Chapter 1

Amelia

The Diamond's soft interior glow casts a sepia tone over everything in the bar, like an old photograph come to life on this dark, early-February evening. I perch on a high stool, legs crossed, swirling the ice in my whiskey sour. Isla Jefferies and Stella Yates, my partners in crime, are glued to their phones, thumbs dancing across screens, swiping with mechanical precision.

"Look at this one," Stella scoffs, angling her screen so Isla and I can glimpse Mr. Wrong of the moment. "His profile says, ‘no drama,' which means he's full of it."

"Ah, the classic ‘I want you available but not clingy'," Isla chimes in, eyes rolling skyward. "Do they have a factory that churns these guys out?"

"Apparently, Vancouver is ground zero for the epidemic," I quip, downing the last of my drink. The burn of alcohol tapers into a sweet aftertaste, and I signal the bartender for another round. It's our ritual lament—the men here who desire perfection but offer little substance.

"Remember when we actually tried to meet guys in real life?" Isla giggles as she reminds us how we first crossed paths, racquets in hand, at a squash singles event.

"God, that was a disaster," I agree. "But it gave me you two." I tap my glass against theirs, a toast to friendship born from mutual mortification on the squash court. We never returned and played squash again, but our bond stuck.

"Speaking of disasters…" Stella starts, changing the subject smoothly, "how's work going, Amelia? Did you land the Lululemon account?"

"Ha! I wish. Then Rose would move on to that and I could finally run Mercy Hospital's account on my own, the way it should be done." I lean back, feeling frustration bubble up. Rose Einstein is my boss, and I'm her coordinator. Our job in advertising means convincing clients they need what they didn't know they wanted. "Every day there's a new idea from them. You'd think they were running a circus, not a hospital. And they're never happy. Last week, they asked us for new creative and launch projections to bring new doctors to the hospital. Today, they've changed their mind and want to focus on the doctors and specialists they have, so people will drive for hours to see them. It makes Rose and Adam miserable."

Rose is the account manager for Mercy Hospital, and she was normal once, but now, she could use a prescription for lithium after what they've done to her. Adam Bishop owns our firm, Creative Seed Marketing, and his drive to meet Mercy Hospital's demands has slowly pushed most of our other clients out the door.

"Still sounds better than dealing with Martin Communications' customers," Isla interjects. "Today someone called to ask if we could provide telepathic support services. Because, apparently, pressing buttons on a phone is too taxing." Isla works in customer service for Canada's largest telecommunications company.

"Try hiring for those telepaths," Stella jests. She runs a temporary staffing office and always has great stories. "You wouldn't believe the characters I interview. Today, a guy came in wearing flip-flops—for a finance position!"

We erupt into laughter.

"Cheers to the flip-flop financier," I proclaim, raising my glass once more, a salute to the absurdity of our lives. The night is young, and despite our grumbling, we're exactly where we want to be—in the thick of Gastown's nightlife, the city's pulse merging with our own. And as the door swings open to admit another hopeful bachelor, we share a knowing look. We might be searching, but thankfully, we're not lost.

I scan The Diamond's crowded space. This is our neighborhood hangout, and we're here quite often, but you never know who's going to turn up. And then I see him—Chad Heath—standing at the bar like he owns the place, his British accent rolling over the crowd, or so I imagine even though I can't hear it from here.

"Amelia, no," Isla murmurs, her hand on my arm like a gentle anchor.

But the warning comes too late; Chad's already found my gaze, his smile a practiced curve of lips that knows its effect on me. His pinkie ring with the Heath family crest catches the dim light, a beacon of old-world pretension.

"Go on then," Stella says with an edge of resignation. "But remember who you are."

Their concern is a soft reminder in the back of my mind as I make my way over, navigating the sea of bodies. I'm close enough now to catch the scent of his cologne, a mix of citrus and cedarwood that whispers of nights best left untouched by the morning sun.

"Amelia McCall," he purrs in his British lilt as I approach, that smooth voice wrapping around my name. "As ravishing as ever."

"Chad," I reply, allowing myself a small smile.

He motions to an empty spot beside him, commandeering the bartender's attention with the ease of someone accustomed to being heeded. "Whiskey sour, please." When the drink appears moments later, he hands it to me, the condensation cool against my fingers. "Still charming snakes out of their wallets in advertising?" he asks.

"Something like that," I admit, sipping my drink. He's always been condescending about what I do, yet he's covered in designer labels. "I'm working on the Mercy Hospital account now." I watch for a flicker of interest, but his eyes remain guarded, amused. "And you?"

"Bits and bobs here and there," he deflects, a smooth sidestep that tells me nothing. Even after dating for six months, I never understood what he did for work. My intuition sparks, a silent alarm that I tamp down, because despite everything, the attention feels good, especially with the envious glances from other women at the bar.

"Bits and bobs don't sound nearly as exciting as your usual ventures," I tease, leaning in closer than I should. His laugh is a low rumble, a sound that has been known to make my heart trip over itself.

"Excitement is where you find it, Amelia." His lips graze my ear as he leans in, sending a shiver down my spine that raises goose bumps on my arms. It's a calculated move, and part of me despises how effective it is. "How about we find some excitement back at your place tonight? For old times' sake?"

My pulse quickens, and not entirely in a good way. "What are you looking for, Chad?"

