Chapter 1

Chloe

I always tell my clients to breathe in confidence and exhale doubt, but right now my own lungs feel constricted—like I'm the one who needs reassurance.

I lean forward in my tufted velvet chair, knees almost brushing the glass coffee table between me and my client, a rising pop star named Sienna who’s clutching her phone as if it’s a lifeline. Her eyes glisten with tears she refuses to let fall. I can see her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts.

“Sienna,” I say softly, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through pursed lips—hoping she’ll mimic my steady rhythm. “Tell me what you’re feeling right now. Not what your manager thinks you should feel, or what the tabloids say. Just you.”

She sniffles. “I feel...like I’m always disappointing everyone.”

I nod, guiding her with my gaze. “Are you disappointing them, or are they setting impossible standards?”

Her breath hitches, tears trembling on her lower lashes. “Both, maybe? My manager wants me to look like a Barbie doll. My label wants me to sound like the next big diva. My fans want me to be perfect all the time.” Her voice shakes as she glances at the wall of windows behind me, a sweeping view of the city skyline beyond my office. “But I’m just me.”

I keep my posture open, shoulders relaxed. “And that’s exactly who you’re allowed to be.”

She sets her phone down and rubs her palms against the smooth leather of the couch cushion. This is our fifth session together, and each time she’s walked in with a new swirl of anxieties, usually stoked by the ruthless entertainment industry. But now she’s lingering on something deeper: the terror of not being good enough.

I gesture toward a small bowl of worry stones on the side table. Each stone has an affirming word etched in gold script: worthy, brave, loved. “Pick one,” I suggest.

She eyes the stones, eventually selecting the one that reads worthy. She holds it tight, closes her eyes. “I am worthy,” she whispers.

“You are,” I confirm. “Deep breath now. Inhale for four, hold for two, exhale for four. Ready?”

She copies my slow, measured breath. Her shoulders drop fractionally. After a few moments of silent breathing, she opens her eyes. “I didn’t think a phrase as simple as ‘I am worthy’ could hit me so hard.”

“Words are powerful,” I say, letting my lips curve into the comforting smile I’ve perfected. My mother would call it my “soothing the world” face. “Especially when you believe them.”

Her phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up with a text. She glances at it, worry creeping back in. I reach out, gently pushing the phone face-down. “It won’t solve itself this second,” I remind her. “Your next single, your manager’s demands, the press—it’s a whirlwind. But in here, you can let all that go.”

She nods, tears finally slipping free. I press a box of tissues toward her. She dabs her eyes. “Thanks, Chloe.”

“Anytime,” I tell her. “You have my number if things get overwhelming. Until then, practice that mantra. I want you to whisper it every time self-doubt creeps in. Okay?”

She looks at me as though I’ve handed her a life jacket while she’s adrift at sea. “Yes. I promise.”

“Good,” I say with a gentle nod. “You’re not alone. And you definitely aren’t disappointing anyone when you choose to put yourself first.”

Another tear escapes, but this time her lips tremble into a small, hopeful smile. “Thank you, Chloe.”

I stand, pressing my hands to my pencil skirt to smooth out any wrinkles. “You’re welcome. Should we pick a date for our next session?”

Sienna gathers her purse. “Yes, absolutely.” She reaches for her phone again, flicking to her calendar app. “How about next Thursday at three?”

“Works for me.” I glance at my digital planner on the tablet next to me and confirm with a tap. “Done.”

She gives me a brief hug on her way out, and I watch her reflection in the mirrored elevator doors before they slide shut, whisking her away. Only after the doors close do I let my shoulders slump slightly. I place both hands on my hips and expel a breath that’s been locked in my chest for far too long.

The overhead lights catch on the acrylic desk nameplate perched on my table: Chloe Weston—Relationship Coach. In gold letters. Sleek. Sophisticated. No sign of the cracks beneath.

I walk to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks downtown. The mid-morning sun sparkles across steel and glass buildings, an architectural array that used to fill me with an electric sense of possibility. Now, sometimes it just feels like glare. I catch my reflection—brown eyes that people often call warm, high cheekbones, and the faint circle of a rose tattoo behind my right ear, hidden mostly by the tumble of my curls. When I was a teenager, I used to think that tiny rose made me a rebel. Now it’s a whisper from a past self who believed anything was possible.

