• Publisher: Gloss Publishing LLC (October 8, 2024)
• Length: 
• ISBN13: 

Chapter One: Aria

Walking into the Full Circle office is like stepping into a gladiatorial arena where the weapons are low-key drags and the armor is emotional detachment. I saunter toward the reception desk, my heels clicking rhythmically on the polished floor.

Brendan, our receptionist extraordinaire, greets me with a smile sharper than my winged eyeliner. He’s the kind of guy who could tease the truth out of Ron Hall from Love Island UK—if you know, you know—which is precisely why he’s the gatekeeper of our little heartbreak factory.

“Morning, Aria,” he chirps, his fingers dancing over his keyboard like a concert pianist. “No messages, but I’ve got some hot tea.”

I stop next to his desk and raise an intrigued eyebrow. “Spill it.”

He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Word on the street is we’re about to land the Benson account. It’s bigger than Gretchen’s shoulder pads.”

A smirk tugs at my lips. “Already on it. My therapist would cringe if she knew how deep I’d been in Bensen’s business.” And by that, I mean I’ve spent the last twelve hours in a caffeine-fueled deep dive through the cesspools of gossip blogs and social media hellscapes, dissecting every pixel of Isaiah Benson’s very public split from Regina Blanton.

But as I waded through the muck of Benson’s breakup, I stumbled across a headline about my ex that hit me like a sucker punch from karma itself: “Pedro Olivera Seeks Major Funding from Tech Giant.” Seeing his name made my chest constrict faster than a corset at a Victorian costume party. He’s back, and making headlines, while I’m here trying to pretend our Zoom breakup—complete with the Pizza-head filter disaster—was just a bad dream induced by too much late-night cheese.

Brendan’s brow furrows, clearly catching my momentary lapse in emotional armor. “You okay? You look like you just remembered you don’t have a therapist.”

I snap back to reality, plastering on a smile so bright it could guide ships to shore. “I’m good. This account is mine,” I say, sidestepping the therapist jab.

As if on cue, Mallu, the office’s resident Brazilian bombshell, struts by with her signature blend of confidence and obliviousness. I offer a polite “Good morning,” but she breezes past me like I’m as invisible as my therapist. Brendan snickers as he turns back toward his computer screen.

Before I can even process Mallu’s snub, Gretchen bursts out of her office like a tornado in Louboutins. With seven divorces under her belt, she’s got the kind of romantic history that would make even Shakespeare say, “Whoa, dial it back a notch.”

Mallu changes her tune faster than Ron changes his mind about Lana; suddenly, she’s all smiles and sunshine as she chirps, “Bom dia, Gretchinha!”

Gretchen’s eyes flicker with that trademark “not today” look. She points at Mallu, then at me. “You. And you. Conference room. Now.”

I exchange a glance with Brendan. We both know what’s coming—the Benson account.

My heart does an Olympic gymnastics routine as I follow Gretchen, with Mallu groaning behind me like she’s being dragged to the principal’s office. As we take our seats around the Scandi-minimalist conference table, the tension is thicker than a bowl of Bircher muesli.

Gretchen cuts to the chase. “As my top two rebounders, I’m sure you’ve both heard about the Benson account.”

I sit up a little straighter, mentally picturing the digital whiteboard in the common area that displays our rebound success rates. I’ve been at the top of the leaderboard for months, and I’m not about to let that slip.

But then Gretchen’s next words hit me like a balance beam to the crotch. “I’m giving the Benson account to Mallu.”

All those sleepless hours, all that meticulous research—not to mention the drive-by trauma of seeing Pedro’s headline—all of it flushed down the toilet of broken dreams. I want to tell everyone to wake me up when September ends.

Mallu starts gushing gratitude like a burst fire hydrant, but Gretchen cuts her off mid-stream. “Save it, sweetheart. Go on, I need a word with Aria—privately. Confidential account stuff.”

Mallu hesitates, a flicker of doubt crossing her perfect features. Did she just get the Benson account as a consolation prize? Is there something even bigger on the horizon for me? But Gretchen’s steely gaze leaves no room for questions. With a final, uncertain glance, Mallu exits, her confusion palpable.

