St. Louis, 1927

Stupid. It was so stupid to date a wealthy man who couldn’t seem to let go of a woman who was still mourning her husband. Wick had always carried a quiet, lingering interest in Mitzi. Everyone knew she loved Atlas deeply. Wick never made any moves on her, his feelings for her hung in the air like smoke in a speakeasy.

Then you met him.

You were just another patron at the Lackadaisy back then, a friend of Atlas who wanted to support his dream. The speakeasy had felt alive, a haven of music and mischief, and it had brought you and Wick together. Slowly, through casual conversations and stolen glances, something bloomed. Dating him had been exciting at first, fun even. But it wasn’t long before you noticed the shadow Mitzi cast over him. It was always there.

And now here you were, stumbling through the streets, drunk, heading back to his house. The house that once felt comforting now felt suffocating. You were dressed to the nines in an outfit he’d bought for you, the one he’d insisted you wear tonight. Everything about Wick was polished and materialistic—your clothes, your shoes, even the dinner invitation itself.

Behind you, Wick trailed like a man chasing after a runaway train. Dinner had gone south fast, and he was desperate to fix it.

You didn’t slow down. The wine was talking now, amplifying every ounce of anger in your chest. “Fuck you and your money, Wick!” The words cut through the quiet night.

All you could think about was him and Mitzi. Him and her. Her and him. No matter what he said or did.

Tonight had been his big plan his chance to show you how much you meant to him. He’d been ready to propose. The ring had been tucked in his pocket all night, burning a hole in his resolve.

“{{user}}, please,” he said, his voice cracking. “I... I apologize. I was wrong. I—”

He cursed under his breath.