Crowned By Starlight: Her Revenge Just Began

For eight years, I believed a man's casual promise was enough to build a life on. Tonight, I learned it was just enough to hang myself with.

The rooftop table at 'Aura' was mine. I'd booked it a month ago for my twenty-fifth birthday, securing the best view of the glittering New York skyline. I wore a simple black dress I had designed and sewn myself, the fabric cool against my skin. In my purse, a small, hand-crafted gift waited: a silver tie clip, engraved with the geographic coordinates of the street corner where we first met.

I had been waiting for three hours.

The ice in my water glass had melted twice. The waiters moved around me with practiced pity, their eyes sliding past my fixed smile. I kept my back straight, my hands folded in my lap, pretending to be absorbed by the city lights.

Then, he arrived.

Dillon Horton didn't walk toward the table; he stormed it. He was already on his phone, a sleek black rectangle pressed to his ear. He waved a dismissive hand at me, not even breaking stride in his conversation.

"No, I told you, handle it. I don't care what it takes."

He dropped into the chair opposite me, his brow furrowed with irritation. He didn't look at me. He didn't say hello. He didn't say happy birthday.

The call ended. He tossed his phone onto the table with a clatter. Before I could speak, he slid a lavish, dark blue jewelry box across the polished wood. It stopped just short of my water glass.

"Here," he said, his voice flat. "I need you to give this to Seraphina tomorrow."

The name hit me like a physical blow.

"We had a fight," he continued, finally meeting my eyes with an unnerving lack of emotion. "This should smooth things over. Tell her it's the 'Tears of a Siren' necklace she wanted."

My mouth opened, but no sound came out. The gift in my purse suddenly felt like a lead weight.

His phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen, and his entire demeanor shifted. The hard lines of his face softened into something resembling concern, something I hadn't seen directed at me in years.

"Sera? Are you okay?"

He stood up, his chair scraping against the floor.

"I have to go," he said to me, his attention already elsewhere. He pulled a black credit card from his wallet and threw it on the table next to the jewelry box. "Settle the bill, will you? Use my card."

And then he was gone.

He walked away without a backward glance, leaving me alone with a necklace for another woman, a bill for a dinner we never ate, and the crushing, public certainty of my own worthlessness.