I spent the whole night chugging coffee at Starbucks with Maya, almost missing the early flight to JFK.

I rushed back to the walk-up apartment in Chinatown to grab my luggage.

Key turned. Door opened.

Standing in the middle of the living room was Harper Kensington.

She was wearing nothing but an oversized white Ralph Lauren oxford shirt—Julian’s favorite.

The hem barely covered her thighs, exposing her long legs.

Her blonde hair was wet and draped over her shoulders. The classic "morning after" look.

Seeing me, she raised an eyebrow. Her eyes were full of that old-money arrogance and feigned innocence.

"Oh, Layla? What are you doing here?"

She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, as if she were the lady of the house.

"Sorry, I heard the door and thought my DoorDash was here..."

Mistaking the official girlfriend for the delivery driver? That "micro-aggression" was top tier.

I wasn't in the mood to play Gossip Girl with her.

"Save it, Harper."

I looked at her coldly.

"Unless you've officially put your name on the lease, you have no right to ask why I'm here."

I shouldered past her—a genuine, hard shove—and walked straight in.

I grabbed my pre-packed suitcase and turned to leave.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the half-open bedroom door.

Julian was still sleeping. The sheet had slipped to his waist, revealing his lean back.

And on the nightstand stood two empty wine bottles—Château Margaux 2015.

My heart seized painfully.

That wine cost $600 a bottle. It was his birthday gift, bought with money I saved by drinking instant coffee for two weeks.

He had kissed me then, saying, "This bottle is too precious, babe. Let's save it for a special moment."

Turns out, celebrating kicking me out and welcoming the heiress was his "special moment."

In that instant, the last remaining trace of attachment evaporated like the wine stains at the bottom of the bottle.

Ten minutes later, the Uber driver threw my suitcase into the trunk.

The car merged onto the FDR Drive. In the rearview mirror, the world-famous Manhattan skyline was retreating.

The Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building... those steel beasts we once pointed at from rooftops now looked so indifferent.

I pulled down my silk eye mask, blocking out the city's final lights.

In my mind, there were no more expensive wines or fake vows.

Just the old kitchen in a small town near Napa, and the beef barley soup Grandpa had simmered in a cast-iron pot all afternoon.

Rich, hot, real.

That was where I belonged.