EMMA

Love is supposed to heal, to mend the broken parts. It's a haven. A promise. A safe place to land.

But what do you do when love—the purest form you've ever known—becomes the kerosene waiting to set your entire world on fire?

And not just yours. His. The one person you hoped—prayed—you would never hurt.

The days after seeing my parents blurred into something hollow and unsteady. I went to work at the MoMA with a carefully constructed calm. I smiled through gallery tours, signed paperwork, and nodded in curators' meetings as if I wasn't quietly dismantling the life I had built brick by borrowed brick.

My resignation letter sat folded in my purse for over a week. Today, I handed it in with shaking hands and a too-bright smile.

Eric and I were finalizing everything tying us to New York. Liquidating assets, selling off what we could—the apartment, the cars, anything with a paper trail.

Our lives were now packed in go-bags at the back of the closet—like a coiled viper, waiting for the inevitable strike.

And through it all, every step I took felt like betrayal. Every breath I stole with Jake felt like a wound he hadn't noticed yet—but one he would bleed from eventually.

And he noticed. How could he not?

I wasn't the same girl from Cayuga Lake who had laughed under the stars. The one who had kissed him in the rain and whispered, I love you, like it was the only truth she had ever known.

Now, I dodged his calls more than I answered, canceled dinner plans, and claimed work emergencies that didn't exist.

We met only a handful of times—always in public, always safe. I didn't trust myself behind closed doors. I told myself it was mercy. That keeping him at arm's length would make it easier—for both of us.

I was wrong. It only deepened the cracks, made the distance colder, louder, and the truth harder to bear.

Meanwhile, the city kept spinning like nothing had changed. Holiday lights sparkled along Fifth Avenue. Ice skaters laughed and fell at Rockefeller Center. Yellow taxis beeped impatiently at corners slick with dirty snow.

But I was slipping further from him, ripping pieces of myself away with each step.

Eric was the only person I still let in. And even that felt precarious—a tightrope strung between guilt and the quiet grief of saying goodbye to everything we had let ourselves care about.

I stared out the window of our apartment, watching the heavy gray sky sink low over the skyline. My phone buzzed on the table. The message preview flashed across the screen.

Jake: You still coming tonight? You promised me New Year's, remember?

My stomach twisted, tight and unforgiving, like something inside me was being wrung out. The screen waited, bright, expectant.

Behind me, I heard Eric moving. The soft click of a cupboard door. The clink of a mug. Small, normal sounds. Too normal for what tonight meant.

When I said nothing, he called from the kitchen. "You alright?"

I didn't turn. My voice came out rough. "I should keep a spreadsheet of how many times you ask me that."

I heard the soft scrape of ceramic against wood as he set the cup down, then I felt his presence at my back before I heard him.

"You don't have to go."

I shook my head, my jaw clenched tight. "I do."

"Why?"

I closed my eyes. The words burned on the way out. "Because I promised. Because I owe him that much."

Eric let out a slow breath. I knew he didn't agree, but he wouldn't push. Not tonight. Not now.

The city lights below flickered on one by one as dusk bled into darkness. My phone vibrated again.

Jake: 8 o'clock. Elevated Acre. Wear something pretty.

I bit down on my lip, hard enough to sting.

"Are we ready?" I asked, barely above a whisper. "The documents? The new accounts?"

Eric nodded. "We're set. Maybe a week or two to finish selling everything, cut the last ties, and get enough cash in hand." He paused. "And then, once you're ready to disappear... we're gone."

I turned to face him, my throat tightening. "I'm sorry, Eric."

He crossed his arms, leaned a shoulder against the wall, and gave me the softest smile I had seen in weeks. "You run, I run. That's how it goes."

"But you were building something here. Something real. The tech project. Alycia..."

We both knew he couldn't stay in New York. Not after I left. Jake would tear this city apart looking for the truth, and Eric would be the first thread he pulled.

