Chapter 1 - THE FORTY-SECOND GOODBYE AND THE EXPENSIVE SUIT
I only asked a stranger to hold me for one second after my boyfriend ended our three-year relationship in a forty-second voice message at JFK Airport.
I had no idea the man whose expensive black suit I was ruining with tears was one of the most powerful billionaires in America—or that three days later,
I would walk into a room in Boston and discover exactly whose shoulder I had cried on.
I was twenty-seven when it happened,
and my entire world collapsed in the span of forty seconds.
That February morning,
I arrived at JFK Terminal 4 far too early for my flight to Boston,
carrying one battered suitcase,
my passport,
and the stupid,
naive hope that Preston and I were still building a future together.
Then my phone vibrated in my palm.
Preston's name lit up the screen.
His message began casually,
as if he were asking about the weather.
“Eve,
I know you’re about to board,
but I think it’s better if we end things.
”
I stopped breathing entirely.
The ambient noise of the bustling terminal seemed to mute into a heavy,
suffocating hum.
He said he would collect his remaining belongings from my apartment while I was gone,
as if our three years of shared life were merely rental property.
Then came the sentence that cut deeper than any blade.
“Have a good trip.
”
Three years of shared memories,
late-night talks,
and quiet compromises ended in less than a minute.
I played the voice message again.
And then again,
with trembling fingers.
By the fourth time,
I was crying so hard that strangers in the check-in line started looking away,
uncomfortable with raw,
unscripted grief.
I wasn’t graceful about it.
My nose ran uncontrollably,
mascara blurred beneath my eyes like dark bruises,
and my boarding pass shook so violently I could barely hold the card between my fingers.
That was the exact moment when I turned blindly and saw him.
Tall,
with dark hair swept back,
and striking gray eyes that radiated absolute authority.
He wore a black suit so perfectly tailored that even through my hysterical breakdown,
I knew instinctively it cost more than my entire monthly rent.
Three men stood rigidly behind him.
Two looked like stone-faced security operatives ready for any threat.
The third clutched a thick red leather notebook against his chest like a shield.
I noticed none of that mattered to my shattered psyche.
I simply stepped toward the stranger without hesitation and grabbed his immaculate lapel.
“Please,
” I choked out,
my voice thick with tears.
“Just hug me for a second.
”
He froze.
Completely and utterly.
For several agonizing heartbeats,
he didn't even touch me back.
Then,
slowly,
hesitantly,
his arms came around my shaking frame.
The embrace was awkward at first,
almost mechanical,
like a man who had long forgotten how human contact actually worked.
But then something shifted in the air between us.
His grip suddenly tightened.
Not romantically,
no,
but desperately.
As if somewhere deep inside that controlled,
untouchable stranger,
something had broken too.
I buried my face against his broad shoulder and wept openly.
One of the security men silently offered me a perfectly folded white handkerchief without a word.
I took it with trembling hands,
blew my nose loudly,
and handed it back.
The corner of his mouth twitch in a faint,
involuntary motion.
That minor reaction should have embarrassed me enough to disappear forever into the crowd.
Instead,
I looked back up at the man holding me with tear-filled eyes.
“You’re very bad at hugging,
” I whispered against his collar.
For the first time in what felt like eternity,
something almost like amusement touched his stern face.
“So I’ve been told,
” he replied quietly.
I stepped away from his embrace and finally saw the physical damage.
Thick black mascara stained his pristine lapel.
His broad shoulder was visibly wet from my tears.
“Oh my God,
” I gasped,
horrified.
“It’s just a jacket,
” he said smoothly.
“It looks expensive.
”
“It was.
”
That dry,
deadpan response somehow made me laugh hysterically right through my tears.
Then the airline loudspeaker abruptly announced final boarding for Boston.
I grabbed the handle of my heavy suitcase.
“Thank you,
” I said,
looking into his piercing gray eyes.
“And I’m terribly sorry about your suit.
”
He watched me carefully,
his gaze lingering on my face.
“What’s your name?
” he asked.
“Eve,
” I answered.
Before I could ask his name in return,
an executive assistant rushed toward him with hurried steps.
“Mr.
Sterling,
the car is waiting outside,
” the man announced.
Mr.
Sterling.
The name meant absolutely nothing to me at that specific moment in time.
I boarded my flight believing I had just humiliated myself in front of an ordinary wealthy stranger I would never,
ever see again.
Three days later,
I entered the towering glass headquarters of Sterling Capital in downtown Boston for my crucial job presentation.
The heavy conference room doors swung open smoothly.
And sitting right at the head of the polished mahogany table,
wearing another immaculate black suit,
was the exact man whose shoulder I had covered in mascara.
His piercing gray eyes found mine instantly across the long room.
Then a slow,
knowing smile touched his lips.
“Hello,
May you like
Eve,
” he said softly.