"Nothing complicated. A one-night reconnection." His words are as direct as they are devoid of romance—and probably climax free for me.

He runs his fingers down my arm, leaving a trail of shivers. I know from previous experience that this is his foreplay. It used to work. But disappointment is a bitter tang at the back of my throat. What am I doing? I pull away, meeting his gaze squarely. "I don't think that's a good idea." My voice is steady, even as my insides churn. There's something to be said for standing up for yourself. I didn't want to marry him, but I wanted monogamy, and I wanted a regular date. But he didn't want any of those things.

His fingers skate to mine, and he lifts my hand and kisses the underside of my wrist. It's a bold move and very intimate, making me all gooey inside, but then my brain engages to remind me that this is all he's good for. And he's too selfish to be a good lover.

"Let's be honest, Chad. Why would I invite you back to my house? You're all prologue and no meat in your story. You may have game, but you couldn't find a clitoris if you had a map and a year to get there."

His smirk falters, and for a moment, I relish the flash of surprise in his eyes before I turn away. Back at our table, my friends are deep in conversation with a pair of guys who seem interested in what they have to say. I feel a surge of solidarity with them, with our shared experiences that go beyond failed relationships and fleeting desires.

"All good?" Stella mouths as I return, and I nod, a silent acknowledgment of the bullet dodged, refocusing on the night ahead. We're in this together, us against the world—or at least against Vancouver's dating scene.

I sling my purse over my shoulder as Isla's laughter intertwines with the deep timbre of the guy's she just met. Stella's hand rests on the other guy's arm, her head tilted as she listens. They're in good company, far better than the echoes of Chad's hollow charm that still linger in my mind. I don't want to intrude, so I wave goodbye and slide away from the warmth of The Diamond's murmur into the crisp Vancouver night.

"Stupid," I mutter to myself, the word a cloud of vapor in the cool air. "Why did I ever give him the time of day?" Every step is a beat in the rhythm of self-reproach. Chad was seeing other women while we were dating, and I was just another in a long line of his conquests. My jaw clenches. I refuse to let bitterness seep in and paint all men with the same shade of mistrust.

A few minutes later, my key turns stiffly in the lock, and my studio apartment greets me with chaos that looks like a crime scene. Clothes drape over chairs like sloppy guests who've overstayed their welcome, and takeout boxes are scattered across the counter like confetti. It's just untidiness, not theft, but it feels like a metaphor for something larger, something messier. I live in less than five hundred square feet, but at least I live alone.

"Get it together, McCall," I chide as I scoop a discarded sweater from the floor. I straighten pillows, stack papers, and clear away the remnants of hurried meals. As I tidy, my thoughts shuffle through my deck of current disappointments—the advertising campaign that's more elusive than expected, the savings account that's more void than value, and the nonexistent knight in shining armor who's supposed to be mad about me.

"Account coordinator by day, domestic goddess by night," I say to no one, the joke falling flat in the empty room. My fingers pause on the hem of a pillowcase—a pattern of constellations that once encouraged me to dream big. I allow myself a moment, just a heartbeat or two, to acknowledge the ache of wanting more.

"Tomorrow," I promise the silence. "Tomorrow, you'll figure it out." But tonight? Tonight is for forgetting, in the neatness of folded laundry and the simple satisfaction of a clear countertop. Because maybe, just maybe, if the outside is orderly, the inside will follow suit.

The red light of a waiting message blinks at me from my landline like a beacon of unwanted news. I let out a sigh, my fingers hesitating over the buttons—knowing all too well the sort of message that awaits. It's either a robot attempting to sell me something in Mandarin or, worse, it's her.

"Amelia," comes the slurred voice I dread when I play the message. "It's your mom. Call me back, please."

Sophia's words are a tangled mess of syllables that make it impossible to tell whether she's high, drunk, or swimming in the cocktail of both. The familiar disappointment settles in my stomach, heavy and unwelcome. I delete the message with more force than necessary, a small act of rebellion.

"Sorry, Mom," I whisper. "But not tonight."

I slump onto the bed, its covers still a jumble from this morning's hasty exit. The springs creak as I peel away the layers of bravado and resilience I've worn all evening. They're flimsy armor against the world.

I close my eyes, willing my thoughts to cease their relentless march through the minefields of today's mistakes and tomorrow's uncertainties. I don't want to think about Chad, his smug smile, or how he used to trace circles on my skin with that pinkie ring. I don't want to imagine what emergency Sophia has concocted in her chemical haze or what new lows she's sunk to.

"Tomorrow," I promise the shadows dancing across the ceiling. "Tomorrow will be better." But the optimism tastes sour, a half-hearted lie meant to soothe a soul that knows better.

The silence of the apartment wraps around me like a shroud, and I let myself feel the loneliness. It's a familiar companion, one I've learned to sit with in the quiet hours when the rest of the world retreats behind closed doors.

"Get some sleep, Amelia," I scold gently. "You can save the world—or at least your little corner of it—in the morning."

With a deep breath, I pull the sheets up to my chin, the fabric cool against my skin. The outside world fades away, leaving just the sound of my breathing and the steady thrum of my heartbeat. Tomorrow is another day, a fresh start, another chance to get it right. Tonight, though, I surrender to sleep and the hope of sweeter dreams.