NEW BEGINNING - Breadcrumbing

James's penthouse felt like stepping into a different world. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, making Mike's apartment feel like a distant memory from another life. Everything was pristine, minimalist, and expensive—from the Italian leather furniture to the original artwork on the walls.

"Welcome home," James said, sliding his arms around my waist as we stood looking out at the city lights. "At least for tonight."

The first few weeks with James were intoxicating. Each day brought new experiences: private jets to weekend getaways, exclusive restaurant openings, and charity galas where I was introduced as "James's partner." My social media feeds, once filled with guilty glimpses of others' luxury lives, now showcased my own glamorous existence.

"You're flourishing," James observed one morning, watching me get ready for work. I'd moved most of my clothes to his place, though we both called it "temporary." My dresses hung like soldiers in his walk-in closet, each one a gift from him, each one more expensive than the last.

"I had a good teacher," I replied, applying lipstick in his massive bathroom mirror.

He smiled, adjusting his Rolex. "Speaking of which, I've arranged a meeting with the board at Sterling Global. They're looking for a marketing director."

I paused, lipstick midair. "James, I just got promoted at Morrison..."

"And you've already outgrown it." He moved behind me, his reflection confident and commanding. "You deserve better. More."

More. It had become our mantra, our justification for everything. More luxury, more status, more power.

But somewhere between the charity galas and board meetings, I began noticing things. Small things at first—how James would check his phone during our conversations, how his compliments started feeling rehearsed, how his touches became less frequent.

"Sorry, I can't make dinner tonight," he texted one evening. "Emergency board meeting."

I sat alone in his penthouse, surrounded by all the trappings of success, and found myself missing the smell of Mike's burning attempts at cooking. The thought came unbidden, unwanted.

The changes in James became more noticeable. He started working later, his "emergency meetings" becoming more frequent. When we did have dinner together, he spent more time networking with others than talking to me.

"It's just business," he'd say when I mentioned it. "You understand. You're a career woman now."

One night, I found myself scrolling through old photos on my phone. There was Mike and me at that food truck festival, both of us laughing, sauce on our chins. Another from Christmas, him wearing that ridiculous elf hat he loved. Simple moments, genuine happiness.

"Delete them," James said, startling me. I hadn't heard him come in. "It's not healthy to dwell on the past."

I locked my phone screen. "I wasn't dwelling."

"Sarah," he sighed, loosening his tie. "We've talked about this. Evolution requires letting go."

But what was I evolving into? The woman in my mirror looked expensive, polished, successful, and increasingly hollow.

The final wake-up call came during a charity gala, our third that week. I was standing beside James as he charmed potential investors, playing my part perfectly, when I overheard a conversation not meant for my ears.

"Crawford's got himself a new one," a silver-haired man muttered to his companion. "Prettier than the last. Wonder how long this one will last."

"You know James," his friend chuckled. "Always trading up. Remember that gallery owner last year? The bookstore girl before that?"

The bookstore girl. James's words from our first meeting echoed in my head: "Sweet girl, loved literature, could talk about Proust for hours. But she was content."

I looked across the room at James, really looked at him. He was already eyeing a young lawyer who'd just made partner, his smile calculating, predatory. The same smile he'd given me outside Mike's building that first night.

My phone buzzed—another late cancellation from James. But below his message was an older one from Mike, never deleted: "Love you. Always will."

The words blurred as tears threatened to fall. I'd traded genuine love for a masterclass in evolution, only to discover I was just another butterfly in James's collection, destined to be replaced when he found something newer, shinier.

"Everything okay?" James appeared beside me, his hand possessively on my lower back. "You look pale."

"Just tired," I said, the lie coming easily. After all, he'd taught me how.

Later that night, in his perfectly appointed penthouse, I lay awake listening to him breathe. His arm draped over me felt heavy and constraining—nothing like Mike's gentle embrace.

I reached for my phone, scrolling through my gallery until I found it: the photo of Mike's pasta heart, now cold and congealed, like everything else I'd left behind.

A text from James's phone lit up the darkness: "Can't wait to see you tomorrow, beautiful. Dinner at your place? -Sophia"

He'd forgotten to delete it, just like I'd forgotten to delete Mike's messages. Some things, it seemed, weren't meant to be evolved past.

I stared at the city lights through James's floor-to-ceiling windows, remembering another night, another view, when I'd stood in Mike's cluttered living room, wondering about possibilities. I'd found those possibilities, lived them, and worn them like designer dresses.

But the possibility, I was learning, wasn't the same as happiness.

Chapter 6: Can this be the life Sarah imagined?