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After His Fiancée Cut the Brakes, He Chose Me Novel Cover

After His Fiancée Cut the Brakes, He Chose Me

The Manhattan skyline greeted me like an old enemy. Three years. Three years since I’d breathed this air, thick with memory and regret. My hands trembled slightly as I checked into the boutique hotel, deliberately using a fake name. The clerk didn’t notice. No one here knew me anymore. Or so I thought. I’d chosen a room on the eighth floor—high enough to see the city, low enough to feel its pulse. The elevator hummed as I ascended, each floor bringing me closer to a past I’d spent three years trying to outrun. But you can’t outrun your own heart.
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Chapter 2

I stared at Lennox's swollen ankle, guilt twisting in my stomach despite everything. The hotel staff had brought ice, but it was clear he needed more than a makeshift compress. His blue eyes held mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

'You're coming with me,' he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. 'I can't drive like this, and you're not staying here alone.'

'I'm not going anywhere with you,' I replied, but the words sounded hollow even to my own ears.

He sat up, wincing as he put weight on his ankle. 'Jude, don't make this difficult. I'm injured because of you.'

'That's rich,' I scoffed, but I was already reaching for my phone to call a rideshare.

Before I could dial, Lennox was on his feet, hopping toward my open suitcase. 'What are you doing?' I demanded.

'Packing,' he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 'You can't stay here. The hotel's going to charge you for that broken table.'

I moved to stop him, but he held up a hand. 'I've already taken care of your bill. You're coming to Brooklyn with me.'

The drive to his apartment was tense, the silence broken only by occasional directions. I watched the city blur past, wondering how I'd gone from a quick trip to close old accounts to being essentially kidnapped by the one person I'd tried so hard to forget.

His apartment was in a renovated brownstone in Brooklyn Heights—spacious, modern, and utterly unfamiliar. Nothing like the cramped Manhattan studio we'd once shared after college.

'Guest room's down the hall,' he said, gesturing with his chin while balancing on his good leg. 'First door on the right.'

I should have left. Should have called Carmen, should have found another hotel. Instead, I found myself unpacking my meager belongings in a room that smelled faintly of his cologne.

Hours later, we sat on opposite ends of his sectional sofa, surrounded by takeout containers from a Thai place I didn't recognize. The food was good, but I barely tasted it.

'So,' Lennox said, breaking the silence, 'still drinking your coffee black?'

'Yes,' I replied curtly. 'Some things don't change.'

He chuckled, the sound sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine. 'Your hair's different.'

'What?' I touched my short, dark hair self-consciously.

'It's longer than you used to keep it,' he said, his eyes studying me with that same penetrating gaze. 'Suits you.'

I looked away, focusing on my pad thai. 'It's just hair, Lennox.'

'Not with you, it's not,' he said softly.

The conversation continued like that—sharp, witty banter that felt like old times, except for the undercurrent of something dangerous. Something that made my heart race every time his hand brushed mine reaching for a napkin.

Then it happened. I was laughing—actually laughing—at something stupid he'd said about our old neighbor's dog, when I felt his fingers brush a strand of hair from my face. The touch was so casual, so familiar, that for a moment I leaned into it.

Then I caught myself and jerked away, nearly knocking over my water glass.

Lennox's hand froze in mid-air, his expression unreadable. 'Sorry,' he said, though he didn't sound sorry at all.

'It's late,' I said, standing abruptly. 'I should get some sleep.'

I retreated to the guest room, my heart pounding, my skin still burning from his touch. Three years, and he could still unravel me with a single gesture.

The next morning brought a sharp knock on the apartment door. I emerged from the guest room to find Lennox hobbling toward it, his hair still damp from the shower.

The door swung open to reveal a woman I recognized instantly from social media photos—Sloan Nelson, Lennox's fiancée. Her eyes swept over me with calculated sweetness, her manicured hand trailing over the enormous diamond on her left ring finger.

'Oh, hello,' she said, her voice honey-sweet. 'You must be Judith. Lennox has mentioned you.'

She stepped past me without waiting for a response, her perfume lingering in her wake. 'Darling, where did you put those pain meds? My back is just killing me today.'

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