Sitting in the lobby of my therapist’s office, I stared quietly at a black card. It shimmered faintly in the light, golden embossments gleaming across its surface, proudly displaying the name—Harold Washington. This wasn’t your everyday invitation. It had a luxurious texture, the kind that felt expensive between your fingers—like the business cards my family once used. As far as I could remember, printing cards of this quality cost a fortune.

But this wasn’t a business card. It was something else entirely.

It was an invitation.

Why spend so much money on a single-use card? I wondered, turning it over slowly in my hand. And why give it to me? Who exactly is Harold Washington?

A soft smile tugged at the corners of my lips as memories of the night before began to surface. I could still feel the way he held me, the comfort of his arms, the calm his voice brought. The image of his smile was wedged firmly in my head—like a stubborn piece of gum stuck under a school desk.

Annoying. But for some strange, unreasonable reason—I loved it.

—

~Last Night~

“You asked me to tell you about my past,” I said as Harold and I walked slowly through my front yard. The night air was cool, the silence between us filled with meaning. Our evening was drawing to a close, and we were nearing that moment where words ran out and parting felt inevitable. “Now that you know about me, I want to know about you. What’s Harold’s story?”

I stopped just a few steps from my front door and turned to face him, my expression curious, maybe a little guarded. “Why is Harold looking for love?”

“Firstly,” he said with a crooked smile, “my past isn’t exactly all peaches and rainbows either.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief; the kind that told me he knew I’d already fallen halfway for him. It wasn’t arrogant—just confident. Innocent, even. But there was danger beneath it, the kind of danger you don’t want to resist.

“People look at me and assume I’ve had everything handed to me,” he said, placing a gentle palm on the door behind me and leaning in slightly. “They think I grew up with gold-lined walls and an easy life. But the truth? My story is much darker than it looks.”

I stepped back instinctively, refusing to break eye contact until my back hit the door. I wasn’t ready for this—whatever this was. I hadn’t even fully processed my trauma after four long years, and now…

“Whatever your story is,” I whispered, “I’m willing to hear it. I’ll share your pain, like you’ve shared mine. It’s the least I can do.”

Harold’s smile faded slowly, replaced by something deeper, more serious. He could see the uncertainty in my eyes. And unlike most people, he didn’t flinch from it.

Without a word, he took a step back, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the black card. Under the soft light of the moon, it almost looked metallic. Its golden letters gleamed with a regal kind of elegance. I couldn’t quite make out the text—he moved it too quickly.

“Secondly,” he said, “remember I mentioned someone important from my company just returned?”

“Yes?” I replied, narrowing my eyes.

“In two nights, we’re throwing a welcome party for him. It’ll be huge. My family will be there, his family too. And honestly, so many other powerful families.” He paused. “But the thing is—my mother insists I show up with a date.”

“A date?” I echoed, my lips twitching into a grin. “If you’re asking me… I don’t know. I’ve had more than enough human interaction lately.”

“You don’t have to say yes now.” His voice was calm, careful. “You’ve got two days to decide.”

Without warning, he gently took my right hand and placed the card into it. His fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary.

“I…” I hesitated, looking down at the card again. It was beautiful—shiny, detailed, and clearly handcrafted. “We barely know each other. Are you sure you want this?”

Harold stepped forward again, closing the distance between us. His voice dropped, quiet and tender. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my entire life,” he said.

My breath caught. My heart picked up speed, and my thoughts tangled into knots. “This is also your chance,” he continued, “to see who I really am.”

I exhaled shakily; cheeks warm. “Fine. I’ll text you when I’ve made up my mind. Tomorrow, before the day ends. I won’t leave you waiting.”

“Alright then,” he said softly, though there was the faintest trace of disappointment in his voice. He stepped back, composed himself, and then—like a prince from a fairy tale—placed his hand on his chest and bowed.

“Have a wonderful night, Miss Angel. I hope I get the chance to spend more time with you like this.”

As he rose, I let out a breathy laugh and opened my front door. He chuckled, too. For a long, strange second, we just looked at each other—like we were afraid this moment might be our last.

Then the sharp honk of a taxi broke the silence.

“Go on,” I urged him gently. “He’s waiting for you.”

Harold smiled and turned toward the car.

I stood there for a while, just watching him walk away. There was something in my chest, something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. Something wild and terrifying and beautiful.

