Valentine’s Day was supposed to be simple: just dinner. Nothing more. Nothing less. But by the time I left that restaurant, my world had shattered. And I had no idea my night was only going to get stranger.
My name’s Briar. I’m 28. I was deep into an EMT course, the first thing I’d wanted this badly since I was a kid. And yes, I’m still mad about those tiny heart-shaped butter pats.
I’d even quit my job because my boyfriend, Jace, insisted. “Briar, you’re burning out,” he said. “Let me handle rent while you focus. Two months and you’re certified.”
I poked at my pasta, my stomach twisting like it was tumbling down stairs. “What if something happens?” I asked.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” he said.
Well… something happened.
Jace took me to a candlelit restaurant that looked like it came straight out of a rom-com. Roses on every table, soft music floating through the air, couples doing that intense-eye-contact thing that makes everyone else feel invisible. The waiter even called us “lovebirds.” I almost evaporated on the spot.
“Are you serious?” I whispered.
Jace smiled too hard. He drank half his wine in ten minutes. I poked at my pasta. My stomach still felt like it was tumbling down stairs.
Halfway through, he put down his fork.
“Briar… I don’t think I’m in this the way you are,” he said calmly.
I blinked. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not fighting. I’m asking what you mean.”
He nodded, like he was trying to be gentle. “I’m sorry. I just… I don’t feel excited anymore.”
Four years. Four years reduced to: “not excited.”
“Not excited,” I repeated, disbelief cutting through me.
“I don’t want to fight,” he said.
“I’m not fighting. I’m asking what you mean,” I repeated, my voice trembling.
“You begged me to focus. You said you’d support me until I finished.”
I laughed, sharp and bitter. “You told me to quit my job.”
“I didn’t force you,” he said.
My hands were shaking. “You begged me to focus. You said you’d support me until I finished!”
He rubbed his forehead. “I’m not saying I regret supporting you. I’m saying I can’t do it anymore.”
I stared at him, feeling my world crumble. “So you waited until Valentine’s Day, in public, to tell me you’re done?”
“It’s not like that,” he said, shrugging.
“What is it, then?”
“I don’t know. I just… don’t feel it.”
Something in me gave up. If he wanted to leave, I couldn’t make him stay.
“Can we talk like adults?” I said.
“Okay,” he replied, relieved.
“Okay. Then we’re done.”
“Briar—”
I stood, grabbed my coat. “Enjoy your wine.”
I couldn’t go home. Home was our apartment.
“Can we talk like adults?” he snapped.
“Adults don’t pull the rug out from under someone and then demand a calm tone,” I said.
“I said I’m sorry,” he said.
“With the same voice you use when the Wi-Fi’s out,” I muttered, and I walked out.
The cold air hit me like a slap. Outside was a sick joke: hearts in windows, couples holding flowers like trophies, people laughing in romantic bubbles I couldn’t reach. Two months left in my EMT course. No job. My life upside down.
I walked, because standing still felt like drowning.
Halfway down the block, I heard a wet, awful wheeze from an alley between a bar and a boutique. At first, I thought it was a drunk guy. Then I saw him: a man crumpled near a dumpster, convulsing.
I looked around. Nobody moved.
A woman covered her nose. “Oh my God, he smells.”
A guy in a blazer muttered, “Don’t touch him. He probably has something.”
I dropped to my knees. “CALL 911!”
A teenager fumbled with his phone. “Okay, okay!”
Scene safe enough. Check responsiveness.
“Sir, can you hear me?”
“I need someone to flag the ambulance!”
Breathing barely there. Pulse weak. Lips blue.
I laced my hands and started compressions, hard and fast, counting out loud to stay steady. My arms burned. Sweat froze on my back.
Sirens finally cut through the night. Paramedics rushed in, one dropping beside me.
“You started compressions?”
“Yes,” I panted. “No effective breathing. Weak pulse. Cyanotic.”
“Good work,” he said, taking over with precise confidence that made the chaos make sense.
They lifted him onto a stretcher. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked straight at me, desperate.
“Marker,” he rasped.
“What?”
The next morning, a knock at my door.
He grabbed my wrist, shoved a marker into my hand. “Your name. Write it. So I don’t forget.”
I wrote: BRIAR.
He stared at it like it was a lifeline, then the ambulance doors closed.
I walked home like underwater. Showered, cried until my throat hurt. Not just about Jace. About fighting for my life, my dreams, my sanity, in a world that sometimes didn’t move when it mattered.
The next morning, a black limo waited. Standing there, clean and calm, was the man from the alley.
“You’re the woman who saved my life yesterday, right?” he said.
I froze. “Either I hit my head, or you’re about to sell me something.”
“Murray from the dumpster,” he said, laughing.
I crossed my arms. “Murray from the dumpster.”
“Yes,” he winced.
“Why are you here?”
“Can I explain? If you still tell me to get lost, I will,” he said.
“I found you in an alley,” I said.
“I’m an heir,” he said. “Family estate. Money. My last parent died last week. Landed late, walked to my hotel. Got robbed, chased them, got hit, woke up in that alley.”
“So why are you here?”
“Because you were ‘trash’ for a night,” I said, hating the word.
“One night was enough for most people to decide I didn’t count,” he said quietly. “At the hospital, I proved who I was. Estate sent people. Convenient? Maybe. But you just helped.”
He offered me a temporary job: stay at the estate part-time, sit in on meetings, take notes, ask questions, speak up if something felt off.
“How much?” I asked.
“No,” I said. “That’s a ‘buy a person’ amount.”
“I’m not trapped,” he said.
“I’m in an EMT course. Two months left. I’m not quitting.”
“Agreed.”
“If anything feels weird, I’m out.”
“Written contract,” I added.
“Agreed.”
“And a title that doesn’t sound like a cult,” I said.
He laughed. “Fair.”
Over the next weeks, I became Murray’s boundary. I sat in meetings, watched faces, asked questions, kept things honest. I arranged for my apartment things to be picked up.
When someone pushed papers and said, “Urgent,” I asked, “Why urgent? Who benefits from speed?” The guy’s smile faltered. Murray nodded. “Yeah. Why is it urgent?”
Meanwhile, Jace texted like he was doing me a favor.
When he showed up with a friend, I had a printed inventory.
“You’re kidding me?” he said.
“Nope,” I said. “Start with the TV.”
His friend laughed nervously. “Damn, Briar, intense.”
“I’m accurate,” I said.
When I said, loud enough for the hallway, “You’re not taking the laptop. I bought that before you moved in,” Jace’s jaw dropped.
I worked nights at a clinic, studied whenever I could, and finished my course without Jace’s money. Sometimes Murray’s driver took me from work to class when timing got tight. Murray never made it weird. He just made space.
Two months later, I passed my final assessment. I walked out shaking, not from fear, but relief.
That night, I went back to my apartment for the last of my things. I called my friend first. Then Murray.
“I passed,” I said, voice cracking.
He was quiet a beat. “Of course you did.”
In the lobby, I ran into Jace.
“So… you’re doing okay?”
“Yeah. I am.”
He frowned. “I guess you never really needed me. Maybe you were just using me.”
“I needed support,” I said. “You offered it. Then you pulled it. I never asked for it. You offered it.”
He opened his mouth. I lifted my hand. “Don’t.”
I walked past him. Cold air hit my face. It didn’t feel like punishment anymore. I’d taken hold of my life. I was proud.
The weather was still cold, but I could feel warmth returning. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t waiting for anyone else to decide my life.
I had it. Mine.