Third Person POV
Emily wasn't expecting the flicker of warmth in Carter's eyes to be for someone else.
She'd only meant to drop by—again. Just to see him. Just to remind him she still existed. The taxi idled at the curb, its engine a low hum that matched the anxious rhythm of her heart. Her fingers traced the edge of her phone as she contemplated texting him first. No, surprise was better. Surprise gave her the upper hand. She thought he'd be alone, like before. Hollowed out. Waiting. Empty rooms with takeout containers piling up and that distant, glazed look in his eyes that had both repelled and drawn her—the look that said he needed her, even when he wouldn't admit it.
But instead, standing across the street from his building, half-hidden behind the tinted window of the taxi, she watched Aishwariya step inside his building.
Emily's breath caught. The woman moved with a quiet grace, her dark hair falling in waves down her back, a portfolio case clutched to her chest like something precious. There was no hesitation in her step as she punched the building code—she knew it by heart already—and disappeared inside the glass doors.
The same woman Carter had once mentioned.
"She's just someone I met recently," he had said, his voice deliberately flat, though Emily had caught something in it—it-something that made her stomach knot. "She... draws. She listens. It's nothing."
His eyes had drifted then, away from her, toward the window, where the city sprawled beyond. Emily had seen it—the slight softening around his mouth, the barely-there release of tension in his shoulders when he spoke of this woman. But she'd pushed the observation away.
Emily had dismissed it then. Just a phase. Just a soft, wounded girl he'd outgrow. A temporary balm for his fractured ego, nothing more.
"Take another turn around the block," she instructed the driver, fishing in her purse for another twenty to add to the fare. "I need to wait a bit longer."
But now, Aishwariya was inside his flat. Emily's jaw tightened, the muscles aching with the strain of holding back words that had no one to hear. Minutes ticked by, her fingernails pressing into her palm as she waited, leaving half-moon indentations that would linger for hours. She'd see Aishwariya again when she came out. She'd see what it was about this girl that made Carter... smile again.
The evening light faded. Emily remained, dismissing the taxi eventually to stand in the shadow of a neighboring building.
She didn't leave. The lights in Carter's apartment turned off one by one—first the kitchen (they'd eaten together), then the living room (they'd sat together), until only the bedroom light remained. Emily's throat constricted, her breath coming in shallow, painful gasps. The city hummed around her like static in her ears, a cacophony of indifference to her pain. Her stomach curled with a bitter, acidic envy that rose like bile.
"He doesn't love her," she whispered to herself, the words vaporous in the cooling night air. "He can't."
Carter was supposed to be hers. He always had been. Until he broke. Until he told her about the pills, and expected her to stay. Until he'd wept—actually wept—and asked her not to leave. And she had left anyway, because she deserved better than a broken man who couldn't even stand on his own.
And now, now that he was whole again, with money, success, and that old charm back in his voice, now she was no longer enough?
No. Emily refused.
The bedroom light finally went out. Emily stood alone on the darkened street, her chest hollow, her eyes burning with unshed tears of rage and loss.
Neither of them heard the soft hum of a car pulling away from the curb below, nor saw the pale face watching from the shadows, features contorted with a jealousy so deep it bordered on hatred.
Aaron was livid.
It had been two days since Aishwariya stormed out and broke the engagement. Two days of unanswered calls, of embarrassed explanations to business associates, of his mother's increasingly concerned messages about wedding preparations. He had been patient. He had texted. Then called. Then left a message. Nothing. Her phone was switched off or unreachable.
He paced the length of his corner office, the skyline of the city spread before him through floor-to-ceiling windows. His reflection stared back at him—impeccable suit, perfectly trimmed hair, the gold cufflinks that had been his father's gleaming at his wrists.
"Damn it, Aish," he muttered, slamming his palm against the glass. The sting grounded him, momentarily cutting through the red haze of his anger.
She wouldn't do this. She knew what was at stake. Her father's business relied on his family's connections. Her reputation in their social circle. The plan they'd carefully constructed over two years of courtship. Their life—the life he'd promised her, filled with security and status and everything a woman could want.
Now everything was unraveling because of some petty art show and a childish tantrum.
He didn't even care about the art. What mattered was that she'd started slipping—acting like she had choices beyond the ones they'd agreed upon. He had spent years shaping her into someone practical, someone proper, someone his.
