New York City – JFK International Airport
Aiden Clark stepped out of Terminal 4, his expression vacant, lost somewhere between memory and disbelief. Snow had started falling unnoticed, coating the air with a hush that matched the storm inside him. His eyes, fixed on the swirling flakes, held more than confusion—they carried the heavy ache of something slowly unraveling.
"Are you okay?"
The woman walking a few steps ahead turned to glance back. A wool hat, oversized sunglasses, a black mask, and a thick scarf hid every inch of her face. Not a single detail was visible, but Aiden knew who she was. He would've known her anywhere.
"I'm fine," he muttered, his voice low and mechanical. He quickened his pace, trying to close the space between them—or maybe widen the emotional distance she'd created.
Once, Claire Bennett's voice had felt like home. Now it echoed like a stranger's.
They had met in college, studied late in libraries, shared cheap coffee and big dreams. While most couples drifted apart after graduation, Aiden and Claire only grew closer. They didn't fall fast—they fell deep.
But even deep love had its cracks.
Their first year post-college was a soft blur of quiet dinners and whispered promises. But Claire, once content with routine, began to chafe under the predictability of her nine-to-five office job. It was stability that most people envied. Claire, instead, feared it was the death of her spark.
On a whim—and a friend's push—she auditioned for America's Next Vocal Star. By the time she told Aiden, she had already passed the local rounds and was preparing to leave town for the national stage.
He had said no.
Firmly. Repeatedly.
These shows weren't about talent anymore, he'd argued. They were about viral sob stories, influencer drama, and behind-the-scenes manipulation. They chewed up idealists and spat out cautionary tales.
But Claire... Claire had looked him in the eyes and talked about passion. About purpose. About how she'd forgotten who she was, and how music reminded her.
In the end, he couldn't stop her.
And just before boarding that plane, she'd turned and whispered like a vow:
"No matter what happens... when this is over, let's get married."
Claire Bennett had been born with rhythm in her blood. Her mother had once danced with the prestigious New York Metropolitan Ballet, and from a young age, Claire's world was filled with rehearsals, recitals, and music echoing through their tiny apartment.
It was no surprise that the moment she stepped onto the competition stage, she lit it up like she was born to be there.
With her angelic voice, expressive movement, and striking presence, she quickly became a fan favorite. Week after week, she advanced through the rounds—eventually earning the runner-up title in America's Next Vocal Star.
What followed came like a storm: an agency contract, professional training, a debut single that trended overnight, and interviews that called her "the next pop icon." She was no longer the girl chasing a dream. She was the dream.
And so, when Aiden showed up at the airport with a bouquet of blue hydrangeas and a hope-filled smile, expecting they would finally register their marriage—like she'd once promised—he was met with silence… and then:
"Let's break up."
The words didn't sting as much as the way she said them—soft, almost apologetic, like she still owed him something.
Her reason was simple. Being in a relationship would hurt her public image. The industry thrived on illusions, and in hers, she had to remain untouchable.
"I can drive you home, if you want," Claire offered gently, guilt flickering behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses.
Aiden stared past her, into the snowy afternoon.
"No need," he said casually. "I'll be fine."
But the truth?
He'd seen this ending coming a long time ago.
Ever since the semifinals, her texts had become scarce, her voice messages shorter. Even after the finale, it took her over a month to come back.
People who want to be with you will find a way.
People who don't… won't even notice the door was left open.
Chasing someone who's already gone only drags you lower. Better to walk away while you still have your pride.
Claire hesitated. "What will you do now?"
Aiden exhaled, lips curving into a quiet, self-deprecating smile.
"Probably get married. I even brought the family record book. Would be a shame to waste it."
Claire's chest tightened with guilt. It pricked at her like needles under her skin.
"Don't be like this, Aiden. Even if we can't be husband and wife… can't we still be friends?"
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a sleek black envelope.
"I'm performing as a guest artist at Sofia Rae's concert tonight. This is a VIP ticket. Front row," she said, voice soft and hesitant. "I'd really like it if you came."
Aiden didn't take the ticket.
He didn't even look at it.
In his mind, if they were breaking up, there was no point pretending to be close. That whole let's-stay-friends thing? It usually meant one of two things: either the person wanted to keep you as a backup… or they were hoping to keep playing games.
Claire hesitated, then stepped forward and slipped the envelope into the chest pocket of his coat, her fingers lingering just long enough to sting.
Before either of them could say more, a woman stepped out of a black Mercedes parked by the curb. Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement, her movements purposeful and precise.
She was dressed impeccably, with designer sunglasses and a cold, businesslike aura that warned people not to get in her way.
