating pressure.
"Is that Jessica?" Leo asked quietly.
I nodded. This was already the fourth time this week. Jessica, Liam's girlfriend of two years, was an extremely controlling lawyer. She checked Liam's phone, questioned his every overtime, and even demanded he report who he had lunch with.
"I really don't understand why he's still with her," Mason shook his head. "This kind of relationship is like slow suicide."
"Because love makes people blind," Leo shrugged. "But seriously, what Liam needs is freedom, not a girlfriend."
I didn't respond. Looking at Liam's pained expression, I thought about myself. We were all avoiding reality in different ways—Leo escaped toward endless novelty, Mason toward virtual perfect goddesses, and Liam was trapped in a suffocating relationship he dared not flee.
And me? I escaped toward a man who would never give me promises.
---
Ethan appeared punctually at the restaurant entrance, wearing a well-tailored navy suit with a bouquet of white roses in hand. But tonight his smile seemed forced, and there was a sharpness in his eyes I'd never seen before.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said as he handed over the bouquet, his movements stiffer than usual.
"It's fine, I just arrived too." I took the flowers, sensing something was off. Ethan was the "E" on my list, a financial analyst working on Wall Street. We'd known each other for three months, and he'd never been late, never stood me up, and had never even complained about anything in front of me.
But tonight was different.
The restaurant was carefully selected by him—elegant decor, soft lighting, and even the background music was just right. He pulled out the chair for me, but when I sat down, he didn't immediately take his seat, instead standing there looking at me with a complex expression.
"You look beautiful today," he said, his voice lacking its usual warmth. "This color suits you. Though I remember you wore the same dress last Thursday."
My hand froze on the wine glass. Last Thursday, I'd gone to a concert in Brooklyn with Alex.
"You have a good memory," I forced a smile.
Ethan finally sat down across from me, his fingers lightly tapping on the table—a habit when he was nervous or angry.
"Chloe, how long have we known each other?" he suddenly asked.
"Three months."
"Three months," he repeated. "In three months, every time I ask you out, you're busy half the time. Wednesdays never work, and Friday nights are often taken too."
My heart started racing, but I kept my face calm. "I'm very busy with work, you know."
"Yes, work." Ethan took out his phone, opened a photo, and turned the screen toward me. "Last Friday night, you said you had to work overtime to rush a project."
In the photo were Alex and I at the entrance of a bar in Williamsburg. His hand was on my waist, and I was smiling happily. The timestamp showed: 11:47 PM.
My blood froze.
"My friend happened to be there," Ethan's voice was soft, but each word was like a knife. "He recognized you. Said you and that man looked very intimate."
"Ethan, I can explain—"
"Don't bother." He cut me off. "This afternoon I did some digging. You know, people on Wall Street are good at background checks." He swiped to show several more photos. "Wednesday night, you were at a five-star hotel in Midtown. Tuesday noon, you were at the Museum of Modern Art, with another man."
Each photo felt like a slap across my face.
"Are you stalking me?" My voice began to tremble, not knowing if it was from anger or fear.
"I'm protecting myself." Ethan leaned back against his chair. "My ex-girlfriend was the same way, saying she loved me while dating three men at the same time. I swore I wouldn't put myself in the same situation again."
The background music in the restaurant suddenly became jarring. The diners around continued their conversations, completely unaware of what was happening at our table.
"So what is tonight?" I tried to keep my voice steady. "A trial?"
"No, it's a choice." Ethan leaned forward, showing real emotion in his eyes for the first time—pain, anger, and a glimmer of hope. "Tell me, Chloe. Explain these photos. Tell me you're willing to be with me exclusively. I can forgive, if you're willing to change."
I looked at him, this perfect, gentle man willing to give me a second chance. What should I say? Make up a lie? Or honestly tell him that I don't even know what I want?
"I..." The words on the tip of my tongue were interrupted by my phone vibrating.
Alex's message flashed on the screen: "See you tonight?"
Just these three simple words made my heart race wildly. Ethan also saw that message, and his face turned pale.
"It's him, isn't it?" his voice was hoarse. "That man from Friday night."
I remained silent, and my silence was the answer.
Ethan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, the gentleness in his eyes had disappeared, replaced by calm resolution.
"I understand." He stood up, took out a few bills from his wallet and placed them on the table. "I've already paid for dinner. Chloe, I sincerely hope you find what you're looking for. But that person isn't me."
"Ethan, wait—"
"Don't follow me out." He gave me one last look. "Take care."
Then he turned and left, his back straight and lonely. The music in the restaurant continued playing, and a waiter walked over with dishes, looking confused at the empty seat across from me.
I sat there, looking at the white roses on the table and the three words from Alex on my phone screen.
I had just lost a good man. And I wasn't even sure if I cared.
I stared at Alex's message for a long time. Logic told me I should delete it, should run after Ethan to apologize, should choose that gentle, stable, perfect future.
But my fingers were already typing: "At your place in half an hour."
Send.
I stood up, leaving behind the white roses and untouched food, and walked out of the restaurant. It had started raining outside, cold raindrops hitting my face, but I couldn't feel the cold. All I felt was Alex's pull, that attraction that made me want to jump into the abyss even though I knew what it was.
The taxi arrived quickly. I slid into the back seat and gave the familiar address: Williamsburg, Alex's studio.
The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, probably noticing my smudged makeup and soaked dress, but he said nothing. Perhaps he often carried passengers like me—women in evening gowns at midnight, with shattered self-esteem, going to see a man who wasn't worth it.
I leaned back against the seat, watching the rain trace winding patterns on the window.
I knew what I was doing was wrong. I knew I'd just hurt a good man, knew I was heading toward a man who would never make promises to me, knew all this would eventually tear me to pieces.
But at least for now, in this taxi cutting through the rainy night, I could pretend I was choosing passion, not self-destruction.