He called her mother.
"Hello, Aaron," her mother answered, the formality in her voice betraying her anxiety. "Any word from Aishwariya?"
"She's not answering me either," her mother said after he inquired, her voice tight with worry. "Is she with you?"
Aaron paused, calculating the impact of his next words. Then calmly, almost sweetly, he said, "She broke the engagement."
A sharp gasp. A stammered apology. Promises to find her, to talk sense into her. Then he hung up, satisfied that the machinery was now in motion. Her parents would pressure her. Their community would talk. The weight of expectation would drive her back to him, repentant and malleable once more.
Her parents began calling her within the hour. Messages poured in—from her father, her aunties, her cousins. The entire family mobilized to bring the wayward daughter home.
Aishwariya replied only once.
"I'll reach out when I've calmed down. Please give me space."
It wasn't a rejection. But it wasn't a submission either.
Aaron clenched his fist, rereading the message under the sterile lighting of his office. The words seemed to mock him with their restraint, their refusal to either commit or fully break away. She was unraveling, and if he didn't get control back now, she would slip away completely.
"Sir?" His assistant's voice came through the intercom. "There's a woman here to see you. She doesn't have an appointment, but she says it's regarding Aishwariya Patel."
Aaron straightened, adjusting his tie. "Send her in."
Emily's search didn't take long. Carter had mentioned Aishwariya was a wedding planner. The name was distinct. A few clicks through social media, a peek at wedding portfolios tagged in city events, and there she was.
Aishwariya Patel. Upper-class. Traditional. Quiet. Her social media presence was restrained but elegant, carefully composed photographs of flower arrangements, table settings, brides in exquisite saris and lehengas.
Emily smirked bitterly, scrolling through the images on her laptop screen, the blue light harsh in her darkened apartment. Her wine glass was empty again. She refilled it, the bottle nearly gone now.
This girl. This child, playing house in Carter's sanctuary? That wasn't going to last. Carter needed fire, challenge, the kind of intensity that Emily brought. He might be temporarily soothed by Aishwariya's gentle presence, but eventually, he would crave more. Wouldn't he?
A seed of doubt took root, and Emily squashed it with another swallow of wine.
She dug deeper. Found a news clipping about her upcoming engagement in a local Indian community newsletter. There was a photograph—Aishwariya looking demure in an intricately embroidered red and gold outfit, standing beside a perfectly polished fiancé: Aaron Wells. Corporate. Rich. His arm around her waist was possessive rather than protective. Controlling, if the cold stare in the engagement photos was any indication.
Emily's fingers hovered over her keyboard.
If Carter was slipping away because of this girl, she'd need an ally. Someone with something to lose. Someone who wouldn't ask questions about her methods.
She found Aaron's office number and left a message. Direct. Provocative. The kind that would ensure a response.
"Hi. You don't know me. But I know your fiancée... and I know the man she's with now."
Aaron took the meeting. Out of curiosity. Out of rage. Out of the kind of festering insecurity that no amount of success could mask.
He didn't recognize the woman at first—her polished red lipstick, the expensive (but slightly worn) coat that spoke of former glory, the too-bright smile that didn't reach her green eyes. But when she smiled, sharp and knowing, he hated how familiar it felt. That smile reminded him of himself—calculated, concealing depths of desperation behind a veneer of confidence.
"Emily," she said, offering her hand. Her nails were perfectly manicured, blood red against her pale skin. "Carter's ex."
Aaron's eyes narrowed as he assessed her. Beautiful, certainly. But there was something hollow about her beauty, something that spoke of maintenance rather than authenticity. "Aaron Wells," he replied, his grip firm, establishing dominance in the small way men often do. "Aishwariya's fiancé."
"Still?" Emily asked, sliding into the seat across from him. "After she walked out?"
Aaron's jaw tightened. "A temporary setback."
Emily's smile widened, revealing perfectly straight teeth.
The waiter approached, and Aaron ordered scotch, neat. Emily requested a dirty martini, extra olives. The ritualized exchange gave Aaron a moment to compose himself, to pull the mask of civility more firmly into place.
"I know what you're thinking," she said, settling back in her chair once the waiter had gone. "That this is beneath you. Meeting the scorned ex-girlfriend of your fiancée's... what? Lover? Fling? Whatever he is to her."
