Page 28 of The Breakup Broker

“Can I help you?” The receptionist’s expression was poised and polished, everything I used to be before yesterday.

“I’m here to see James Morrison.” The words felt foreign on my tongue. “Savannah Honeysucker.”

Recognition passed across her face. “Ah, yes. Mr. Kingston mentioned you’d be coming.”

Mr. Kingston. Not Henry—only one Kingston commanded that kind of automatic respect. My stomach twisted. “Henry’s father knows I’m here?”

“Oh, no.” She typed something into her computer. “Theyoungest Kingston. He added you to the approved visitor list before he left earlier today.”

The knot in my stomach loosened. Of course, Henry would think of that. He’d been good at the little details, at smoothing the way for others. It was one of the first things I’d loved about him, back when I was young enough to mistake thoughtfulness for forever.

“Room 517,” she said, handing me a visitor’s badge. “The elevator’s around the corner. Would you like someone to show you?—”

“I can find it.” The words came out sharper than I intended. It was Jennifer Walsh’s professional distance bleeding into Savvy’s emotions again.

The ride gave me several floors to second-guess everything—the years I’d spent trying to move on, the decision to come here. The numbers ticked up with mechanical precision as memories surged forward. James taught me chess in his study, sharing rare first editions he knew I’d cherish, standing up for me to his son-in-law with quiet, unyielding dignity.

The doors opened onto a hallway that looked more like a luxury hotel than a medical facility. Plush carpeting muffled my steps as I followed the numbers: 511, 513, 515...

I paused outside 517, my hand half-raised to knock when James’s voice drifted through the partially open door. “Are you going to stand there all day? Or have you developed a sudden fascination with hospital decor?”

A laugh escaped before I could stop it. Pushing the door open, I stepped into a room that was pure James—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking manicured gardens, leather armchairs that probably cost more than my monthly studentloan payment, and books. So many books, their spines creating a familiar rainbow against the pristine walls.

He sat in one of those ridiculously expensive chairs, a worn copy ofThe Great Gatsbyopen on his lap. He looked smaller than I remembered, more fragile, but his eyes still held that sharp intelligence that had seen right through everyone’s pretenses.

“Savannah Rose,” he said, and for a moment, I saw the man who’d spent hours discussing literature with me in his study. “You still have that look when you’re overthinking things.”

“Old habits.” I stepped closer, taking in the changes time had etched into him. His hair was completely white now, his face marked with lines that told stories of more than just years. But the way he looked at me hadn’t changed—still warm and knowing, as if he were in on some cosmic joke the rest of us had yet to understand.

“Sit.” He gestured to the chair beside him. “Before you wear a hole in my expensive carpet with all that nervous energy.”

I sank into the leather chair, its softness both comforting and a little unnerving. James and the books seemed to hum with memories I’d tried to forget, stirring something I didn’t want to face. I fidgeted in my seat, trying to shake it off. “Henry said you wanted to see me, Mr. Morrison.”

“Mr. Morrison?” His eyebrow arched as he marked his place and closed the book. “Five years and suddenly we’re strangers, Savannah Rose? You might be the Goodbye Girl to everyone else, but you don’t get to say goodbye so fast to me.”

The use of my full name and the jab at my career sent a pang through my chest. No one in Manhattan knewJennifer Walsh’s real identity outside my close friends and family—no one except Henry.

“You look good.” He studied me with those sharp eyes that had seen too much. “Harder, maybe. More guarded. But good.”

“I’m fine.” The words came automatically, my standard response to any inquiry about my emotional state. The exact words I’d practiced in the mirror until they sounded believable, until I could deliver them without flinching.

“What happened to the wedding planner dream?” James asked, tilting his head. “You always said you’d plan happily-ever-afters for a living.”

I let out a soft laugh, the kind that sticks in your throat. “Things changed, and I went in the opposite direction.”

His eyebrow lifted, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “I’d say. Explain this to me.”

“I, uh...” Heat crawled up my neck. “I help people end relationships.”

“End relationships?” His voice was even, but his expression betrayed a hint of surprise.

“Yep. I’m the one they call when things get ... messy,” I admitted, my hands twisting in my lap. “Quietly, efficiently, and without attaching my name to it.”

James regarded me momentarily, something close to amusement glinting in his eyes. “Not quite what you planned when you used to sit in my study dreaming about your future, is it?”

“Nope, but dreams rarely turn into reality.” I tried to sound steady, but calm slipped away, impossible to grasp here. The room was styled like a den—cozy armchairs, a wooden bookshelf, muted lighting—but it wasn’t his den. It lacked the warmth and history of the study where I used to sit, dreaming about a future that now seemed like a lifetimeago. I glanced at him, searching for a piece of the person I used to know. “People change, too.”

“Do they?” His gaze sharpened. “Or do they get better at hiding who they are?”

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