Page 7 of The Breakup Broker

Ivy choked on her wine. “Or ‘Honeysucker’s Heart Removal Service.’”

“‘Got Ghosted? Ghost Better!’” Gloria offered.

“I hate all of you.” I reached for the bottle. “And I’m not advertising. Word of mouth works just fine.”

“To tomorrow.” Gloria raised her glass one last time. “May your drones fly straight?—”

“They will!” Maddy interjected.

"Your Swedish accent hold up?—"

"Jag är mycket svensk!" Ivy attempted.

“And your heart...” Gloria looked at me. “Someday, break free of that wall you’ve built.”

After we split the bill, I gathered my things to head home. The walk from Cork & Crown took precisely six minutes, long enough for River Bend’s evening soundtrack of crickets to clear my head.

October had transformed the sugar maples lining Main Street into torches of red and gold, while Storm King Mountain stood silhouetted against the harvest moon across the dark water. Old Mrs. Patterson’s porch light cast a warm glow across her rocking chair, empty now but still swaying in the night breeze. As I approached home, the “Closed” sign in River Bend Books’ window glowed softly, my mom’s neat handwriting visible beneath it:Tomorrow’s another chapter.

CHAPTER THREE

Henry

“It’s time, son.” My father poured three fingers of scotch at the bar tucked into the corner of his study, another Thursday ritual as old as my failures. “The Ashworths have been more than patient.”

I stood at the wall of windows overlooking Central Park West, twenty stories up in the building where doormen knew your coffee order and residents had private elevator banks. The park was painted in shades of gold and red—like the trees that lined Main Street in River Bend.

No. I couldn’t think about her. Not now. Not when my father expected answers I didn’t have.

“Caroline’s a fine match.” The crystal decanter clinked against the glass with precise, measured strikes. Like everything else about Richard Kingston III, the sound conveyed power. “Her family’s wealth nearly rivals ours. Nearly.” He let the word hang in the air, thick with judgment. In my world, that minor distinction meant everything.

I turned from the window, his words pulling me backtoward the armchair by the fireplace. The leather creaked as I sat, the air heavy with the scent of old scotch and older expectations.

Every inch of the study reminded anyone who entered that the Kingstons had never been more powerful. It was a room built to command respect and suppress rebellion.

I’d learned that lesson the hard way. I hadn’t fought for her—not when it mattered most. And the worst part was knowing that I should have. It had been a lifetime since I’d seen her, yet Savvy lingered in every corner of my mind.

She was nothing like the polished, predictable women my father paraded before me—Caroline included. Savvy had been a hurricane. Uncontrollable, vibrant, and far too dangerous for the Kingston legacy.

My gaze flicked to the portrait of my grandfather above the marble fireplace. Richard Kingston Sr., patriarch and architect of the Kingston empire, looked out with cold eyes that seemed to say,You don’t get to choose. None of us ever did.

“You’ve been dodging this for weeks, Henry.” My father poured a precise measure of scotch into another crystal glass and handed it to me. “The Ashworths won’t wait forever. You need to plan.”

I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, staring into its depths as if it held answers.

“This isn’t about what you want,” he continued, his voice sharp. “The Kingston name is bigger than you, bigger than me. Choice isn’t part of the deal. That’s the price of privilege.”

The pressure of those expectations pressed down harder in the study, where the air seemed thick with ambition and legacy.

I leaned back in the leather armchair, closing my eyes. Icould still hear her laugh, the way she’d said my name like it wasn’t tied to generations of obligation. Sometimes, I wondered if she’d forgotten me entirely—or if she still carried the broken pieces of our relationship.

The glass of scotch sat untouched in my hand, a reminder of the legacy I couldn’t escape and the life I couldn’t have.

Those distinctions stared down at me from the walls—four generations of Kingston men captured in oils, each portrait more imposing than the last. Great-great-grandfather Theodore, who’d built our first bank. Great-grandfather Richard I, who’d turned it into an empire. My father’s father, Richard II, who’d merged us into the billion-dollar stratosphere with real estate. They all have those ice-blue Kingston eyes, watching, judging, expecting.

“The Kingston legacy demands certain ... standards.” He lifted his glass toward Theodore’s portrait. “Certain responsibilities. You have to marry, son. And soon. Statistically speaking, the longer you wait to have children, the more likely you will have a girl.” He gestured to the wall of portraits. “Two hundred years of Kingston men. Don’t screw that up because you can’t do what’s expected of you.”

My stomach turned. “I wanted to marry once. Remember how that worked out?”

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