Aaron remained silent, his gaze level.
"But it's not beneath you," Emily continued, leaning forward slightly. "Because you're here. Because she's slipping from you, isn't she? Like water through your fingers."
He said nothing, but his pulse quickened with anger, not at Emily, but at the truth in her words.
"I saw her. At Carter's place. She looked... happy."
That word cut like glass.
"Not the polite, social happiness in these photos," Emily continued, sliding her phone across the table to show him a social media post from one of their engagement parties. Aishwariya beside him, smiling the practiced smile of a woman fulfilling expectations. "But real happiness. The kind that changes a person."
The waiter returned with their drinks. Aaron took a long swallow of his scotch, welcoming the burn.
"I don't know you," Aaron said slowly, setting his glass down with deliberate care. "And I don't like strangers meddling in my personal affairs."
Emily tilted her head, studying him. Her earrings caught the light, sending small flashes across the table. "Then consider me... an informant. A concerned citizen." She paused, taking a sip of her martini before adding, "Did you know Carter used to be an addict?"
Aaron blinked, the only sign of his surprise.
"Drugs. Pills. Mostly painkillers after a back injury, but then... everything he could get his hands on. Rehab. The whole thing." Emily twirled the olive in her drink. "He's clean now—probably—but... who knows? Addicts relapse. Especially under stress. Or intense emotion." She looked up, meeting Aaron's gaze directly. "She's very nurturing, your Aishwariya. The type to save strays."
Aaron's jaw clenched as the implications sank in. "And why are you telling me this?"
Emily leaned forward, her voice dropping to a soft purr. "If you want her back, you'll need to make her doubt him. Make her remember who he used to be. Or better yet—make him become that again."
Aaron sipped his drink, not because he was thirsty, but to stall the surge of anger in his chest. The idea of Aishwariya with another man—with a former addict, no less—made his blood boil. But there was something about Emily's eagerness, her thinly veiled desperation, that made him wary.
"What do you want?" he asked finally. "Why help me get my fiancée back?"
"I want Carter back," Emily said, the mask slipping for just a moment, revealing the raw pain beneath. "And he won't come to me whole. He's too proud for that now. Too convinced he's moved on. But if he's broken?" She smiled, a brittle thing that never reached her eyes. "If he's broken, he stays with me. He needs me then."
She met his eyes, steady and unflinching. "And if she's alone... she marries you."
A long pause. The kind where entire futures are decided without ceremony. Around them, the restaurant hummed with the low murmur of conversation, the clink of silverware against fine china, the soft notes of jazz from hidden speakers. A parallel universe of normalcy while they plotted destruction.
"Why should I trust you?" he asked, studying her face for the tell of deception.
Emily shrugged, a fluid, elegant motion that spoke of practiced nonchalance. "You shouldn't. But we both want the same thing. And I don't get in your way. You don't get in mine."
Aaron considered her words, weighing the risk against the potential reward. He thought of Aishwariya—her quiet strength, her talent, her value as a partner in his ascent to the upper echelons of society. He couldn't lose her. Not to a recovering addict with a bestseller and sad eyes.
"What exactly do you propose?" he asked finally.
Emily's smile widened, victory gleaming in her eyes. "I have a few ideas..."
That night, Emily walked home through the city, her heels echoing against the pavement. The streetlights cast elongated shadows that seemed to follow her, accusatory witnesses to her machinations. The meeting with Aaron had gone better than expected. He was exactly the kind of man she had anticipated—possessive, controlling, willing to cross lines to maintain his image of success.
A useful ally in her pursuit of Carter.
Now, he held someone else. Laughed with someone else. Shared his demons with someone else.
But she would fix that.
Emily unlocked her apartment door, stepping into the silent space that bore no real evidence of being lived in. She kicked off her shoes, poured another glass of wine, and opened her laptop.
There, in a folder labeled "Carter," were the old Carter's Rehab form, the photographs, and the evidence of his darkest days of a few days ago, when he was stoned, that she had kept. Not out of sentimentality, but out of a subconscious understanding that information was power. That someday, these fragments of a broken man might be useful.
That day had come.
She always got what she wanted—eventually.
Even if she had to destroy them to get it.