And I had decided—Jake deserved to know. Maybe not now. Maybe not face to face. But somehow, a letter, a voicemail, something sent after I was gone.

Because he needed closure. He needed the truth. He needed to know it wasn't him. That everything he gave me—his trust, his love—was never the problem. I was.

Eric crossed the room and dropped beside me on the couch. "We'll start fresh," he said. "Somewhere safe. And Aly promised to join us once we're settled."

My chest tightened. "I never meant to drag you into this."

He reached for my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You didn't drag me. I chose this."

I managed the barest smile, but didn't trust myself to speak. Silence filled the space between us, stretched thin and full of things we weren't ready to say out loud.

I looked down at my phone. Jake's message still glowed on the screen. "I'm going to give him tonight," I said, almost to myself. "Just this. One last perfect memory... a goodbye dressed up like a dream."

Eric held my gaze, then gave a small nod. "Then you better go get ready."

As I walked toward the bedroom, I caught my reflection in the mirror and froze. For a moment, I didn't recognize the woman staring back at me.

Who was she now?

The girl who lied and conned her way through life? The one who could slip into a room, steal hearts, steal secrets, and vanish before anyone saw the damage left behind?

Or was she the girl who fell—hard—and felt like she had been reborn the moment she felt Jake's warmth? The one who dreamed, who imagined a future. A home. A family. A quiet life in someone's arms that didn't come with an escape plan.

But that girl—she was foolish, delusional, temporary.

And the version that would really stay—the one I couldn't shake—was the girl about to run, disappear for good. The one following in her parents' footsteps. The one who would have to burn every bridge she had built, and live as a shadow of herself—a shell I wasn't sure would ever be whole again.

My gaze drifted to the bed. The dress lay where I had left it—velvet, burgundy, the color Jake once said made me look like I stepped out of a painting.

I reached for it slowly, as if touching it might crack something open inside me.

Just one night.

That was the promise. One last night of being the Emma he fell for. The realest version of me—the one I was about to bury forever.

The Elevated Acre wasn't like the rest of New York.

Tucked between two office towers in the heart of the Financial District, it felt like a secret suspended above the chaos.

Below, Manhattan still roared with sirens and horns. But up here, the city hushed. Concrete and glass gave way to a wide-open terrace, dotted with bare trees wrapped in twinkling lights.

I stepped out of the elevator and tightened my shawl around my shoulders. The winter air slipped under the wool like icy fingers tracing my spine. My heels clicked softly against the polished stone path.

Laughter drifted across the lawn. Soft jazz floated through hidden speakers. Tables gleamed with silver champagne buckets and glittering votives, arranged with precision like a fantasy someone else had planned.

And at the center of it all, standing by the railing with a glass of champagne in hand, was Jake.

I froze, just for a second. But it was long enough. Long enough to feel it—that ache in my chest. That quiet pull toward something I was already losing.

He wore a charcoal gray suit and a dark navy scarf, his hair swept back by the wind. He looked calm, at ease. And for this brief moment, he was still mine. At least... for now.

I exhaled slowly and began walking toward him, forcing a smile onto my face.

"Hey, Parker."

He turned instantly. His green eyes softened the second they landed on me, and that smile—the one that still made my chest tighten like it was the first time—lit up his face.

"God, Em. You look..." He let the words trail off as his gaze swept over me. "You look perfect."

This time, my smile was real. I closed the gap between us. "You clean up nice yourself," I said, smoothing my gloved fingers over his lapel. "You even wore the scarf."

Jake smirked. "You gave it to me. Like I had a choice."

He leaned in, his hand finding the small of my back as he pressed a quick kiss to my lips.

And just like that, I felt it all—the static, the heat, the memory. Everything I wasn't ready to let go of slammed into me at once.

"I missed you," he said, his gaze locking with mine.

"Me too," I whispered, still close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

He studied me for a moment. "I wasn't sure you'd come," he admitted. "You've been a little... distant."

