Chapter 2 — Shattered Plans

Mia Lawson

Mia woke to the sound of her phone vibrating against the hardwood floor. The gray light of a cloudy morning filtered through the large windows of her loft, casting a muted pallor over the unfinished space. Her body ached from the sleepless hours of pacing, her mind caught in an endless loop of questions without answers. She didn’t reach for the phone. Whoever it was, she wasn’t ready to face them.

Her eyes drifted to the architect’s compass on the makeshift nightstand beside her mattress. The sleek, matte-black metal gleamed faintly, its sharp lines mocking the disarray of her life. She picked it up, running her thumb over the geometric engravings as though the act could ground her. The compass was precision incarnate, everything she was not in this moment—steady, unfaltering, purposeful. It had been a gift from her father, who had once told her, “You can always rebuild if you know where you stand.” The thought cut through her haze, both a comfort and a reminder of how far she had strayed from the person he believed her to be.

The phone buzzed again, insistent and unrelenting. Sighing, she leaned over to grab it, her movements slow and deliberate, as if even the act of acknowledging the world outside her loft required effort she didn’t have. The screen lit up: twenty-three missed calls. Her mother, her sister, even an unfamiliar number. But it was the name she saw further down the list, the one she had been avoiding, that made her chest tighten: Ryan.

Her thumb hovered over his single text message:

“I’m sorry.”

The words blurred as tears stung her eyes. Her hand trembled, and a sharp ache unfurled in her chest. She could still hear his voice in her mind—calm, measured, always in control. *I’m sorry? That’s it?* The anger hit her first, hot and immediate, but it was quickly swallowed by something colder, heavier. She dropped the phone onto the mattress as though it burned, pressing her palms against her temples to keep the memories at bay.

A knock at the door shattered the silence. Frowning, Mia set the compass down and glanced toward the loft’s entrance. The space was barren except for a few scattered boxes and the faint pencil marks on the walls where she had started sketching the night before. The sound of heels clicking against concrete echoed as the door swung open, unceremonious and unapologetic.

“Guess who brought wine for breakfast?” Isla’s voice rang out, cheerful and irreverent, cutting through the oppressive quiet like sunlight through storm clouds. She pushed the door open with her hip, a bottle of rosé in one hand and a bag of pastries in the other. Her auburn curls were tied back with a colorful scarf, and her bohemian dress swayed as she strode in, her presence as vibrant as the scarf she wore.

“It’s eight in the morning,” Mia said flatly, blinking at her friend.

“Yes, and you look like you’ve been hit by a bus. So I figured we’d skip coffee and go straight to the good stuff.” Isla deposited the bag on the counter and began rummaging through drawers. She emerged with two mismatched mugs, pouring the wine into them as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The faint jingle of her charm bracelet punctuated her movements, the mismatched trinkets clinking softly with each gesture.

“I’m not in the mood, Isla,” Mia muttered, though she didn’t resist when Isla handed her a mug.

“You’re never in the mood for anything fun, which is why I’m here,” Isla said, hopping onto the counter with feline grace. She took a sip of her wine, her mischievous smile softening as she studied Mia. “So, are we going to talk about it, or are you just going to keep staring at that compass like it’s the answer to life’s mysteries?”

Mia bristled, setting the mug down untouched. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start with what makes you angriest,” Isla suggested, her tone light but her gaze steady. “That’s usually the easiest.”

Mia let out a bitter laugh, sharp and unfamiliar in the empty space. “Angriest? How about the fact that I spent months planning a wedding that didn’t happen? That I let myself believe Ryan was someone he wasn’t? Or that my own mother probably knew he wasn’t going to show up and didn’t tell me?”

“There it is.” Isla gestured triumphantly with her mug. “The anger. Let it out, babe. Better out than in.”

Pacing the length of the loft, Mia crossed her arms tightly across her chest. The exposed brick walls and high ceilings, which had once felt like a canvas full of potential, now loomed cold and oppressive. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do now. Everyone’s calling, texting, asking if I’m okay. What do they expect me to say? That I’m thrilled to have been humiliated in front of everyone I know?”

“They don’t care what you say. They just want to feel like they’ve done their duty by checking in,” Isla said, her bluntness cutting through the fog of Mia’s thoughts. “So stop answering them. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

Mia stopped pacing, turning to face Isla. “And what? Pretend it never happened? Move on like it’s nothing?”

“No. Not like it’s nothing,” Isla said, hopping off the counter and closing the distance between them. She placed her hands on Mia’s shoulders, her voice unexpectedly gentle. “Like it’s the start of something better. Look, I know you’re hurting, but you’re also free now. Free to do whatever the hell you want without some guy holding you back. So, what do you want to do?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable. Mia looked away. “I don’t know.”

“Okay, let’s narrow it down,” Isla said with a teasing grin. “Do you want to cry more? Eat an obscene amount of pastries? Key Ryan’s car? I’m in for all of the above.”

Despite herself, Mia smiled faintly, though it faded almost as quickly as it came. “Keying his car sounds satisfying, but I’d probably get arrested.”

“True. And orange is not my color, so let’s save that for Plan B.” Isla stepped back, taking another sip of her wine. “But seriously, Mia, you can’t just sit here wallowing. If you’re not ready to figure out what you want, start with figuring out what you don’t want.”

Mia’s gaze drifted back to the compass. It felt like a tether, fragile but unbroken. “I don’t want to feel powerless,” she said quietly, the words tasting like truth.

“Good.” Isla’s voice was firm, her eyes bright with determination. “Then stop waiting for answers to fall into your lap. Go out and get them. Find out why Ryan really left. Dig up whatever skeletons he’s hiding and use them to remind yourself that you’re better off without him.”

Mia frowned, her fingers brushing the compass again. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple. Messy, but simple,” Isla said with a shrug. “And if you need help, I know a guy. A private investigator. He’s grumpy and a little rough around the edges, but he’s good at what he does.”

Mia arched an eyebrow. “A private investigator? What am I, some femme fatale in a noir film?”

“Hey, if the shoe fits…” Isla grinned. “Come on, Mia. You’re a badass architect. You can handle a little mess.”

Mia sighed, running a hand through her hair. The sleek bun she had tied with such care yesterday was now a tangled mess. She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Fine. Give me his number.”

“That’s the spirit.” Isla pulled her phone from her pocket, scrolling through her contacts. “But first, eat a pastry. You can’t plot revenge on an empty stomach.”

Rolling her eyes, Mia reached for the bag, pulling out a croissant. The buttery flakes crumbled onto her lap as she took a bite, and for the first time in days, she felt a flicker of something beyond despair—determination. She glanced at the compass one more time, her father’s words echoing in her mind: *You can always rebuild if you know where you stand.* Maybe Isla was right. Maybe rebuilding started with tearing down the walls of what came before.