Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
My nude Christian Louboutin pumps strike the pavement in a rhythmic click-clack as I dart across a bustling Manhattan crosswalk. The late-afternoon sun glints off the skyscrapers above, bathing the streets in a golden glow that dances across windshields and windows. Warm spring air swirls around me, lifting the hem of my peach Chanel sundress and teasing the ends of my honey-blonde hair as it brushes against my bare shoulder blades.
There's a buoyancy in my step that no gridlock or impatient cabbie could shake. Yellow taxis swarm like bees in every direction, horns blaring as they jostle for space on the congested avenue. Their glossy exteriors flash in the sun, illuminating the streets in streaks of gold. A bus thunders past, kicking up a gritty gust of hot exhaust that mixes with the metallic scent of the city.
Sidewalk vendors bark over each other, hawking knockoff Gucci sunglasses and imitation Birkins from folding tables, the pungent smell of street pretzels and hot dog carts lingering in the air. Tourists shuffle by with wide eyes, clogging the sidewalks with oversized maps and iced coffees. Normally, the chaos would grate on my nerves—the endless stop-and-go traffic, the infuriating fact that it takes nearly an hour and seventy-five dollars to move two measly miles—but not today.
Today, I got the kind of news every journalism intern dreams of.
A grin tugs at my lips as I climb the steps of my Upper East Side brownstone, the wrought-iron railing warm beneath my palm. The brick facade glows softly in the sun, ivy trailing around the edges of the high windows like something out of a Sex and the City episode. As I slide my key into the lock and punch in the security code, a wave of giddy anticipation bubbles up in my chest.
Tonight, I celebrate—and I need the perfect Manhattan restaurant to do it justice.
"Hey babe! I'm home early!" I call out. I can't stop smiling as I step out of my heels and drop my keys onto the cherrywood end table in the spacious foyer. "Will! You here? I have news!"
"Shit!" I hear a voice hiss from upstairs.
My smile drops and the thrill in my chest curdles into fear the moment a sharp thud echoes from the stairwell, followed by the unmistakable crash of something heavy hitting the floor. The sound ricochets off the high ceilings, reverberating through the walls like a warning.
I freeze.
My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and throat, shallow and useless. Every hair on my body stands on end as I scan the room in frantic, jerky motions—eyes wide, heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else. I don't know what I'm looking for. Worse, I don't know what I'll do if I actually find it.
Will and I live in a safe neighborhood, and invested in a top-notch security system, but this is New York. Safe is never safe enough, and no motion sensor or glass-break alarm can stop the icy dread snaking its way through my spine.
"He... hello?" I call out, shakily. "Will, is that you?"
