
Sleep eluded Jasmine that first fitful night in the bland but blessedly anonymous hotel suite. She tossed and turned through the dark hours, tormented by flashes of memory echoing all the words she never wanted to hear from Ethan's lips again.
Eventually, somewhere in those pre-dawn hours, she must have drifted into a shallow, nightmare-riddled slumber. 
Because she jolted awake with a strangled gasp as the first slants of morning light crept through the curtains, her phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand.
Disoriented, Jasmine squinted at the screen, her heart stammering when Ethan's name and photo flashed across the display. 
A second later, it darkened as the call went to voicemail, only to immediately illuminate with a string of text messages.
"Jasmine, please pick up."
"I need to explain..."
"We have to talk about this rationally."
On and on the messages continued in that same


Matthew, she learned, was a successful up-and-coming architect from Boston, in New York overseeing the construction of his firm's latest high-profile project downtown. 
Beyond a few subtle hints of masculine pride and hints of rakish charm, he was refreshingly devoid of pretense or inflated ego. Just another hard-working guy with a penchant for fine scotch and inappropriate jokes that kept Jasmine suppressing smiles.
And she, in turn, found herself gradually opening up as the amber liquid in her glass slowly dwindled. 
"I'm so sorry," she rushed out, fighting another flush of heat in her cheeks. "Here I am prattling on like a madwoman and you've been such a perfect gentleman just listening to me ramble..."
"Hey." Matthew reached across the narrow table to give her hand a comforting squeeze, his calloused palm engulfing hers. "I like a girl with stories to tell and who isn't afraid to be