As the door clicks shut behind Mallu’s retreating form—no doubt already practicing her victory strut—Gretchen turns to me, her expression more unreadable than the comments on an Elon Musk tweet. “Now, about this other account…”

I brace myself, wondering if I’m about to be Thanos-snapped out of existence like our former colleague Jenna—who crossed a line by falling for the very guy she was supposed to reunite with his ex. But nothing could have prepared me for Gretchen’s next words.

“It’s Jessica Farrow,” Gretchen begins, her tone casual despite the dollar signs flashing in her eyes. “Maybe you’ve heard of her—some lifestyle influencer. She’s looking to get back with her ex, Pedro Olivera. A tech millionaire CEO behind some hot new AI startup everyone’s buzzing about.”

And just like that, my world tilts on its axis, leaving me dizzy and off-balance. Gretchen’s words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut, but I can’t let it show. I force myself to keep my expression neutral, swallowing down the rising tide of panic. My palms grow clammy as I release the grip on the chair and casually reach into my bag, pulling out my phone like I just received an urgent message.

“Thanks for the info, Gretchen,” I manage to say, my voice surprisingly steady as I pretend to glance at a non-existent text. “I need to take this—client issue,” I lie, already inching toward the door.

Gretchen’s brow pinch together, clearly thrown off by my sudden exit. “Everything okay, Aria?” she asks, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Yeah, yeah, just something I need to handle quickly,” I respond, already halfway out the door, flashing what I hope passes for a reassuring smile.

I make my escape, my heart racing faster than a squirrel’s on espresso. There’s no time to process this bombshell. I’ve got approximately negative time before my “date” with Blake.

Time to slip into character: manic pixie dream girl turned into clingy nightmare, guaranteed to send him running back to his ex faster than you can say “emotional whiplash.” I leave the office, ready to dive headfirst into another perfectly orchestrated heartbreak.

Just another day at Full Circle Consulting, where we turn emotional wreckage into cold, hard cash—one rebound at a time. And now, apparently, we’re adding “confront your own ghosts” to the menu of services. Alright, bet. This can only end well.

* * *

The low buzz in the trendy gastropub feels like the nervous tension of an orchestra tuning up for a symphony. Across the table, Blake’s face glows with the kind of unearned intellectual superiority that makes me crave a lobotomy. As he drones on about cinema, I ready myself to conduct a masterclass in insufferability. This isn’t just a breakup; it’s performance art.

Tonight, I’m the architect of a meticulously plotted “Phase 4,” with Blake blissfully unaware that he’s the unwitting star of this cringe-worthy rebound drama. He’s too busy mansplaining his latest cinematic endeavor, a documentary so obscure it could double as a cure for insomnia.

“…and that’s why Godard’s use of jump cuts subverts traditional cinematic expectations,” Blake drones, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. “It’s all about challenging the viewer’s perception of reality.”

I nod as if I’m totally absorbed in his pretentious spiel, all the while running through my mental script for our impending breakup. “That’s deep, Blake. But for someone like me who doesn’t have a PhD in Film Studies, can you dumb it down a little?”

Blake sighs, clearly not thrilled with the request. “Art isn’t meant to be dumbed down. It’s about confronting the viewer with truth, not pandering to the masses.”

I arch an eyebrow. “So, your films are basically the cinematic equivalent of overpriced truffle-flavored air garnished with gold leaf?”

His smile falters. “Well, not exactly—”

“It’s all about being overly niche and complex, isn’t it?” I press on, my voice carrying just the right amount of playful teasing.

Blake’s ego takes a visible hit. “That’s oversimplifying it. My documentaries—”

“Simplicity can be a good thing, though,” I counter, hoping to throw him even more off balance. “Sometimes you just want to watch a blockbuster with explosions and car chases—a little Pumpkin Spice Latte for the soul, you know?”

Blake’s pretension cracks as our scripted breakup approaches its climax. The moment I suggested binge-watching the MCU last week, I knew this night would end with a well-timed exit. Tonight’s antics will seal the deal.