I felt a lump in my throat. I turned my head, eyes on the skyline. "Work's been crazy."

He reached for my hand at my side, lacing his fingers with mine. "Yeah," he said. "I get that."

He didn't push. Jake never did.

It would've been easier if he had. If he had demanded the truth, called me out, broken the illusion. But he didn't.

He just loved me, and that was the cruelest part of all.

I grabbed a champagne glass from the nearest table. "So, who's here?" I asked, scanning the small crowd, trying to steady myself with idle curiosity.

Jake had mentioned that he got the invites through a former FBI agent—someone who had traded his badge for corporate security at a luxury real estate group hosting the event.

I figured there were probably other agents scattered among the crowd. But I didn't care. I wasn't interested in protecting anything anymore.

"Luke and Chloe came," Jake said with a soft smile, nodding toward the far end of the terrace. "You know Luke can't say no to free food."

I spotted them by the catering station. Luke was making Chloe laugh as she swatted at him playfully. Chloe's hand rested on her softly rounded belly.

My heart clenched at the sight. They looked so happy, so permanent. I envied them more than I could admit.

"Chloe looks beautiful," I said.

"She does," Jake agreed, then he squeezed my hand. "You do too."

I leaned into him, resting my head against his shoulder. Just for a second. Just one tiny indulgence.

"So... what now?" I turned to him with a half-smile. "Drinks? Dancing? You whisk me off to a rooftop for one more of your grand romantic gestures?"

Jake chuckled. "Not yet," he said. "We've got a whole night ahead of us." Then his green eyes sparked with something warm and familiar as he held out his hand. "Come on. Let's dance."

I smiled, letting him lead me into the crowd, into the music, into the story I was still pretending might have a happy ending.

The skyline burned behind us, thousands of windows glittering like stars that had fallen from the sky. The wind tugged at the hem of my dress, at the soft waves of my hair, but Jake's arms stayed firm around me. Steady. Safe.

"Do you remember the last time we danced like this?" he asked, his chin resting lightly against my temple.

"Of course I do." I chuckled softly. "The gallery opening right before Ithaca. We occupied the dance floor all night. People started giving us weird looks. And we were so tipsy we had to take an Uber home."

Jake grinned. "You wore that black dress that made half the room forget how to breathe."

I leaned back just enough to look at him, arching a brow. "And what about you, Agent Parker?"

He smirked. "Still recovering."

I smiled, tracing my fingers lightly over his jaw. God, Jake... I'm going to miss you. I already do.

All around us, couples swayed beneath the glow of the fairy lights. Luke and Chloe moved in sync just a few feet away, their foreheads touching, lost in their own quiet world.

But the difference was that theirs wasn't going to end mid-motion.

I swallowed hard and tilted my face up toward Jake. "Can we... step away for a second?"

He searched my eyes. For a moment, I thought he might ask—might demand to know what was wrong, might shake the truth out of me.

But he didn't. He just nodded. "Yeah. Let's go somewhere quiet."

He took my hand and led me past the music, past the crowd, through the low hedges, and out to the edge of the terrace. The East River stretched below us like a ribbon of black silk, and the Brooklyn Bridge shimmered in the distance.

I reached into my clutch, my fingers trembling, and pulled out the folded sketch I had been carrying all night. I handed it to him without saying anything.

Jake gave me a small, playful frown. "A gift?"

"Open it."

The paper crinkled softly as he unfolded it. His eyes widened, and he didn't speak.

The sketch showed the two of us on the shoreline of Cayuga Lake. The water was bending the light into silver bands, the horizon endless and calm. We were sitting side by side, hands clasped, shoulders touching, eyes on the distance—quiet, content. It was a perfect moment, frozen in charcoal and memory.

Jake stared at it for a long moment. I couldn't breathe.

Then, softly—almost reverently—he whispered, "Emma..."

"I sketched it after Ithaca," I said, my voice barely a breath. "I wanted you to have it. That moment... that was the happiest I've ever been."

