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...
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Yesterday morning I woke up to another panic attack. I did the exercises Greyson taught me, and once I got through it, the fear turned to anger – at Will for hurting me again, at myself for letting him.
All morning I hovered over his contact, debating whether to call. But would it change anything? Hearing my voice wouldn't soften him. If anything, it would only feed his ego.
Greyson was right. What kind of man cheats with his assistant, throws his wife out, moves the mistress in, files for divorce without a word, then cuts her off financially with a text? After seven years of a relationship, wasn't I at least worth a conversation?
In the end, I didn't call. I knew I'd be doing it out of heartbreak and anger, chasing empathy I'll never get. He would've been cold, said something cruel, and I'd be left gutted all over again. Meanwhile, nothing would change—he'd still be rich in New York with Chelsea, and I'd still be broke and alone in North Carolina.
I don't want to be that person anymore—the one who lets him break me. I want to be the version of myself that's light, positive, not the one drowning in a black cloud. To do that, I have to let go of all of it—the relationship, the good memories, the betrayal, the blame, the heartbreak, the anger. Especially the anger. Holding onto it only poisons me, not him.
So instead of festering, I forced myself to be productive. Greyson's encouragement gave me strength, but daylight didn't change the truth: I need a plan. And I have to figure it out on my own.
First, I had to figure out health insurance—because apparently it's the law. No minimum wage job is going to cover me, so unless The South Grove Post suddenly needs a fashion columnist, I'm stuck.
I need a real job. One that pays more than a check I dread opening. And while I'm grateful to the Montessori School for letting me help my mom this summer—it gave me money, purpose, and a few hours of quiet in my head—the truth is, I won't last. Some parents have already questioned my qualifications, and I know my time there is limited.
So I weighed my options. Jocelyn's boutique, where I worked in high school, could be a backup. If Amelia still owns it, maybe she'd hire me again. But as much as I loved that job, I don't want to just clock in and out. I want to use the degrees I fought for, build experience that actually means something on a résumé.
So I apply to the local papers—The South Grove Post, The Daily Times, Grove Town Talk. With a journalism degree, I could at least justify it, maybe even pitch my own fashion column. God knows this town could use one. And honestly? I don't care if I'm stuck reporting bingo results from the community center on Thursday nights. At least I'd be writing.
While I send out résumés, I keep reminding myself of the bigger picture. The dream is Vogue. Always has been. But that means New York or L.A., and the thought of going back to New York makes my stomach twist. Sure, Nico and Sloane are there, and I love the city, but do I really want to go back? Do I want to risk bumping into Will and Chelsea? There may be eight and a half million people in Manhattan, but with my luck, I'd see them on every corner.