What is this feeling? I asked myself. Why does it feel like… love?

The last time I felt this way was the day I married Richard. That swelling of the heart, that flutter in the gut, that impossible hope that everything might actually be okay.

I had forgotten how powerful love could be.

Tears welled up in my eyes as the taxi drove off into the night. My heart felt heavy—but not with sadness. No, I was overwhelmed by joy. Real, unfiltered joy.

And that scared me more than anything.

—

Present

“The doctor will see you now, Miss Angel.”

The voice pulled me out of my thoughts. A young woman stood in front of me, clipboard in hand, her tone polite but efficient.

“Oh. Thank you,” I said, snapping back to reality.

I slipped the card back into my bag, rose to my feet, and followed her through the doors into the therapist’s office—my heart still quietly echoing with the memory of last night.

Stepping into Christine’s office felt different today.

Ever since I started my sessions with her, it had always felt like I was doing it just so the world would see I was trying—trying to be better, trying not to wither away like a flower in the snow. Like I was proving something to the people around me, not necessarily to myself.

But today felt different. Today, I wanted to be here. It felt like I’d made real progress, and for once, I genuinely wanted to share the good news with Christine. I wanted to hear her tell me she was proud. I wanted someone to celebrate this with me. It was like I was finally seeing her as more than just my therapist. Like I trusted her.

The door clicked shut behind me, and the sound made me turn to glance at it—as if confirming that I’d left the noise of the outside world behind.

“You look a little different today, Angel,” Christine’s voice called gently. I turned back toward her, already smiling. She rose from her seat, a bright grin spreading across her face. Locks of blond hair were tied back in a ponytail, with a few strands falling loosely across her shoulders and over her crisp white shirt.

Honestly, I never thought I’d be this happy to see her face. But in this moment, it felt like home.

“Different? How do you mean?” I asked, my smile widening.

Christine walked around her desk and sat on it, folding her arms across her chest with an amused glint in her eyes. “I don’t know—you seem… lighter. Happier,” she said softly, her eyes searching mine. “What happened?”

“I…” I started, letting out a soft, airy laugh. I walked over to the cushion in front of her desk and lowered myself onto it. “I followed your advice. You told me not to miss this opportunity… to give Harold another chance. You told me to open up to him,” I said, looking directly at her.

Then my gaze dropped to my nervously interlaced fingers, and I continued in a quiet voice, “I did.”

“Oh? And how did that go?” Christine asked, leaning in slightly, her tone a mixture of curiosity and encouragement.

I looked up at her again. “Well… I don’t hate it. It’s just… am I ready for another relationship?”

“What do you mean?” Christine asked, her brow creasing.

I hesitated, then spoke slowly. “I mean, he’s a great guy. He’s kind, he’s thoughtful, and—Goddamn it—he’s hot.” Christine chuckled, covering her mouth with one hand. “But… what if he turns out like Richard? I can’t risk putting myself in that kind of danger again. And honestly, I’m not even sure I’m ready for something romantic right now.”

I paused, my voice lowering again. “Last night, he tried to kiss me. Or at least… it looked like he was going to. And I panicked. I pulled away. I still get scared.”

My eyes dropped again. “I may have forgotten a lot of what Richard did to me four years ago, but the feelings—the fear, the pain, the hatred—they’re still there. Sometimes they come out of nowhere and grab my chest like a vice. How can I make Harold happy if I’m still afraid to trust him… afraid to fall too deep?”

Christine watched me in silence for a few seconds. Then she smiled softly and pulled the visitor’s chair closer to mine, sitting down beside me. She reached out and took my hands in hers—warm, firm, and grounding.

“Angel,” she said gently, her voice no longer clinical, but full of quiet strength. “No one said you had to fall head over heels right now. You just met the guy. Love—real love—grows slowly. It deepens over time. And if he really cares about you, even a little, he’ll wait. He’ll support you. He’ll make sure you feel safe.”

Her words weren’t hollow. They were deliberate. Heartfelt. This wasn’t the professional guidance of a licensed therapist. This was someone who had seen people hurt and wanted to make sure I didn’t have to bleed again.

Maybe that knot of hatred I’d carried for so long had finally started to loosen. Maybe I was finally making space for something new.