He traced his fingers lightly over the paper, stopping at the place where our hands met. "This is beautiful," he said. "And you're incredible."

I bit my lip hard. But will you still say that when you know the truth? Will you tear the sketch apart, hate me for making you believe in something that was doomed from the start?

I shook my head, eyes stinging. "You know... to be an artist, you have to know who you are. For the longest time, I didn't. But you... you helped me remember."

Jake folded the sketch gently and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, his fingers lingering for a second like he was storing something sacred. Then he cupped my face, his palms warm against my skin.

"No," he said, voice soft. "You're doing that all on your own. I just got lucky enough to be part of your story."

I blinked hard, willing the tears not to fall.

What he didn't know—what he couldn't know—was how badly I wanted that to be true. How desperately I prayed that, when everything fell apart, he would remember this. Remember us.

I leaned into his touch, memorizing the feel of him, his warmth, his certainty. "Thank you," I whispered. "For everything."

He smiled, his thumb tracing over my cheek again. "Thank you for loving me back."

My smile trembled, fragile and full of grief. "How could I not?"

The clock tower in the distance began to glow, a soft pulse against the skyline, reminding us both of the time. The night was slipping away.

Jake reached for my hand. "Come on. We've got to see this."

He slipped his fingers through mine as we walked slowly back toward the others. His thumb traced soft circles over my knuckles, grounding me when all I wanted to do was float away and disappear.

The minutes blurred—a toast here, a photo there. Luke cracked another bad joke about impending fatherhood, and Chloe rolled her eyes with a smile tugging at her lips.

And around us, the Elevated Acre buzzed like a living thing—alive with light and laughter, pulsing with the rhythm of a city that never stopped. The towers loomed above us—tall, glittering, and utterly indifferent to my silent unraveling.

And then, over the loudspeakers, came the voice, "The countdown to midnight begins in sixty seconds!"

Cheers erupted across the terrace. People began gathering in tighter circles. Glasses clinked, and someone popped open another bottle of champagne.

I felt Jake's hand tighten around mine. I looked at him, and for the briefest, cruelest moment, I let myself drink him in.

His cheeks were flushed from the cold. His eyes sparkled under the lights, lit from within in that way they only did when he was truly happy.

My heart ached as the crowd chanted loudly, "Ten... nine... eight..."

The seconds crashed over me like waves.

"Seven... six... five..."

Jake reached up, brushing his thumb across my cheek. "Happy New Year, Em."

"Four... three... two... one..."

The sky exploded in color and sound. A thousand fireworks bloomed above the skyline in bursts of gold, silver, and electric blue. The crowd roared beneath them, voices rising like smoke into the night.

And then Jake kissed me. Not a soft, sweet kiss, but a deep, aching, consuming kiss. His hands cradled my face as mine tangled in his scarf, kissing him like I was drowning. Because I was.

The music shifted. I barely registered the first few notes—until they sank in.

Auld Lang Syne. The cruelest, most perfect song.

Should old acquaintance be forgot...

I squeezed my eyes shut against the fresh sting behind them. I wasn't ready. Not for goodbye. Not yet.

When Jake finally pulled back, breathless, he rested his forehead against mine. We stood there, frozen in the middle of the crowd, alone in a universe we had made for ourselves.

The band struck up the next song. Sinatra's voice slipped into the cold air, smooth and unmistakable.

Start spreading the news... I'm leaving today...

Jake grinned and extended his hand. "May I have this dance?"

I almost laughed, almost crumpled. Instead, I just slid my hand into his. "I thought you'd never ask."

He twirled me under the winter sky as we danced to New York, New York, surrounded by strangers and stars and shadows.

I let myself believe it was real... just for a little longer. But even as I smiled up at him, even as he whispered some ridiculous joke into my ear, I felt it.

The slow bleed.

Death by a thousand cuts.

That was what I was enduring.

And the sharpest of them all was knowing I would never have this again.