“Isn’t it nice to just escape into a world where vampires go to high school and every quirky teenager can save the world?” I ask, leaning in with contrived enthusiasm.

Blake leans back, his disdain barely concealed. “Cinema shouldn’t always be an escape. People need art to survive. True art awakens the viewer.”

The irony is almost too perfect. “Speaking of escapism, I’ve been feeling very inspired to escape into new worlds lately. Remember that screenplay I texted you yesterday? The one you left on read? Could you take a quick look at it right now?” For the second time in two days, I send Blake the PDF of my intentionally cringey vampire romance script titled “Eternal Swipe.”

Blake reluctantly opens the file, his expression shifting from curious to horrified as he reads aloud, “EXTERIOR: FULL MOON. ZARA, eyes as deep as the ocean, sighs at her window. CUT TO: THORN, vampire with a man-bun, his mouth drips blood as he swipes right on ZARA.”

His eyes meet mine, a meme-worthy mix of disbelief and concern. “Aria, are you…okay?”

“Totally. I thought you might want to direct it. Get in on the ground floor, you know?” I say, struggling to keep a straight face.

Blake’s brain seems to short-circuit as the last few days of my odd behavior catch up with him. “You’ve been acting weird all week. Are you going through something?”

I smile, playing it cool as he scrambles for an explanation for my recent behavior. He glances at his phone, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise, probably pretending to get an urgent text. “I’m so sorry, Aria, but I’ve got to run. The editing team just found a major continuity error, and we need to fix it before the deadline.”

As he stands, mumbling another awkward apology, I feel a mix of triumph and something less…satisfying. His departure, not exactly dramatic but still abrupt, leaves behind a lingering awkwardness.

Sitting alone, I reflect on this carefully choreographed adventure in trolling—a successful but somewhat anticlimactic end to our contractually-doomed-from-the-start situationship. Mission accomplished?

I shake off the unsettling feeling and sit up straight. Time to message Taylor and let her know Blake is perfectly primed for a “chance” encounter with his much-improved ex. After all, those post-breakup glow-ups I set up never fail to work wonders. With a contented sigh, I text Taylor, Blake’s ex-girlfriend and my eager client, whose response only confirms the night’s success.

The prime rib is cooked to perfection.

Thank God! I haven’t had any meat in weeks!!!

I nearly do my second spit-take of the day at the sight of the eggplant emoji. As much as I want to leave this message on “read,” Taylor is my client, and I’m aiming for partnership.

Get it, girl! I’ll call you tomorrow for our final check-in.

Left alone at the table, with Taylor ready to initiate “Phase Five: Reunion,” I decide to order a triple chocolate cake to go, charging it to my company card. Another successful rebound, neatly executed. As long as Taylor sticks to the script, I’ll get all the juicy details tomorrow.

As I order my celebratory cake and sip my Chardonnay, I remember that somewhere out there, Mallu is likely sweating bullets as she tries to craft her plan for Isaiah Benson. I smile. Some people are more cut out for this than others.

* * *

The morning after my “breakup” dinner with Blake, I wake to a string of texts from Taylor, each one more graphic than the last.

OMG Aria, last night was UNREAL. Blake was an animal! He said he missed my [cat emoji] sooooo much!

I cringe, my eyes assaulted by the barrage of eggplant and peach emojis.

And when he licked my… I swear I saw God.

I scroll past the rest, actively avoiding the graphic details. As much as I live for a successful rebound, some things are better left unimagined, especially before coffee.

TMI but congrats.

Her next text pops up, filled with a sincerity that makes me pause.

Thank you, Aria. I know this is just a job for you, but Blake… he was different to me. When we were together… Whenever he looked at me, it was like he saw all the messy parts of me and still thought I was beautiful. I know that sounds corny as hell, but it’s true. You’re my fairy godmother. Thanks for bringing my prince back to me.

And now, reading her text, there’s a slight tightening in my chest, something that feels a lot like…sympathy? Or maybe pity, for thinking love could be that simple. For believing that my role in this wasn’t just engineering another textbook rebound, but somehow restoring her universe to its natural order.