“You opened up to him, and now look at you. You’re lighter. Your shoulders are more relaxed. You’re smiling,” she continued. “That’s not nothing. That’s healing. Go on a few more dates. Let yourself see him. Get to know who he really is. And maybe… just maybe, you’ll realize he’s nothing like that monster.”

I smiled at her, the tension in my chest easing just a little.

“So… when’s your next date?” she asked, teasing now.

“Well… um, he invited me to a party his company is throwing. His whole family will be there, and apparently his mother insists he bring a date,” I said, biting my lip.

Christine’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh! And when’s this party?”

“The night after tomorrow.”

“What?!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here? You should be preparing!”

That was the moment it clicked—we weren’t having a professional session anymore. This was just two women talking. Two women letting their guards down.

“You think I should go? Isn’t it too soon to meet his family?” I asked, my voice uncertain.

“No,” Christine said with a thoughtful nod. “If anything, the sooner the better. You’ll get to see what kind of people they are—if they’re the kind of people you want to be involved with long-term.”

“Right…” I murmured, processing her words. Then I looked back up at her quickly. “You’re right. I need to find a dress!”

I started rummaging through my bag, already making mental checklists.

“I’ll come with you,” Christine said, rising from her seat with a spark in her eyes. “I know the perfect boutique.”

“Don’t you have work to do here?” I asked.

“Oh, there are tons of doctors in this building. And I don’t have any more sessions today, so I’m free,” she replied with a carefree shrug.

“Okay,” I said, grinning as she walked to her desk, picked up her handbag, and came back around.

“Let’s go,” she said, smiling as she exhaled.

I watched her as we headed toward the door, my lips curling into a quiet smile. “Are you sure?” I asked, just to make sure she hadn’t lost her mind.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I was planning to head there later anyway, so…”

She pushed open the door, and we stepped out together, side by side.

****

‘Hey, Harold.’

The clicking sound of my phone’s digital keyboard was one of the many oddly satisfying things in my life. It was calming… in a strange, repetitive way.

Sometimes—especially over the past four years—during my breakdowns, that steady, rhythmic tapping from the keyboard while texting my therapist had been enough to settle me. It brought me back from the edge. Just enough to keep me from breaking things.

I guess you could say it was my version of ‘nail biting’ or ‘pen chewing.’

‘Hi, Angel.’

My eyes lit up. Harold had replied. I’d hoped he would, but a part of me had feared he wouldn’t—it was working hours, after all.

‘How’s… work?’ I typed, hoping I wasn’t interrupting something important.

‘Work… is… boring as fuck.’ I chuckled. ‘What about you? How’s fixing broken people going today?’

‘Actually, I’m not at the hospital. I’m… with my therapist,’ I responded.

‘Oh. Well, should you be texting during a therapy session or… are you not in a therapy session?’

‘Actually, I needed to get a few things, and she decided to come with me.’

‘Hmm. Friendly person, isn’t she?’ Then: ‘How are you?’

I smiled. ‘I’m okay. I wanted to tell you something.’

‘I’m all ears… fingers… eyes. You know what I mean.’

Another laugh escaped me, and I tried to be quiet about it.

‘It’s about your company’s party. My answer is yes.’ I bit my lower lip, waiting for his reply.

The three dots on the screen bounced up and down, then disappeared. Then they came back. Then vanished again. Over and over. It was like watching someone hesitate in real time—and it was driving me insane. I wanted to throw my phone at the floor.

Finally, his reply popped up:

‘I don’t know what to say. This is great.’ And then: ‘I’ll send a cab to pick you up.’

‘Alright. Thanks. Umm… I’ll text you again later. I have to go,’ I typed.

‘Alright. Have a nice day, Miss Angel.’

I smiled, heartwarming as I imagined the grin on his face. Just the thought of him made something flutter inside me. This man was amazing, and I couldn’t wait to see him again.

“Angel, are you going to come out of that booth anytime soon?” Christine’s voice called out from outside. She sounded a little impatient. Fair, considering I’d been inside for over twenty minutes pretending to try on a dress.

“Coming!” I yelled back, getting off the stool and rushing toward the curtain.

I stepped into the brighter lights of the dressing room, revealing the golden yellow ball gown I had on.

