The blue light from my phone was the only thing awake in the apartment when I opened my eyes on my twenty-eighth birthday. No buzzing nightstand. No missed calls. No...
The room smelled like champagne, peonies, and money, and my mother-in-law chose that exact moment to lean toward me and murmur, “I hope you fall flat in front of every...
The first thing I saw was my own reflection sliding over the black glass of Merrick Tower—sharp shoulders, navy wool, San Diego sunlight cutting a blade of gold across the...
The phone didn’t just light up—it detonated. In the dark silence of my bedroom, the screen flared against the nightstand like a distress signal, the kind you don’t ignore unless...
The first thing I remember is the sound of glass. Not breaking—just the faint, trembling clink of crystal against crystal, the kind that carries in the air when a room...
The first thing I heard was the clink of crystal against crystal, the kind of bright, expensive sound that only happens high above Manhattan, where the skyline glows like money...
The phone rang while I was standing barefoot on my terrace, watering orchids that had already begun to wilt in the thick Houston heat. It was one of those September...
The cream envelope was thick enough to feel expensive. It sat alone on my kitchen table in the late afternoon light, heavy with gold foil and the faint scent of...
The rain hit the front windows like handfuls of gravel the moment my son pointed at the door and told me to get out of my own house. He didn’t...
The ring was already on the table before I ever reached the chair. It sat beside Jason’s untouched cappuccino in a small black velvet box, the lid folded open like...