I smooth a stray curl back, noticing the tension in my jaw. “Let it go,” I murmur, the same phrase I give to clients. My reflection looks unconvinced.

My phone dings—an email from my assistant, Layla. She’s reminding me of a midday media interview I agreed to do. Another chance to reestablish my brand, she’d said, especially after the very public meltdown with my former client-turned-boyfriend.

Ex-boyfriend.

I close my eyes for half a second, shaking off the memory of him. The paparazzi photos. The scathing gossip columns. The accusations that I leveraged my “professional relationship” to seduce a powerful celebrity. No matter that he was the one who chased me, or that it was consensual. Public perception stung like a nest of hornets. My carefully curated reputation—fragile as spun glass—took a beating I’m still recovering from.

No dating. I’d told myself that two months ago after the fiasco ended. No more relationships with clients, no more relationships at all, period. Never again do I mix business and pleasure. Or even strictly pleasure. My heart, battered and bruised, needs a hiatus.

I gather my thoughts and stride to my desk to wrap up a bit of paperwork from Sienna’s session. Before I settle into the ergonomic chair, I notice a small framed photograph beside my laptop. It’s me, a year ago, standing with that ex—he’s beaming, I’m teary-eyed, and we look dizzy in love. Or at least, I do. My stomach twists at the sight.

The photo doesn’t belong on my desk. Heck, I don’t even know why I haven’t thrown it away. Maybe it’s a reminder of a lesson learned. With a sigh, I open the drawer and place the frame face-down inside. “Goodbye, old mistakes,” I mutter. Focus forward.

I’m about to draft an email to Layla confirming the interview details when there’s a light rap on the door. “Chloe?” It’s Layla herself, poking her head in. She’s in her twenties, her bright purple hair framing her face in an artful bob, her eyes sparkling with relentless optimism. She’s wearing one of her signature graphic tees that reads Coffee is my soulmate.

“Come in,” I say, forcing a relaxed smile as I shut my laptop. “Everything okay?”

She steps inside, balancing a mug of matcha latte—the color swirling with a perfect foam swirl. “Brought you your favorite.”

“Thank you.” Gratefully, I accept the mug, inhaling the sweet, grassy scent. Layla’s pretty much the only one who knows how to make my drink exactly right—two scoops of matcha, a hint of vanilla, oat milk frothed until it’s velvety.

She sets down a stack of folders on the corner of my desk. “So, about that interview in two hours with Modern Coaching Insights—they emailed me a heads-up that it’ll be on camera. Just a short video snippet for their website, plus a written piece. I know you’re not thrilled about that angle after...everything.” Her eyes flick to the closed drawer where my ex’s photo now hides. “But I do think it’s a good idea to show people you’re still the Chloe they remember from before.”

I sip the latte, letting the warmth spread through me. “Yeah, I know.” My publicist recommended a handful of these small-time media spots to rebuild trust with potential clients. “I’ll do it.”

Layla lifts the top folder and hands it to me. “Some bullet points on possible questions. They might ask about your approach to coaching, your personal beliefs, maybe some ‘fun facts.’” She tries to sound casual, but I can tell she’s worried they’ll bring up the scandal. Everyone always does, eventually.

I swallow another sip of matcha. “I can handle it. Thanks for always looking out for me, Layla.”

She offers a bright grin. “That’s why you pay me the big bucks.” Her joke is light, but I know she values working here almost as much as I value her help. She gestures to the hallway. “I’ll be at my desk if you need me. Good luck.”

Once she leaves, the office is silent again, apart from the faint hum of air conditioning. I flip through the folder of notes. The first few lines look straightforward: How did you get started in relationship coaching? Why do you believe in love so strongly? The usual questions.

My gaze snags on the next line: How do you handle personal heartbreak while still coaching others about romance? My fingers tense around the paper. A bitter laugh escapes my throat. How do I handle it? By building a fortress around my heart, that’s how. By reading daily affirmations to keep me from falling into cynicism. By ignoring that small voice that says, Maybe it’s you who’s broken.

I set the folder aside. Another wave of exhaustion seeps in—more psychological than physical. This used to energize me: guiding people toward better, healthier relationships, analyzing the subtle intricacies of human connection. But today, each session, each interview, each conversation about love feels like hauling a weight up a steep hill.