"Claire, in the car. Now," she said without greeting Aiden, her voice low and commanding.
Claire paused—but only for a second—then obeyed and climbed into the vehicle.
Only then did the woman turn her full attention to Aiden, eyes flicking over him with the kind of disapproval only a seasoned power player could wear so casually.
"Claire has the voice, the look, the presence. She's the most promising breakout star this industry has seen in years," she said, smug and cool. "Her career is just beginning. She's going to be huge."
Aiden's jaw tensed, his expression hardening.
He recognized her now — Gloria Lang, Claire's agent. A big name in the music industry. Known for crafting stars and crushing anyone who got in their way. Tonight's concert headliner, Sofia Rae, was one of her success stories.
And if anyone had pushed Claire to walk away from their relationship, it was her.
"Why are you telling me this?" Aiden asked flatly.
Gloria's lips curled. "Because I'm asking you, politely, to stay away from Claire from now on. She's moved on. I suggest you do the same."
Her gaze drifted down to the edge of the ticket still peeking out of his pocket.
"You think I've been chasing after her?" Aiden countered.
Gloria gave a dry, humorless laugh. "People outside this business never get it. Breakups are nothing in our world. But people like you… you hold onto it like it's the end of the world."
Then, with the kind of voice that dripped with fake wisdom, she added:
"If you really love her, the best thing you can do is let her go."
Aiden let out a short, scornful breath — part laugh, part sigh.
"Save it. I'm not swallowing that crap."
He'd heard enough of these polished, toxic platitudes to last a lifetime. Hell, he'd given those speeches to heartbroken roommates in college. They sounded poetic… until they made you sick.
"Letting go is love."
"If it's meant to be..."
Bullsht.*
"Excuse me?" Gloria blinked, momentarily thrown off.
But then she realized — he was insulting her.
Comparing her carefully worded wisdom to garbage.
Her face tightened with fury.
"You—"
She stopped herself. As angry as she was, she couldn't afford to escalate this. Aiden was a journalist. If he leaked even a whisper of "Claire Bennett dumped her longtime boyfriend post-fame", it could tank Claire's public image overnight.
Bad press spreads fast.
Especially when you're fresh, famous, and fragile in the eyes of the media.
So Gloria drew in a slow breath, voice cooling again.
"I'm just looking out for Claire. You expose this breakup, and fans will turn. Sponsors will pull deals. Don't believe me? Look at Sofia Rae. One boyfriend scandal and her career flatlined. And Claire... she's about to take your place in the spotlight. If she marries someone like you, a nobody?"
"She's done."
Aiden's stomach twisted at her words.
"So what if I'm just an ordinary man?" he asked, frowning. "Are you saying someone like me doesn't deserve a wife?"
Gloria Lang's red lips curved upward, smug and icy.
"Oh, you deserve someone," she said sweetly. "Just not someone like Claire."
Her voice sharpened like the click of her heels on pavement.
"Let me break it down for you. Marriage isn't built on love, Aiden. It's built on leverage—on lifestyle. What can you offer her? A Manhattan penthouse? A private jet? A wardrobe full of Hermès? You can't. Claire gave you the best years of her youth. That should be enough for someone like you."
Aiden stood there, jaw clenched, completely gutted. He couldn't even find words to defend himself.
He had always believed that love was enough. That if he worked hard, success would follow. That one day he'd be able to give Claire the world.
But today made something painfully clear: women like Claire didn't want the promise of a future anymore—they wanted it all now.
He gave a bitter smile, self-deprecating and hollow.
Sixteen years of studying. Top of his class. He could quote philosophy, explain the Big Bang, and decode the human genome...
But he still couldn't understand women.
Maybe he did waste his education.
No wonder I'm still single.
Gloria brushed the snow from her designer coat and took a few steps away, then paused to look back at him one last time.
"Don't take it personally. This isn't about love—it's about reality. If you want someone to blame, blame yourself for not being good enough."
She glanced toward the car, eyes gleaming.
"Here's some free advice: Memories are better than awkward reunions. Let her go. You won't be seeing her again."
With that, she slid into the back seat of the luxury SUV, the door shutting with a clean finality.
Aiden remained frozen on the sidewalk, watching the vehicle pull away, his face twitching involuntarily. When it finally disappeared into traffic, he exhaled sharply and pressed a hand to his cheek.
His molar throbbed.
Great. Now heartbreak came with a side of toothache.
Later That Evening...
Aiden was back at work—well, technically. He sat at his desk in the dimly lit open office, a mug of cold coffee forgotten beside his laptop. The newsroom was nearly empty. Everyone had gone home.
