After My Ex Destroyed My Life, He Begged

The afternoon light hit Manhattan like a slap—bright, sharp, unforgiving. I walked Danny home from his Thursday session at the therapy center, his hand warm and loose in mine. He was in a good mood. That meant he was loud.

"Josie, look!" He yanked free before I could tighten my grip. "Bird!"

He lunged toward the pigeon on the sidewalk, arm swinging wide, and I heard it before I saw it—a long, ugly scrape of fingernails against metal. My stomach dropped.

The scratch ran nearly two feet down the side of a matte-black sports car parked at the curb. Custom paint. No chrome. The kind of car that cost more than our apartment building.

"Danny." My voice came out flat. Controlled. "Come here."

He turned around, face wide open and innocent. "The bird flew away."

"I know, buddy." I pulled him gently behind me, my eyes already fixed on the damage. My chest was tight. I was already doing the math, the terrible, useless math, when the driver's door swung open.

I looked up.

Five years. Five years, and I still knew his shoulders before I knew his face. The way he held himself—like the world owed him room.

Greyson Scott stepped out onto the sidewalk.

He was taller than I remembered. Or maybe I had just gotten smaller. His suit was dark and perfect. His jaw was harder. There were no traces left of the broke Columbia kid who used to fall asleep over his laptop at 2 a.m. while I refilled his coffee. This man had been carved from something colder.

His eyes moved to the scratch first. Then to Danny. Then to me.

I watched the exact moment he recognized me. His expression didn't explode. It shifted. Slowly. Like a door swinging open onto a very dark room.

"Josie Greene." His voice was low. Almost quiet.

My hands found Danny's shoulders. "I'm sorry about the car. It was an accident. I'll cover the repair costs."

"Will you." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. If you give me a few weeks—"

"Fifteen thousand dollars." He said it the way you'd say the time. Flat. Final. "That's the cost of a custom respray on this model. I want it in full."

The number hit me like cold water. "That's—" I stopped myself. I pressed my fists into my coat pockets. "That's not a reasonable estimate for a scratch."

"Take it up with my lawyer." He pulled out his phone. "Name and number."

"Greyson." The name felt strange in my mouth after so long. "We can talk about this like—"

"Like what?" His eyes came up. Sharp. "Like old friends?" A short, humorless sound. "You don't get to play that card. Not after what you did."

I went still. "What I did."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." His voice dropped another register. "The source code. The wire transfer. The way you walked out without a single word." He tilted his head. "Did you spend it all already? Is that