Chapter 1

Monica

I have never been so sure a ring is about to appear as I am tonight. My heart is drumming a joyful, nervous beat inside my chest; my palms are clammy with anticipation. The hostess at La Fleur—a French place so fancy the server doesn’t ask if you want still or sparkling water, they just pour from a bejeweled bottle—ushered us to a secluded corner table complete with soft candlelight and a single rose in the center. If that isn’t a sign of impending engagement, I don’t have any idea what is.

Sebastian is seated across from me, smoothing the lapel of his tailored blazer. His sandy-brown hair is combed to perfection, and there’s that determined set to his jaw I’ve come to recognize whenever he wants to discuss something Important and Relationship-Defining. He insisted on this reservation two weeks ago, saying, “It’ll be a night to remember.” My stomach is churning with equal parts excitement and anxiety.

I’m thirty-one years old, a practicing therapist with a color-coded calendar and, apparently, a fairly predictable life routine. Still, tonight feels special. I can practically see the ring glinting in his breast pocket, hear the triumphant violins in my mind as he drops to one knee.

“Monica,” Sebastian says, setting aside his menu. “We need to talk.”

Here it comes. “Yes?” I reply, hoping I don’t sound too breathless.

He exhales, picking up his glass of water—no wine for him tonight. Another sign. Probably wants to keep a clear head for the proposal. “We’ve been together three years, and I’ve been doing some soul-searching.”

“Oh?” I do my best to sound calmly intrigued, even though I can feel my chest tightening with anticipation.

He nods, swirling his water in a manner that looks far too serious for someone about to pop a question. “These past few months, I’ve been focusing on my personal growth. My…evolution, if you will.”

My grin falters just a little. “Your evolution?”

“Yes, exactly.” He sets the glass down with a measured sigh. “And in that process, I realized something about us. Or rather, about our dynamic.”

I lean forward. “Our dynamic?”

He clears his throat, glancing around to make sure the other diners aren’t listening. “I feel stagnant, Monica. I feel like I’m missing something vital—some flavor of life. Because you’re so…safe. Predictable, even. And I’m sorry to say, that’s not what I need anymore.”

“Wait, what?” My forehead creases. This is definitely not how an engagement speech goes.

Sebastian folds his hands together, his voice turning patronizingly calm. “Listen, I’ve always appreciated your emotional intelligence, your grounded presence—truly. But in the last few months, I realized I crave more…adventure in my partner. More spice, if you will.”

I blink, unsure I’m hearing him correctly. “Spice? Are you talking about me like I’m a marinade?”

He presses on, ignoring my confusion. “I’m not blaming you. You’re wonderful. But you’re also very—how do I put this?—vanilla. And that’s not a bad thing, per se. Some people love vanilla. It’s dependable, classic—”

My stomach drops. I can’t believe he’s giving me a culinary metaphor for our relationship. “Sebastian, are you breaking up with me because I’m…too vanilla?”

He offers a smile that radiates condescension. “Let me reframe that. You’re…safe, Monica. You have all these emotional boundaries you talk about, your cozy routines, your structured schedules. And that’s worked…until now. I just need to branch out, find someone who matches my desire for unpredictability.”

For a moment, I’m speechless. The fancy candle flickers between us, casting dancing shadows that can’t hide the pity in his eyes. I thought he was going to propose, but apparently, I’m getting a ringless farewell instead.

I swallow, my throat tight. “If you wanted spontaneity, you could’ve just—talked to me. We’ve never even discussed any of this. Instead, you ambush me with…a breakup?”

He nods. “I know it’s hard to accept, but we’re at different stages now. Our paths… they don’t align.” He extends his hand toward mine as if to offer comfort. “Monica, you’re a great person. You’ll make someone else very happy. Just not me.”

I yank my hand away before he can touch it. My pulse is pounding so loudly that the soft violin music in the background is drowned out by the rush of blood in my ears.

“Are you seriously doing this here?” I manage, voice tight with contained fury.

“Better to do it at a nice place, so we can part with civility.” His face is the picture of calm rationality, but the flicker of guilt in his eyes tells me he knows this is a low blow.

Anger, embarrassment, heartbreak—they swirl inside me until tears prick the corners of my eyes. But I refuse to cry here, in front of tuxedoed waiters and a roomful of starry-eyed couples. I stand up, ignoring the scrape of my chair against the marble floor.

“Goodbye, Sebastian,” I say, voice trembling only a little. “Enjoy your spice.”