My phone pings again, and this time it’s an Instagram DM from a prospective client, some wealthy fashion influencer who wants me to “revamp her brand” by staging a love life that looks authentic. I rub my nose, contemplating how often my career edges into territory that’s more image-focused than heartfelt. This is the world we live in: curated social media illusions passing for romance.

My mind flickers back to Sienna’s session. She’s the reason I keep going. There are still genuine souls out there—scared, scarred, or simply lost—who really do want meaningful connection. I want to help them. I need to believe that’s still possible.

Steeling myself, I walk to the mirrored side table where a small arrangement of pale pink roses sits—sent by a grateful client last week. The petals are starting to droop. Carefully, I pluck off a wilted leaf and toss it in the wastebasket. Kind of like me, I think wryly. Gotta prune the dead parts to keep growing. My mother used to say that about relationships, about habits, about negative thoughts—clip them away before they strangle what’s healthy.

Mom. I find myself wishing she were here to give me one of her wise pep talks but she has a life in our hometown and doesn’t want to stay indefinitely with me. She was never a big fan of me crossing boundaries with that celebrity client, but she supported me when everything came crashing down. You’re still you, Chloe, even when someone doesn’t appreciate your heart. Words I desperately needed to hear.

I brush off the melancholy and gather my materials for the interview. I tuck a notebook into my leather tote, along with a curated list of success stories—clients who triumphed in love and relationships with my guidance. I remind myself it’s true: I’m good at this. Even if my personal romantic life is a disaster, my methods are sound. Maybe I’m just the classic case of “physician, heal thyself.”

Before I can head out, I hear faint footsteps in the hallway. A voice calls out, “Miss Weston? I’m from Modern Coaching Insights.” The voice is masculine, with a crisp, professional tone. “I’m a few minutes early.”

I plaster on my public smile and step into the hallway. “That’s perfectly fine. I’m Chloe. Welcome.”

The interviewer, a slender man with stylish glasses and a tidy haircut, extends his hand. “Jared Smith. Thank you for taking the time.”

“Of course,” I say, guiding him into my office. He’s carrying a small camera bag, which he places near the coffee table. Probably planning a quick video segment. My stomach twists, but I keep my posture relaxed. “Where would you like to set up?”

He scans the space. “This sofa is great. Nice natural light.”

I settle onto the couch, crossing my legs in what I hope is a confident, open posture. He arranges his camera on a tripod, testing angles while I take another calming sip of matcha. Jared fiddles with the focus, then nods. “Perfect. We can jump right in, if you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” I lie smoothly, hearing my pulse pound in my ears.

He taps a red button on the camera. “We’re here with Chloe Weston, renowned relationship coach, to discuss her unique approach to guiding clients through life’s romantic twists. Chloe, thanks again for having me.”

I keep my voice measured, bright. “I’m delighted to share what I do.”

He grins, his professional veneer shining through. “Let’s start with the obvious: how did you get started in relationship coaching?”

I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees. “I was raised by a single mother who worked as a therapist. Growing up, I watched her help people navigate their emotions and conflicts. I realized that when it comes to romantic relationships, people often need an objective voice—someone who can hold space, offer tools, and empower them to find solutions. So, I studied psychology in college, then got certified in coaching, and from there, I built my boutique consultancy.”

His eyebrows lift, clearly approving. “And you’ve worked with some high-profile clients, right?”

I sense the question’s unspoken meaning. High-profile is a polite nod to the scandal that happened. Steeling myself, I nod. “Yes, I have. I believe love challenges everyone equally, famous or not. We all have insecurities, blind spots, and patterns we can learn to break.”

Jared scribbles in a notepad. “What would you say is your core philosophy?”

I pause for a breath, the muscle memory of my polished answers taking over. “Communication and empathy. No matter how grand or modest a person’s lifestyle, the key to a healthy relationship is honest communication and the willingness to see your partner’s perspective. Also, self-awareness is huge. You can’t forge genuine connections if you don’t understand yourself.”

He smiles. “That’s powerful. Now, many coaches focus on technique—like how to flirt or impress. You focus more on emotional underpinnings?”

“That’s right,” I confirm. “I believe if we’re only changing surface behavior, it won’t last. Real transformation happens when we heal the root issues—self-doubt, fear of abandonment, fear of vulnerability.”

Jared nods and glances at his notes. Here it comes—the personal question. I can see it in his eyes. “You’ve built quite a reputation, Chloe. But the media has also picked up on your own personal life. Some say your last very public breakup might have impacted your viewpoint on romance. How do you balance your own heartbreak with coaching others?”

