Page 4 of The Breakup Broker

It was almost funny how I’d ended up here. After Henry, I’d tried everything to forget—dove into wedding planning with Maddy and Ivy, threw myself into business school applications, and even interviewed at Windsor Weddings. But every happy couple was a mockery, every promise of forever like a time bomb. Then, one day, I overheard a woman at Common Grounds trying to figure out how to end things with her fiancé. The words had tumbled out before I could stop them. “I’ll do it for you.” When I said I would deliver her goodbye, the relief on her face was like looking in a mirror. Somehow, helping others end things cleanly had become my way of giving others what I never got—closure.

I lifted my hand in the practiced Jennifer Walshgesture—not too eager, just the right amount of corporate polish. “Over here,” I called out. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

Navy Suit slid into the seat across from me, all straight white teeth and misplaced confidence. “Jennifer.” He extended his hand. “Thanks for taking the time. My team has put together some projections I think you’ll find impressive.”

He was deep into page three of his market analysis, pitching me hard on projected returns, when I held up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there.”

He blinked, surprised, his pen hovering above an annotated chart.

“When your girlfriend asked you to meet me, it was under the guise of a vetted client for an investment proposal.” I leaned in, keeping my voice calm but direct. “But I’m here for something else.”

His brows knit in confusion. “What … what is this about? If not for this, why did Rachel set up this meeting?”

I kept my expression neutral, maintaining a calm professionalism. “Rachel? I know her as client #342.”

The color drained from his face. “Wait … what is this about?”

“She feels that your relationship has run its course. You two are more of a habit than a love match. I’m here to tell you that while she cares about you, she no longer wants to continue the relationship.”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard, so I added gently, “You’re married—to your job. And she’s not looking to play second fiddle to your career. She wants something real, something with balance. And that’s not what she’s experienced with you.”

The words landed like a punch, and he took a sharpbreath, gripping his portfolio until his knuckles turned white. “She hired someone to break up with me?”

“Sometimes a little distance provides clarity,” I said, each word polished from repetition. It was the kindest way to deliver the blow.

He stared at me, trying to make sense of it all. “Like … an emotional contractor?” His voice dripped with disbelief.

I’d heard variations of that question a hundred times, but the way he cataloged me like some kind of outsourced feelings manager was almost funny.

“This is insane.” He yanked at his tie as if it were suddenly strangling him. “You … you do this for a living?”

“Yes, I provide a service.” My voice stayed steady even as my heart did its usual twist. “A clean break, delivered with respect.”

He scoffed, his eyes narrowing. “Respect? Sending someone else to do your dirty work? That’s not respect—that’s cowardice.”

The word hit like a slap.Cowardice.Was that really what this was? Maybe. But it was still better than unanswered texts, ghosted calls, and the hollow silence where a goodbye should have been. I’d seen the damage that it did—how it could tear someone apart, how it had tornmeapart. Henry Kingston and I discussed marriage and babies one day, mapping our future together. And then he was gone, like a chapter ripped out of a book. No goodbye, no explanation. Just silence. Even if this job was messy, at least it was a form of closure people could hold on to—something I’d never gotten.

“She’s packed your things,” I said, choosing my words. “They’ll be with the doorman by noon. She’s asked for no contact.”

He stood so abruptly his chair scraped againstthe floor. Several heads turned our way, but I kept my expression neutral. Rule number six: never let them see you sweat.

“You must hate love,” he said, his words laced with resentment.

Then he turned and walked away, his portfolio clutched tightly in his hand.

His words shouldn’t have stung—I’d heard worse. Last week, someone called me a joy-killing succubus, and for a split second, I considered slapping it on my business cards. But this? This was different.

No. I didn’t hate love. I hated what happened when it was abandoned without a goodbye. I hated the unanswered questions, the sleepless nights wondering what went wrong. I hated how silence could carve someone up, leaving them raw and unfinished. I hated how people turned their backs on it, leaving destruction in their wake.

My phone buzzed.

Client #342

Did he take it okay?

I didn’t respond. That wasn’t part of the service. Clean breaks meant clean breaks all around.

The train ride home stretched ahead of me like an emotional gauntlet. At least I had wine night to look forward to. Nothing soothed the ache of other people’s broken hearts quite like watching Maddy brainstorm increasingly absurd proposal ideas and listening to Ivy justify why she needed a crash course in flower arranging by Saturday.

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