I grab my purse, pivot, and stride out of that romantic bistro with as much dignity as I can muster, ignoring the curious glances from nearby tables. Outside, the cold evening air hits me like a slap, and I hurry down the sidewalk before my self-control shatters.

By the time I reach my apartment, my face is streaked with silent tears. The elevator ride up to the seventh floor is a blur of repressed sobs, and the moment I turn the key in my door, the floodgates open.

I whip off my heels and fling them aside, sinking onto my couch in a pile of heartbreak and rumpled chiffon. My living room, usually my cozy sanctuary of candles and plush throw blankets, now feels like a mocking reflection of the stability Sebastian despised. Everything in its place, neat, orderly, “safe.”

And apparently, so am I.

My stomach growls—a confusing mixture of hunger and nausea. I haven’t eaten since lunchtime, skipping because I wanted to save room for that fancy French dinner. Now, instead of soufflé, I have heartbreak.

But I also have almond butter.

I shuffle to the kitchen, rummage in the cupboard until my hand lands on the jar. No spoon. I don’t even bother with such civilized nonsense. I scoop out a big glob with my index finger and collapse back onto the couch.

Tears slip down my cheeks as I scroll aimlessly on my phone. Finally, I open the group text with my best friends, Dana and Keisha, and type with shaky hands:

Sebastian dumped me. Called me “too vanilla.” Ugly crying into nut butter. Please help. :(

I press send, then stick another fingerful of almond butter in my mouth, the saltiness mixing unpleasantly with my tears.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzes:

Dana: WAIT WHAT?! I’m calling you—

Keisha: Girl, we’re going to set his LinkedIn on fire. I’ve done it before. Stay strong!

I let out a watery laugh, more tears spilling. They know how to make me smile even when I feel like the world is caving in. I message back that I’m too miserable to talk right now, but I’ll call them in the morning. Keisha sends me a string of broken-heart emojis, and Dana texts:

We love you. We’ll help you bury the body if needed.

At least I’m not alone.

Six Weeks Later

“You need to come out with us tonight.” Dana’s voice crackles through my phone. She’s a lawyer, used to sounding authoritative.

“I don’t think so.” I glance at the clock on my kitchen wall. It’s only 7 p.m., but I’m already in my pajamas, hair piled in a scarf. “I have a new Netflix doc loaded up, and I’m kind of in the middle of some…ex-boyfriend mourning stage.”

A snort from the other end. “It’s been six weeks, Monica. You’re allowed to still be hurt, but you can’t hermit forever. Especially not after the mugging.”

I grimace, glancing at my bandaged forearm. A week after Sebastian ended things, I was mugged on my way home from that fancy crystal shop in Midtown. The robber took my wallet, phone charger, and reusable tote—like a final cosmic gut-punch telling me, yep, you really are powerless.

“Okay,” I sigh. “You’re right. Let me shower and see if I can muster the energy to show my face in public.”

Keisha’s voice joins in—she’s on speakerphone. “Good. We’ll meet at Rumba Room at nine. Wear something hot. No, not a turtleneck. Something that says, ‘I’m out of your league, and I know it.’”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. But if I’m wearing heels, you both owe me dessert later.”

“Deal!” they chime in unison.

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My hair is in a silk press, parted just enough to highlight my cheekbones. I chose a fitted little black dress, something that’s been hanging in my closet since that time I thought Sebastian was going to take me to an upscale charity gala. (He never did.)

Now, I blink at myself, practicing a confident smile that I kind of believe. “You are not vanilla,” I whisper, echoing Keisha’s pep talks. “You’re honey-lavender swirl, salted caramel, and everything else he can’t handle.”

I add a dab of plum lipstick, slip on strappy heels, and head out the door. Maybe tonight, I’ll feel a fraction closer to normal.

“Girl, you look smoking,” Keisha yells over the thumping reggaeton beat at Rumba Room. She’s in a neon pink jumpsuit, swirling a margarita. Dana, in a sleek emerald wrap dress, wiggles her eyebrows in agreement.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to ignore how loud my heart is pounding. It’s been a while since I’ve gone out, and I’m not used to the crush of bodies dancing under neon lights. But there’s an exhilarating pulse in the air, the kind of energy that reminds me I’m alive—and free.

We move to the bar, and I order a mojito. The bartender slides it my way with a wink I choose to ignore. My mobile buzzes in my clutch—my mother, probably checking in. I stifle a sigh. She’s been worried about me ever since I told her about the robbery.

After a few sips, warmth seeps through my limbs. Keisha and Dana drag me to the dance floor, and even though I’m not the best dancer, I let myself sway to the music. For a moment, I’m not the “vanilla ex-girlfriend” or the robbed victim; I’m just Monica—slightly tipsy, definitely out of breath, but laughing with friends.