The dress was sleeveless, starting just below the collarbone and falling down in structured elegance. Translucent flowery embellishments lined the seams, sparkling under the white lights like they’d been dusted with diamond powder. It fit tightly around my torso, then exploded into a voluminous skirt made of layered fabrics—some sheer, some opaque.

“Oh my God, you look so beautiful,” Christine gasped, her eyes wide and teary as she placed her palms over her mouth. Whether it was nostalgia or just the stunning craftsmanship, she was clearly moved.

“No. I look like a Disney princess,” I replied flatly, glaring at my reflection. “And I hate it.”

“What do you mean? You look fabulous,” said the young stylist, stepping closer.

Right now, I couldn’t care less what she thought. I had already explained what kind of party I was attending, and this was what she brought me? It didn’t say much for her expertise.

“It’s too big. I can barely move. The color is too loud. How am I supposed to fit this gown into a cab? And this is a company party, not a kid’s birthday,” I said with an edge to my voice.

“But the dress looks so cute,” Christine said, still smiling.

“You can have it if you want it, Christine. I’ll get it for you,” I muttered as the stylist came forward and began undoing the dress.

“What? No, I… I can’t possibly,” Christine said, modestly stepping back.

“I insist,” I said, softening. “You’ve been such a good friend to me since the day we met. I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner, but I do now. And I want to do something nice for you—for once.”

Christine’s eyes grew glassy again as she stared at me. “Thank you,” she whispered, fighting tears.

Christine had always seemed so composed in her office. She wore this serene, caring expression like a permanent mask, probably from years of being a therapist. But today, I got to see a different side of her. A softer, more… feminine side. A real person underneath the professional polish.

I sighed. “Four hours and we still haven’t found the right dress,” I said, worried. The sun was already starting to dip.

“This place has never failed me before,” Christine replied. “Maybe your tastes are just a little more high-end than most, given your background.”

“Hmm,” I hummed, slipping back into my own dress.

“There’s one more option,” the stylist spoke up again, desperate. “It’s… really expensive, so nobody ever buys it. But I think it might be exactly what you’re looking for.”

“No, don’t bother,” I said coldly. “We’ll just try another boutique.”

“No, no, no,” Christine said, suddenly rushing toward me and placing her hands on my shoulders. “Wait. Let’s at least see what she’s talking about. Please?”

She turned to the stylist. “Go get it.”

The stylist rushed out, and I turned to Christine with a sigh.

“You should be a little more patient with her,” she whispered. “She’s just an apprentice. If she doesn’t make this sale, her boss might really come down hard on her.”

I let out a deep breath. “Fine. We’ll check it out. If it’s not good enough, we leave.”

Christine smiled—one of those genuine, reward-you-for-being-decent smiles. It made something in me settle. I didn’t mind earning that smile.

About five minutes later, the stylist returned, wheeling in a mannequin draped in a dress that made my breath hitch.

My eyes widened. I furrowed my brows in shock.

“Umm… do you like it, Miss Angel?” The stylist asked, practically glowing as she stood beside the plastic mannequin.

I didn’t answer her directly. My feet carried me toward it, drawn like a moth to a flame.

“Well,” I said, tilting my head and examining the intricate design, “it’s a good thing I didn’t give away all of Richard’s divorce money.”

One night later, I found myself in front of a mirror, committing atrocities I once swore I’d never return to.

“I hope I’ve done this right,” I muttered, applying a layer of red lip gloss and smacking my lips twice. It had been ages since I used this much makeup on this face. A touch of eyeliner, some skin-tone enhancements, a swirl of blush—and somehow, I already looked like someone else entirely. As though I’d undergone a face transplant.

I mean… what’s the difference between this and wearing a mask?

“I hope Harold can still recognize me under all this makeup,” I whispered, exhaling deeply as I stared into the mirror. Ever since the fire that freed me from my previous marriage, I’d hidden from the world. I prayed I would slowly fade out of existence, drowning in shame and regret until I finally gathered the courage to end my life.

Now, I’m beyond grateful that never happened. I’m glad I went to those therapy sessions, even though they were annoying, exhausting, and emotionally draining. I’m glad I met Harold. For the first time in four years, I could feel my life taking a good turn.

“I sure hope I don’t fuck this up,” I breathed, smoothing the fabric of my gown.

Just as I stepped out of the bathroom, the doorbell rang—the cab driver was here.

“Gimme a second!” I called out, walking quickly around the living room to turn off the lights.