The airy facade of having it all – a thriving artistic career, a loving marriage – had been mercilessly shattered mere hours ago by Ethan's cold betrayal.
As if sensing the renewed anguish cloaking her, Madame Rousseau pressed on briskly. "Which is why I felt compelled to seek you out upon spotting you here."
Jasmine's brow furrowed slightly as she refocused on the critic. "I...don't understand."
"My dear girl, have you been so lost in your private melodrama that you've missed the incredible buzz about you in the art circles this past month?" 
The rebuke was as gentle as Madame Rousseau's lightly French-accented voice could manage. "Your showing at the Eldridge made quite an impression. You've been one of the most hotly discussed new artists to arrive on the scene."
"I...I had no idea," Jasmine admitted, stunned. In truth, amidst the gradual fracturing of her marriage, the last thing on her mind had been dwelling on the reception to her professional debut. "I'm...flattered that you enjoyed my work so much."
"More than enjoyed it." Madame Rousseau leveled her with an intent look. "I believe you have a unique gift, Miss Delacroix. And I would be remiss not to try securing that talent to be showcased in the prestigious Bergström contemporary collection I'm curating this fall."
The unexpected offer, delivered in Madame Rousseau's signature confident cadence, momentarily robbed Jasmine of the ability to speak. 
Showing at the internationally renowned Bergström gallery was the kind of career-defining accomplishment most artists could only dream about.
And yet...her divorce. No matter how tempting the opportunity, her world had been irrevocably shattered by Ethan's unfaithfulness. The thought of diving into the monumental undertaking of a high-profile gallery debut amidst this devastation made her want to recoil.
"I...appreciate the incredible honor of your invitation," she finally managed. "But with everything going on in my...personal life right now, I'm afraid I'm not in the right frame of mind to properly channel the depth of emotion needed for a collection of that magnitude," Jasmine finished, hating how the excuse sounded feeble even to her own ears.
To her surprise, Madame Rousseau's face remained impassive rather than twisting in disdain at the rejection. After a considering pause, she reached into her chic leather handbag and retrieved a simple ivory business card.
"I understand this is...an inopportune time," she said delicately, sliding the card across the table. "But I do hope you'll reconsider once you've resolved whatever personal turmoil plagues you. Opportunities like this are far too fleeting to let slip away, my dear."
Mutely, Jasmine retrieved the card, running her thumb over the elegantly embossed lettering. "Thank you, I...I'll think about it."
Madame Rousseau offered the faintest of nods, seemingly satisfied. "See that you do. Your talent would be a crime to let languish. I'll keep a space open for you in the Bergström should you embrace your ambition again."
With a last appraising look at Jasmine's spent countenance, the esteemed critic rose smoothly and swept out of the cafe in a waft of expensive French perfume. 
Jasmine stared after her, equal parts deflated and buoyed by the encounter.
Only after the other patrons' discreet stares reminded Jasmine of her undignified state did she finally rise with a trembling exhale and begin the rest of the long journey home.
Weary beyond words, Jasmine unlocked the door to the uptown loft apartment she had treasured sharing with Ethan for the past five years. 
Every inch of the spacious interior represented their mingled dreams and aesthetics - from the carefully curated wall of modernist artwork to the plush velvet couch that had been the site of many lazy Sunday snuggles.
More recently, of course, it was also the backdrop for tense, bitter arguments as their marriage crumbled around them. 
Jasmine swallowed hard against the swelling lump in her throat as she flicked on the lights, wincing as the warm glow illuminated all the achingly familiar sights.
There was the overstuffed armchair where she used to tuck herself to read for hours, the sleek chrome lamp Ethan installed to give her optimal lighting for sketching. 
And in the hallway, framed photos of their happy, doting faces stared back at her in silent mockery of the contented life they once shared.
It was all too much. With a strangled sob, Jasmine pivoted and strode towards their bedroom with a sudden sense of urgency. She had to get out of here, away from the constant reminders of how thoroughly Ethan had shattered her faith in forever.
She yanked open the double doors of the enviably massive walk-in closet, refusing to look at the rumpled bed that still bore the indenting of where she and Ethan once tangled in throes of passion. Her shaking hands fumbled as she dragged one of her largest rolling suitcases from its alcove.
Then, forcing herself into an eerily calm state of focus, Jasmine began the task of stripping her belongings from the shared space piece by piece. She worked with efficient haste, jamming clothes and personal items into the expandable luggage without care for organization. 
Her throat burned with unshed tears the entire time, memories of this life they crafted playing on a torturous loop through her mind.
The blue cashmere sweater Ethan surprised her with one chilly autumn evening...the brushed silver pendant he gifted her after her first solo gallery opening...the vivid red wrap dress she wore the night they finally conceived after months of feverishly hoping and praying...
The last item plucked Jasmine's breath from her lungs with its weight of unimaginable grief. 
Sinking to the floor in a boneless heap, she finally surrendered to the wracking sobs that shook her entire body as she clutched the delicate maternity dress to her aching heart.
A baby. Their baby. The one dream, the one shared joy they had clung to through the deterioration of everything else. It was the only thing that kept Jasmine hoping, praying for a miracle to salvage their crumbling marriage last year. 
Until the devastating miscarriage at three months stole that final promise of redemption from them as well.
That loss had been the tipping point, the moment when Jasmine finally understood they were too broken to ever put the pieces back together.
Eventually, when the tide of tears ebbed enough for Jasmine to draw a gasping breath, she slowly rose on trembling legs and tugged the packed suitcase into the living room. 
There was no point in further delay - she had to leave this place that now only compounded her agony with every passing minute.
With a last haunted glance around the loft, taking in every exquisite and meaningful detail one final time, Jasmine turned and fled into the hallway.
She never looked back.

Sleep eluded Jasmine that first fitful night in the bland but blessedly anonymous hotel suite. She tossed and turned through the dark hours, tormented by flashes of memory echoing all the words she never wanted to hear from Ethan's lips again.
Eventually, somewhere in those pre-dawn hours, she must have drifted into a shallow, nightmare-riddled slumber. 
Because she jolted awake with a strangled gasp as the first slants of morning light crept through the curtains, her phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand.
Disoriented, Jasmine squinted at the screen, her heart stammering when Ethan's name and photo flashed across the display. 
A second later, it darkened as the call went to voicemail, only to immediately illuminate with a string of text messages.
"Jasmine, please pick up."
"I need to explain..."
"We have to talk about this rationally."
On and on the messages continued in that same cajoling vein, each vibrant ping like a fresh laceration across her tattered defenses. Still

CHAPTER FIVE – THE BEAU AT THE BAR