He worked at Metro Today, a local New York channel, as a field reporter on a human-interest segment called "City Pulse."
Every day, he visited neighborhoods, chased stories, and tried to make sense of the messy, beautiful lives of ordinary people.
Two years in, and he had already made a name for himself. He wasn't just reading from a teleprompter anymore—he was writing scripts, producing special segments, and occasionally hosting live on location. His future was bright.
But tonight?
His mind was empty. He stared at his laptop like it was speaking a foreign language. Occasionally, he typed a sentence or two… then backspaced it all. Nothing made sense.
His body was at the desk. But his heart was still standing on that icy sidewalk.
Only when the clock hit 8:30 p.m.—right as the evening segment aired—did he snap out of his daze. He was the designated closer tonight, left behind in case of any broadcast hiccups.
The silence made him think.
About Claire.
About the breakup.
About how fast it had all fallen apart.
And slowly… he began to calm down.
He wasn't the type to wallow. If it was over, then it was over.
Love wasn't meant to be a battlefield. If two people weren't aligned anymore, then dragging it out only made things worse.
Clean cuts hurt less.
And besides—everyone was busy on the winter special project. He couldn't afford to fall behind.
Love is a lie. Work is the only thing that doesn't disappoint.
He opened a fresh document and began typing.
"The 2022 episode was about flu prevention…"
"Last year we covered winter wellness tips…"
"This year…"
He paused, fingers hovering above the keys.
"This year... yeah. Let's do this."
After clearing his head, Aiden Hart sat up straight and began typing furiously, his fingers dancing across the keyboard.
Writing copy was like cooking porridge—it needed time, patience, and just the right amount of heat to bring out the flavor.
By the time he finished, the clock read 5:20 a.m. Pulling all-nighters to meet a deadline was nothing new to him. If you wanted to rise above the crowd in a cutthroat industry like journalism, you had to put in the work.
He saved the file, shut the laptop, and stepped outside.
It was still snowing—the first snowfall of the season—and a thick blanket of white already coated the ground, crunching beneath his boots as he walked.
There was a 24/7 convenience store nearby. He grabbed a sandwich and a carton of milk, but after just two bites, pain shot through his jaw like an electric jolt.
That damn wisdom tooth again.
It had been crooked for months and flared up often. His dentist told him it needed to be removed. But right now? No clinic was open.
"Old-school remedy it is."
He grabbed a small bottle of cheap whiskey from the shelf, along with a six-pack of Heineken—East meets West, pain management edition.
Twisting the cap open, he took a swig.
The sharp burn hit him instantly.
It still hurt, but slightly less.
Another gulp.
The store clerk gave him a strange look. She'd never seen anyone treat whiskey like mouthwash. Was this guy preparing to wrestle a polar bear or what?
Aiden didn't care.
He took the bottle and left, but when he reached the TV station entrance, he paused.
Drinking at the front doors of his workplace didn't exactly scream "Employee of the Month."
Instead, he wandered to a small nearby park and sat down on a snow-covered bench, sipping slowly.
The whiskey dulled the toothache… but only stirred his heartache.
Gone were the days when women looked for a talented man with dreams.
Now? It was all about bank accounts and real estate portfolios.
Talent could win applause.
But money won loyalty.
And Aiden had spent his life betting on the wrong currency.
"A single speck of dust from the times," he muttered, "can crush a man like a mountain."
Frustrated, he suddenly yelled into the snowy stillness:
"AHHHH!"
What was the point anymore?
He envied movie villains sometimes.
No rules. No emotions. No heartbreak.
They just did whatever they wanted, laughed in the face of chaos, and made it look cool.
Just as Aiden was mentally spiraling into anti-hero territory...
SMACK.
A snowball hit him square in the face, splattering his mouth with ice.
"Pfft—ugh!" he choked, wiping his face, snowflakes falling from his coat. He jumped to his feet and spun around.
Across the park, someone was standing in the snow, cocking another snowball.
"What the hell?!" he shouted.
"You're not dead?" the figure called out, sounding surprised.
Aiden squinted.
It was a woman.
And based on that response, a very weird one.
"Do you always greet strangers with violence?" he snapped, shaking snow from his jacket.
The woman didn't answer.
She stood still, bundled head to toe in black—black hat, black mask, black scarf, black coat, black boots. Only her eyes were visible, sharp and watchful.
The silence and her full-body black attire were… unsettling.
And the snowball?
Weaponized.
Aiden's imagination kicked in.
Late night. Empty park. Silent stranger in black with projectiles.
She's an assassin.
Or at least... a hired thug.
A female thug.
Fantastic.