I taste bitterness on my tongue, but I keep my face serene. “Heartbreak is something we all go through. I’m no exception. But it’s also a chance to learn. My experience reminded me that love isn’t about perfection—it’s about growth. My personal setback has only deepened my empathy for clients who feel lost or betrayed. I know the pain is real, but I also know it’s possible to rebuild.”

He nods, seemingly satisfied with that gentle deflection. He asks a few more questions—typical inquiries about the structure of my sessions, what a new client can expect, my thoughts on modern dating apps. I answer them smoothly, sprinkling in success stories that highlight my approach.

Finally, he switches off the camera. “Thank you, Chloe. That was great. I appreciate your candor.”

I release a slow breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Thank you as well. Tell me if you need any follow-up.”

“Will do,” he says, packing his gear. “We’ll post the interview snippet next week. I’ll send you the link.” He gives me a polite goodbye and steps into the hall. I hear Layla greeting him, offering him water, escorting him out. The studio-lights sense of performance lingers, even though the cameras are off.

I slump back against the cushions, draining the last of my lukewarm matcha. My pulse is still rattled. But the interview is done, and I think I survived without any major landmines. That’s a victory, right?

Layla reappears a minute later, a questioning look in her eyes. “All good?”

“Yeah,” I say, wiping my palms on my skirt. “He went gentle on me.”

She brightens. “Awesome. I’ll keep an eye out for the final edit.” Then she glances at her phone. “Hey, you have a break until your three o’clock. Want to grab lunch?”

My stomach rumbles at the idea of actual food. “I’d love that.”

We leave the office suite and ride the elevator down twelve floors to the lobby, greeted by the swirling foot traffic of professionals heading to lunch. The elevator dings open and we step out. Modern chandeliers dangle from the high ceiling, and natural light filters through massive glass doors. I sense a wave of relief to be out of the sterile environment of interviews and in the bustling, relatively anonymous crowd.

Outside, the sunshine warms my skin. Cars zip by, horns honk, and the constant hum of city life surrounds us. Layla and I weave through throngs of people in business attire to a small café across the street. The aroma of grilled paninis and fresh coffee wafts out, making my mouth water.

We slip into the line. Layla studies the chalkboard menu overhead. “I’m craving the turkey pesto sandwich. Extra pickles, always.” She grimaces. “But that means I’m definitely bringing gum back to the office.”

I smirk. “I’ll just stay an extra foot away during our next conversation.”

She elbows me playfully. “What about you?”

I scan the menu. “Think I’ll get a chicken Caesar wrap and maybe a green juice.” My comfort zone.

We order, find a small table by the window, and settle in. The midday sun lights up the café, making the polished wood floors gleam. Layla rests her chin on her hand, regarding me with curiosity. “So… you seemed a little tense today. Are you okay?”

I appreciate her concern, but I don’t want to dive too deep into my own baggage. She’s my assistant, not my therapist. Even so, she’s become a friend in the months we’ve worked together. “Just the usual,” I say, drumming my fingers on the table. “Interviews always remind me how the media can twist anything.”

She tilts her head, purple hair sliding across her cheek. “People will see what they want to see. But you’re doing your best.”

“My best sometimes feels insufficient,” I admit. “Especially when I’m telling clients to open their hearts, and I’ve all but put mine in lockdown. It’s ironic.”

Layla tucks her hair behind her ear. “Is it though? You said yourself heartbreak is universal. That includes you. If anything, it makes you more relatable to your clients.”

I nod, considering her words. “I guess. But right now, I’m just… done with the idea of love for me. Too messy. Too public. And if the media sees me on a date with anyone, it’ll become an explosion of rumors.”

She brushes invisible crumbs from the table. “Well, you deserve happiness, you know. When you’re ready.”

I muster a small smile. “Thanks.”

Our food arrives, and we shift the conversation to lighter topics—Layla’s rescue cat that keeps knocking over her potted plants, a new app that might streamline scheduling, the next marketing push I’m planning. My shoulders gradually unknot, and I actually enjoy the taste of my wrap, crisp lettuce, grilled chicken, tangy dressing.

