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“You can’t,” she pleaded, her eyes wide with concern. “Foster is doing what he always does. He’ll shower you with gifts and make promises, then break your heart.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted, my voice cracking under the weight of my emotions.
Morgan’s gaze softened, her eyes filled with sympathy. “Do you love Lincoln?”
“Very much,” I whispered, the admission causing a lump to form in my throat.
“Then go to him and explain,” she urged, squeezing my hand. “Foster will break your heart.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Because I know Foster,” she replied, her tone deadly serious. “He almost ruined our friendship. I tried to tell you, and now you want to go back to him?” Morgan shook her head, her frustration evident as she grabbed her mimosa and took a deep gulp. She quickly refilled her glass from the small pitcher on the table, her movements sharp and decisive.
“Does that mean if I go back to him, we’re not friends?” I asked, my voice barely audible as I braced myself for her response.
Morgan’s expression softened, and she reached out to touch my hand again. “I would never end our friendship because of him, but you changed when you were with him,” she said gently. “You weren’t the strong-willed woman I knew. He always made you weak. I didn’t see that with Lincoln. He let you be who you are. Don’t let Foster Black’s wealth seduce you.”
“It’s not,” I murmured, feeling the weight of her words settle in.
Morgan closed the ring box with a snap and slid it back to me, the tension between us thick and palpable. The rest of our meal passed in awkward silence, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. I knew Morgan well enough to recognize when she was upset—she retreated into herself, her usual warmth replaced with a distant coolness. She gave me a tight hug when we parted, promising to call later, but the unease lingered between us.
As I hurried to catch a cab, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw Lincoln’s name flash on the screen. My heart skipped a beat as I stared at it, my thumb hovering over the answer button and then it silenced. It had been two weeks since we last spoke, and I desperately wanted to hear his voice. I wiped the sweat from my upper lip and took a deep breath before hitting his contact. The phone rang five times before he finally picked up.
“Erika,” Lincoln’s voice came through in a breathy whisper, full of hesitation and something I couldn’t quite place.
“Lincoln… you called?” My heart leaped at the sound of his voice, even though a part of me dreaded what might come next.
“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident,” he replied, his tone flat and devoid of the warmth I’d once known.
My heart shattered, the pieces scattering like glass. In that moment, everything became painfully clear—I realized he was the one I truly wanted. Not the glitz and glamour that Foster could offer, not the comfort of the old times that felt so right when things were good. Deep down, I knew that being with Foster would only lead to heartbreak. It might not happen next month or next year, but it would be ugly. Foster would never change. Underneath all his layers, he was still the same man who had hurt me years ago.
I swallowed hard, struggling to keep my voice steady as I asked, “How was it an accident?”
“I meant to call someone else,” Lincoln said, his words clipped. “I hit the wrong contact, which was yours.”
The truth behind his words hit me like a punch to the gut. My breath caught in my throat as I fought back tears. “Lincoln.” His name came out in a strangled whisper, my voice barely holding together. “I love you.”
There was a long pause, and I could hear him breathing on the other end. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold, each word cutting deep. “It’s too late, Erika. You made your choice. You broke my heart, and I won’t give you another chance. Goodbye, Erika.”
The line went dead with a final click, the sound echoing in my ears like the slamming of a door. It was over.
A month had passed since I last heard Lincoln’s voice, each day feeling heavier than the one before. I’d severed all ties with Foster, despite his desperate attempts to win me back. My heart knew that being with him would only deepen the wounds I’d spent so long trying to heal. The rumors that he was dating a supermodel to soothe his bruised ego didn’t surprise me.
When I received an invitation to a charity event hosted by the Elliott family, I knew I couldn’t resist. I needed to see Lincoln again, even if he hated me. My date was Grant Barrington, COO of The Barrington Group, a man I’d met months ago at a party. There was nothing romantic between us; Grant was the kind of man who would make a perfect husband—for someone else.
I spent the entire day preparing for the event, nerves tangling with excitement. The emerald green satin dress I chose was sleeveless with a plunging neckline and a daring slit up my left thigh. I paired it with black patent heels that added five inches to my height. My hair was styled in a classic chignon, and I went heavy on the makeup, even though Lincoln preferred me natural. The dress wasn’t just a fashion statement—it was a message. I wanted to remind Lincoln of what we once had, of how he used to bury his face between my breasts, breathing me in like I was his only source of air.
When Grant arrived at my door just before seven, he greeted me with a bouquet of red roses. His turquoise eyes sparkled as he smiled, the corners crinkling in that charming way of his. Dressed in a black tuxedo, his chestnut hair combed neatly to the side, he looked every bit the gentleman.
“For you,” he said, offering the roses with a warm smile.
I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. “I thought this date was platonic?”
“It is,” he assured me, “but I’m still a gentleman. And I have to say, you look absolutely stunning. That dress is fantastic.”
“Thank you,” I replied, taking the roses from him and stepping aside so he could enter my apartment. “Let me put these in water, and we can head out.”
As I arranged the flowers in a vase, my mind drifted to Lincoln. I didn’t know how he would react when he saw me, or if he’d even care. But as I placed the roses on my kitchen counter, I couldn’t shake the hope that maybe, just maybe, this night would change everything.