I sit up straighter to shake off the feeling. What is that feeling? Guilt?

No, it’s pride. Taylor’s text is proof of why I do what I do—because people like her still believe in fairy-tale endings.

Another satisfied client. Another job well done.

And yet, I find myself hesitating at the thought of scheduling the standard debrief session I do with all my clients. I’m reluctant to encourage more of Taylor’s TMI updates and ideality romanticism. Instead, I toss my phone aside, relieved when Taylor doesn’t prompt me for a response.

Needing a distraction, I head to the living room, where my roommate, Sara, is sprawled on the couch, engrossed in her phone. She’s already prepared my usual mug of coffee, but it’s conspicuously no longer steaming on the side table.

She looks up, one eyebrow arched. “Rough night?”

“Another successful rebound,” I say, flopping down on the sofa beside her as I reach for my coffee. “Taylor and Blake are back together, and apparently, they’re making up for lost time. In vivid detail.”

Sara wrinkles her nose. “Yikes. But hey, job security, right?”

I shrug, flipping through Netflix. “Sure, but Gretchen’s got a new assignment for me, so oddly enough, I’m not exactly looking forward to moving on from Taylor’s cringe.”

Sara’s eyes meet mine, a silent look of significance crossing her sharp features.

I land on Love is Blind UK and flash Sara a look that implies I can only unreality TV right now, and she nods in silent agreement. We make it through three episodes of season 2 and two more cups of lukewarm coffee before my phone rings, slicing through the awkward tension. Gretchen’s name flashes on the screen, and I put her on speaker. Because why suffer alone, right?

“Aria, I have great news.” Gretchen’s voice buzzes through the phone. “Taylor’s report was glowing—it might’ve even made me rethink my weekend plans. But, anyway, after your date, she ran into Blake while walking that dog you suggested she adopt, and let’s just say that—in the wake of your Phase 4 antics—he was very receptive to a reunion. He even invited her to that pretentious film industry luncheon you were supposed to attend with him. Genius, by the way.”

I bask in her praise for a moment, but I try to shake off the lingering mental images from Taylor’s over-sharing. “That’s why you pay me the medium bucks, right?”

Gretchen continues without acknowledging my compensation comment. “But there was one critique: your communication skills. You need to keep the client in the loop and remember to schedule the debrief, even if that means enduring their pillow talk.”

I open my mouth to argue, but Gretchen cuts me off. “Don’t take it personally!” Gretchen commands. “These clients are sensitive. You need to tread lightly, even if that means wading through a sea of emojis. It’s in the contract!”

I sigh, reaching for my mug of coffee. “Loud and clear, but you have to admit my way gets results.”

Gretchen blows a loud raspberry into the speaker, startling both me and Sara. “I don’t want to hear it! Results mean nothing if they don’t turn into recommendations or reputation. Now, where was I… Oh, yes. About your new assignment.”

Resigned, I sit up straight as I try to ignore how Sara’s attention is locked on me. “I can’t wait.”

Gretchen’s dry laugh fills the speaker. “Ever heard of Pedro Olivera? Big shot AI player now.”

I manage to keep my eyes averted, but I can feel Sara’s red hot gaze penetrating through my cool demeanor. The gravity of the situation is no longer a secret.

“Pedro, who?” I play dumb as Sara throws a handful of pretzels at me to try to get my attention. I ignore her attempts to insert herself in the conversation. The last thing I need is to give Gretchen any hint that I’m more problematic than she already thinks.

“As I told you yesterday, before your hasty exit, his ex, Jessica Farrow, needs our services. She specifically asked for our top rebounder. That’s you, kiddo, in case you’re wondering. Best doer-seller this side of the Hudson.”

I try to keep my composure, but the idea of helping Pedro’s new ex win him back feels like signing up for the emotional Hunger Games.

“And this Pedro guy…” I begin, shooting Sara a look to keep her from saying anything. “How old is he?”

“About your age, but don’t quote me on that. I’m at the Four Seasons, so I don’t have that information handy.”

