Chapter 6

Chapter 6

“So... you’re telling me,” Emily says slowly, her fork frozen mid-air, “that you hooked up with Axton freaking Rowe?”

I blink. “Who?”

Callie actually chokes on her mimosa. “You don’t know who Axton Rowe is?”

“No? Should I?”

“How the hell did I not recognize him.” Callie mumbles to herself, wiping her chin. She brushes a loose curl of her brown hair away from her face. It’s a bit frizzy today from the Sunday heat, curling up in little tendrils around her shoulders, her fingers tangling with it in frustration.

Emily leans back in her chair, her glossy black hair perfectly straight and shiny, just a little too perfect. She’s doesn’t have to spend hours trying to detangle her hair every morning like me. She looks me dead in the eye, unblinking.

“Girl, he’s only the CEO of Rowe Global, the luxury real estate empire that literally owns half the Upper East Side. He’s richer than God and twice as pretty. And didn’t he date that actress? The one with the weird eyebrows?”

“Oh my god,” Callie gasps, slapping the table. “And you were in his penthouse?! Like, the actual penthouse that was on the cover of LuxeLife?”

“I knew he was really rich, but a billionaire??” I mumble into my croissant, fully mortified.

“Damn girl, you hit the pot,” Callie whispers, looking all to impressed. With her lips curling into a mischievous grin and her green eyes twinkling.

I make a strangled noise. “You’re telling me I had revenge sex… with an actual billionaire?!”

“Yes,” Emily says, all calm and casual like she didn’t just blow my freaking mind. “Rowe Industries. Real estate. Luxury hotels. Scandalous PR team that works overtime. Ring a bell?”

I press my palms to my cheeks, completely mortified. “I thought he was just hot and rich, not hot, rich, and Axton freaking Rowe.”

“Honestly? That’s kind of iconic,” Emily deadpans, sipping her mimosa like this is a Tuesday.

We laugh. Like full-on cackle. Like the waiter side-eyes us and some lady at the next table clutches her pearls.

“I didn’t even know who he was.”, I wheeze, tears in my eyes. “I thought he was just a hot, British man with weirdly expensive sheets.”

Emily rolls her eyes but smiles. “Well, he is hot. And clearly British. He checks out.”

Eventually, we settle the bill, and Emily insists on paying because she’s living vicariously through me, or something like that. We stand and head out, and Emily hugs me tight, whispering, “I need the details later. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Callie, her cheeks still flushed from laughing so hard, gives me a playful shove. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep her entertained until you’re ready for your emotional breakdown,” she says with a wink.

The rest of the day is far from glamorous.

I go back to my apartment and do what any self-respecting woman would do after a betrayal: I de-Monty the place.

I fling open my apartment door like I’m entering a battlefield. Because that’s exactly what it is. Monty’s stuff is still everywhere, his stupid protein powder, his ugly shoes, the mug he always used that said “Mr. Right”. Vomit.

His razor? In the trash.

His hoodie? On fire. (Okay, in the donation bin. I’m dramatic, not wasteful.)

The toothbrush he never replaced? Yeeted.

The picture of us in Costa Rica? Ripped down, frame shattered.

My phone buzzes. Monty.

Buzzes again. Monty.

Buzzes again. MONTY.

I scream into a pillow, then hit ignore for the fifteenth time.

TAKE A HINT, would you?

By the time I’m done, I’m sweaty, emotionally drained, and my hair looks like I got zapped. But my apartment is Monty-free. And that feels like victory.

I plop onto the couch, preparing to wallow when my phone rings again. I groan and pick it up, ready to unleash hell.

But it’s not Monty this time.

“Charlotte?” I hear my mom’s voice, all elegant and polished like she’s calling from a garden party. “Is now a good time?”

“Hi, Mom,” I sigh. “Sure. What’s up?”

“Your father and I were wondering if you and Monty finalized your plans for your next trip-”

I snap. “We broke up.”

A pause.

Another pause.

Then: “I beg your pardon?”

“He cheated on me,” I whisper, holding back tears. “I caught him. In my bed. With someone else.”

Cue the longest silence in recorded human history.

Then, faintly: “Well. That is… incredibly disappointing.”

Suddenly, there’s rustling on the other end. My dad’s voice booms through the phone like a cannon. “HE DID WHAT? I’ll fly to New York RIGHT NOW and stuff that little rat into a blender.”

“Dad!”

“Who does he think he is? Cheating on my daughter, I should've known when he wore those weird skinny jeans.”

My mom cuts in, “Please, William. Let’s not discuss pants right now.”

“Do not tell me not to discuss pants, Veronica! It’s always the pants. First it was John, with the boot cuts, and now,”

“Okay!” I shout. “Thank you, both of you, for your support. But please don’t commit any felonies.”

My dad mutters something about “finding Monty’s address anyway” and then my mom says, “Well, sweetheart. We’re furious. Please know you don’t have to pretend to be okay.”

“I’m okay,” I lie. “Just a little hungover.”

“Atta girl,” Dad says. “Did you key his car?”

“Dad.”

“Just checking.”

After some dramatic sighing and more threats from dad, I finally hang up. I toss my phone across the couch and drag myself into the bathroom.

I deserve a bath.

Not just any bath, a pink bubble bath. With a fizzy ball that smells like overpriced flowers and strawberries.

I light a candle. I sink into the hot water and close my eyes. For the first time in what feels like forever, I let my thoughts drift. Axton Rowe. Monty’s betrayal. My chaotic parents.

The bubbles tickle my chin and I hum softly to myself, feeling just the tiniest bit peaceful.

Then my phone rings again.

I groan. I know it’s Monty. I grab the phone from the bath tray, ready to bite his head off.

“What the hell do you-”

It’s Emily.

Rolling my eyes, I put my phone on speaker and place it at the edge of the tub.

“We just saw each other, I swear I’m fine, I’m not depressed or something”

“Charlotte, you’re not going to believe this.”

I sit up straight, the bubbles splashing everywhere.

“What?” I snap, suddenly alert, my heart pounding in my chest. “What is it?”

“He’s engaged,” she blurts.