After lunch, we head back to the office. The afternoon passes in a blur of paperwork, phone calls, and scheduling follow-ups with current clients. At some point, Layla intercepts me in the hallway to inform me that a certain Mr. Hastings, another high-end client, rescheduled for next week. Fine by me. I can use the time to catch up on the backlog of admin tasks.

When the clock strikes five, I stand and stretch, wincing as my lower back cracks. “Okay, I think that’s enough for one day.”

Layla peeks over her cubicle wall. “You heading out? You deserve some downtime.”

“I am.” I grab my tote and slip into a light cardigan. “Don’t stay too late, okay?”

She laughs. “I’ll be right behind you. Just finishing a spreadsheet.”

I wave goodbye, stepping out of the suite and into the elevator. The doors close, leaving me alone with my reflection in the polished interior. I stare at the faint circles under my eyes. The subtle tension lines around my mouth that I don’t remember having a year ago. My style is on point—white blouse, pencil skirt, a statement necklace—but I see the vulnerability beneath.

Stepping into the underground garage, I make my way to my car, a sleek sedan in a neutral gray. It’s a practical choice. Once inside, I rest my forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, letting out a ragged sigh. “You can do this,” I whisper, as if summoning energy from the air itself. “Today wasn’t so bad.”

I start the engine and drive home through the glistening city streets, passing neon signs and bustling sidewalks. My apartment building stands on a quieter block, lined with old trees that rustle in the evening breeze. The security guard at the front desk gives me a nod and a friendly smile. “Good evening, Ms. Weston.”

“Hi, Carl.” I wave, heading for the elevator. The ride up is silent, though my heart beats a little faster—anticipation or exhaustion, I can’t tell which.

I enter my apartment and flick on the lights. The familiar scent of vanilla and amber drifts toward me from a candle I left burning in the morning. Normally, I wouldn’t leave a candle lit, but these days I’ve been forgetful. I rush to snuff it out, hoping I won’t burn the place down one day in a haze of busyness.

My apartment is a reflection of who I want to be—calm, stylish, open. Cream-colored walls, plush rugs, a few statement pieces of modern art. It’s tidy, but I can’t ignore the stack of motivational books scattered on my coffee table or the half-unpacked box of personal items I brought from my old place months ago. The box is labeled Memories and Mistakes. I swallow. Haven’t had the nerve to open it yet.

Tossing my tote on the couch, I toe off my heels and wiggle my sore feet. I pull out my phone, check social media, see if there’s any pressing matter. My feed is a mix of empowerment quotes, pictures of me at events, and the occasional behind-the-scenes coaching snippet. I notice a private message from Sienna with a heart emoji and a simple Thank you for earlier—feeling better already. I smile, replying with a quick Proud of you. Keep breathing. That small connection warms me from the inside.

Then my gaze drifts to the unopened texts from a number I once saved under “DO NOT ANSWER.” My ex. He’s tried to apologize a few times. I haven’t mustered the will to read more than a couple lines. I click away, not wanting to revisit that emotional carnage.

Stifling a yawn, I pad into my bedroom. The mirrored closet doors reflect my silhouette. In the reflection, I see the rose tattoo behind my right ear—my hair is pinned up in a loose bun, revealing the ink. I used to love that tattoo. Now it feels like a small hint of how easily I can give pieces of myself away in the name of love. With a shake of my head, I change into a comfortable pair of leggings and an oversized T-shirt.

I turn on my bedside lamp, settling against a mound of pillows. My phone is still in my hand, though I’m done scrolling. The city lights dance outside my window. It’s not too late to have hope, I think, recalling the day’s sessions and interviews. Maybe I can still believe in love, just… not for me. Not right now.

My mother’s voice echoes in my mind: Sometimes we teach best what we need to learn most, honey. I let the thought sink in, resonating somewhere deep in my chest. She’s right, of course. She usually is.

But tonight, I’m too weary to pick at that truth any further. I set an alarm for an early yoga session—an effort to recenter. Then I close my eyes, letting the gentle hum of the air conditioner lull me. My last coherent thought is a whispered prayer that tomorrow I’ll feel a little stronger, a little more whole. Because if I’m going to keep guiding others toward love, I have to find some way to rekindle it within myself first.

For now, though, I let the darkness of sleep claim me, my vow of no dating a silent promise hovering in the air. I choose to believe the promise will help me heal, not fence me in. And maybe someday—I’ll open that box of memories and mistakes and let them go for good.