“I can’t do it,” I blurt out before I can think too much.

Gretchen mutters something to someone, possibly a waiter, before responding. “Aria, I don’t have time for this. Don’t make this difficult. Just say yes.”

“No.”

Gretchen sighs. “This job is perfect for you! What are your reservations?”

Sara shakes her head violently, signaling for me to end the call. “I just… I don’t think this is a good fit. I don’t like…tech startups.”

“Since when do you need to like a guy’s job to manipulate him?” Gretchen’s persistence makes me question just how much she’s charging on this contract.

“I’m sorry, Gretchen, but the answer is still no.”

Gretchen mutters something unintelligible before coming back on the line. “Aria, if you’re not on board, I’ll have to hand it off to Mallu. She’s been looking for a high-profile project.”

The thought of Mallu and her backpack full of dreams cozying up to my ex stirs a panic in me that goes way beyond professional rivalry. “Send me the details, and I’ll think about it.”

“Oh, go on! Fuck off!”

“Uh, what?” I ask, confused by Gretchen’s response.

“Not you,” Gretchen replies, frustrated by something—or someone—who appears to be making noise in the background. “Never mind. I’ll send you everything. Give me your answer by Tuesday.”

As the line goes dead, the weight of the decision settles in. Rebounding Pedro—a job that’s just another paycheck to Gretchen, but to me, it’s a one-way trip to the bad place.

Sara leans in, her expression serious. “You’re not seriously considering professionally catfishing your ex, are you?”

I stare at her, considering the possibility that my job is one giant catfish operation. “Of course not. I just needed to get her off my back while I process this.”

Sara nods, though her facial expression implies she’s not buying what I’m selling. An uneasy feeling settles in as I contemplate opening the documents Gretchen just sent. What surprises lurk in Pedro’s past, and am I equipped to face them?

* * *

Later that day, I’m in bed, the glow of my laptop casting ghostly shadows on my face. What secrets are buried in Pedro’s past? And why am I willingly opening Pandora’s box?

With a deep breath and a muttered prayer to Saint Cupid, I dive into the ex-files. And, oh boy, was I not prepared for the level of crazy waiting for me.

Jessica’s file reads like a scorned lover’s burn book, with each entry meticulously cataloging Pedro’s every misstep. Missed anniversaries, neglected succulents, even the heinous crime of canceling date night to close a deal—it’s all there, detailed with the obsessive fervor of an aspiring Glenn Close.

It’s clear: Jessica is out for blood.

Yikes. No wonder Gretchen’s desperate to have me on this case. One wrong move, and this could turn into our very own legal thriller—complete with boiled bunnies. Or at least my mugshot—Jessica strikes me as the type to have a lawyer on speed dial.

I close the laptop, my mind spinning. Rebounding an ex is one thing, but rebounding my ex? That’s next-level emotional masochism. Then again, maybe the fact that I’m even considering it proves I’m the right person for the job. Who better to manipulate an ex than someone with questionable moral standards?

Diving headfirst into the messiest, most complicated relationships and emerging victorious seems to be my specialty. Maybe this is the challenge I need to prove the last four years haven’t been a complete waste of time.

As if on cue, my phone buzzes with a text from Gretchen, her message a mix of flattery and desperation.

You’re the only one who can handle this without setting off legal landmines. Plus, think of the bonus $$$.

I roll my eyes at her attempt to bribe me. And yet, the promise of a fat payday is almost enough to make me overlook the emotional train wreck looming ahead.

I start typing out a refusal, but then I pause, my finger hovering over the send button. The three dots appear on Gretchen’s side.

And a partnership. If you bring this one home, it’s yours. Okay?

I smirk. I must be really good at this whole professional heartbreaker thing. I guess it’s true that those who can’t do, do it for others—for ridiculous sums of cash. Or, in my case, the promise of a partnership I’ve clearly earned.

Fine. I’m in.

I turn off my phone and set it on the nightstand with a resigned sigh. Ready or not, here comes the emotional heartbreak Spotify playlist—no skips allowed.