The TV was still on. The generic tone of the anchorwoman’s voice grated on me—the emotionless, dry delivery made her sound robotic.

“Former CEO of the largest pharmaceutical company in New York City, Medi-Tech, billionaire Richard Angelo was released on bail just three days ago. He’s already preparing a big comeback, reportedly reassuming his position at the company,” she announced.

I gulped, heart stuttering as I watched footage of him being escorted into a helicopter. That smug expression on his face made my headache creep in.

“I know my recent case has caused many of our loyal supporters to lose their faith in our company and its… credibility,” Richard began, standing at a podium before a crowd of journalists and supporters. “But I assure you, what happened between me and my ex-wife was a complete misunderstanding. She made her accusations, hired lawyers to lie on her behalf, and took a small bite out of my wealth—but that’s all.”

My breathing grew shallow. My eyes locked on the screen, on his face—that grin I used to dread.

“Despite it all, I’m here today, stronger than ever. Proud to say justice has found its way to my doorstep. And she—she’s nothing but an oil stain in my legacy that time will erase. No one will remember her. But she will remember the name Richard Angelo for as long as she liv—”

I turned off the TV before he could finish.

I backed away, collapsed onto the couch, gasping. My eyes widened in horror as all the memories I thought I’d buried came flooding back. His voice. His hands. That house. That fire.

I clutched the sides of my head, tears welling in my eyes, pressing hard as if I could physically force the memories away. I gritted my teeth in pain, every nerve in my body screaming.

I opened my mouth to scream.

The doorbell rang again.

“Lady Angel? Are you in there?” The driver’s voice yanked me back into reality.

I had a party to attend.

I grabbed my purse, straightened my dress, and hurried toward the door. I flicked off the lights and pulled the door open.

The driver stood there with a smile. He wore a sharp suit—elegant enough for the event himself.

“I’m… so sorry for the delay,” I stammered. “I—”

My words stopped short as I caught sight of the vehicle parked outside.

A long black limo, its golden stripes gleaming in the fading sunlight. Golden rims, tinted windows that shimmered like crystal. Neighbors passing by slowed to gawk, their curiosity obvious.

“Umm… this must be a mistake,” I said, confused. “Harold said he’d send a cab. Like… a regular taxi.”

“You were invited by Lord Harold to the Washington Hall event in Brooklyn, correct?” The driver asked.

“Well… yes. I mean, I don’t know about Lord Harold,” I said, emphasizing the title with skepticism.

“Let’s go, Miss Angel. Lord Harold is waiting for you. We have no time to waste,” the driver said with calm authority, already turning back toward the limo.

I followed, my heels clicking against the pavement. Each step felt heavier than the last.

He opened the door for me, and I stepped inside.

The interior of the limo glowed red—walls, cushions, even the light fixtures. Everything was lush, luxurious, seductive. A small wine bar, low jazz humming through the speakers, velvet seats soft enough to drown in. The lights shifted colors every few minutes—red to blue, then yellow. I counted. I had nothing else to do.

Outside the window, the streets rolled past: traffic, neon signs, strangers going about their lives. My stomach twisted into knots. I was about to meet Harold’s family, and I’d known him for less than a week.

What if they hate me? What if I ruin everything?

Just then, my phone buzzed. A message from Harold.

“Are you on your way?”

I replied: “Yeah. Left the house about 10 minutes ago.”

The typing bubbles appeared almost immediately.

“Great. I was afraid you’d change your mind. Thanks for not changing your mind.”

I smiled softly.

—

We arrived at Washington Hall twenty minutes later. The sun had vanished completely, and the moon hung high in the navy sky.

The limo pulled up amid a parade of luxury cars. I couldn’t stop staring. My stomach was a tangled knot of nerves.

The driver stepped out and opened the door for me. I took his hand and stepped out into the cool night air.

The entrance was guarded by a wall of towering men in black suits. As we approached, they blocked our path.

“Your invitation,” one said firmly.

“Umm…” I fumbled in my purse, heart racing. “Oh!” I pulled out the black card Harold gave me.

They inspected it, nodded, and stepped aside.

We climbed a grand flight of stairs, my heart thudding with every step. At the top, just beyond the entrance—

Harold stood, waiting.

And for the first time all evening, my lips curled into a warm smile.