That’s when a heavy hand lands on my shoulder. I turn to find a guy with a sleazy grin leaning in. “Hey, beautiful,” he slurs, breath reeking of tequila. “Want a real dance?”

I recoil. “I’m…fine, thank you.”

He steps closer. My heart hammering, I wave Dana over, but she’s lost in the crowd. The guy grabs my wrist, and fear zings through me, memories of the mugging flashing hot and fast.

“Let go,” I snap, trying to pull away.

He smirks. “C’mon, baby, I just want to talk—”

Before I can formulate another sentence, Keisha appears from nowhere, forcibly prying his hand off me. “She said no,” Keisha hisses.

The creep stumbles back, eyes wide. Dana’s behind him, all two-hundred-page-law-brief attitude. “Walk away before I sue you for harassment,” she threatens, pointing a finger in his face.

He mutters something under his breath and melts into the dancing crowd. Adrenaline surges through my veins, making me both grateful for my friends and furious at how helpless I just felt—again.

“I am so over feeling powerless,” I mutter to Keisha. “I can’t keep counting on you guys or random luck to save me.”

She rubs my arm. “Honey, it’s okay. But…maybe you should seriously consider that self-defense class we talked about. You know, build some confidence.”

My shoulders tense, but she’s not wrong. “Yeah,” I murmur, “maybe I should.”

It takes me a month—thirty days of mustering courage—to finally do it. But I do it. I walk into Eastside Empowerment Gym, slip my credit card across the counter, and sign up for the women’s self-defense course. They have a brand-new six-week program starting soon, focusing on practical techniques to protect yourself.

I feel a flutter in my stomach, a rush that’s half fear and half anticipation. It’s the same feeling I got when I thought Sebastian was about to propose—like I’m on the verge of a life change. Only this time, I’m in control of it.

The gym manager is a trim, middle-aged woman named Becca, who beams at me over her clipboard. “Welcome aboard, Monica. This is a great program, and we have an excellent instructor. He’ll teach you how to kick butt in no time.”

I force a little laugh. “I hope so. I’m pretty tired of feeling like a walking target.”

Becca nods sympathetically and hands me a schedule. “Just show up in comfortable workout clothes next Tuesday at 6 p.m., and we’ll get you started.”

I accept the paper, glancing at the typed dates. This entire program runs twice a week for six weeks—plenty of time for me to hone some skills. And maybe grow into a version of myself that nobody will ever call “too vanilla” again.

Later that evening, after I’ve pinned the class schedule to my fridge, I sink onto my couch. I can’t help scanning my living room: everything is tidily arranged, soft earth tones, matching throw pillows, a single succulent by the window. Sebastian’s words replay in my mind: You’re too safe. Too predictable. Too…vanilla.

I feel that old, familiar sting behind my eyes. But this time, I don’t let myself wallow. Instead, I fish a sticky note from my desk, scribble I am stronger than I know in bold marker, and slap it onto the fridge beside my new class schedule.

“There,” I say aloud, “no more living in fear. No more letting someone else define me.”

I open my phone camera, grin, and snap a quick selfie with the sticky note in the background. Then I text it to Dana and Keisha with the message:

Guess who just signed up to learn how to beat up creeps?

Dana replies first: Yasssss! The bad guys better run. Proud of you, babe.

Keisha sends a celebratory string of muscle emojis, then: You are unstoppable. Let’s celebrate soon!

My smile widens, a bubble of hope expanding in my chest. For the first time in months, I’m not just reacting to the chaos—heartbreak, robbery, random creeps. I’m choosing a new path, forging forward with something that’s all mine.

Sure, maybe a self-defense class isn’t the magical solution to heartbreak and lost confidence. But it’s a start. I can already picture myself, fists raised, not as a victim but as someone capable of fighting back. Someone who refuses to be overshadowed by an ex-boyfriend’s criticisms or a thief’s intimidation.

I take a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs before exhaling slowly. “This is the beginning,” I whisper to my empty apartment. “I’m done letting the world knock me down. From now on, I stand up for myself—no matter how messy or scary that gets.”

I click off my living room lamp and head for my bedroom, hugging that small flame of resolve close to my chest like a newly lit lantern. Tomorrow, I’ll buy some workout gear—maybe neon leggings that scream I am definitely not vanilla.

And on Tuesday, I’ll walk into that class ready to become Monica 2.0. The Monica who fights back. The Monica who is anything but predictable.

I can’t wait.