The lie catapults into the air, seemingly small and meaningless, but I can see the unsteady house of cards threatening in the distance.
Instant regret flares in my gut, and I brace myself for the flood of questions about the stock he comes from and his finances, wishing I could reel the lie back in.
But the toothpaste is out of the tube.
“Ebony, you didn’t mention—”
And I’m not planning to.
“Gotta run. Talk later.” I hang up and dash to my car.
I reach Sterling Plaza in exactly nine minutes. Breathless, I burst through Savannah’s door, crisis mode ramping up thanks to my high-heeled sprint.
“Oh my God, hi!” I exhale a breathless sigh as I rush over to tufted cream-colored sofa across from hers. A wave of calm begins to wash over me.
Her office is spacious and serene, with elegant textured rugs in soft creams and beiges. Everywhere I look, bright hydrangeas sit in crystal vases, and vibrant floral-scented candles rest on warmer plates, soothing my senses. The place screams, “You’re in the presence of a problem solver.”
Lord, please let this woman have the answers.
“Take a minute and relax your nerves.” Savannah flashes me a soft, endearing smile.
“Ooh, I can’t thank you enough for seeing me. When I tell you I’m falling apart at the seams, and I need theLord…” An exhausted laugh spills out of me. “You look amazing, by the way,” I add, taking in how gorgeous she looks today.
She is the picture of blessed and unbothered in understated, white tailored trousers and a bold, flowy fuchsia blouse. She’s in her early fifties, but between her flawless skincare routine—one I’ve tried to imitate, thanks to her social videos—and the way her rich melanin is hitting, she doesn’t look a day over forty… Perfection.
Not to mention she’s got the social calendar to match.
Savannah Sampson is as renowned as her elite clientele. She’s got decades of experience in PR and talent management under her effortlessly chic belt. Almost single-handedly, she’s crafted the careers of actors, athletes, musicians, and executives, so the seamless transition into life coaching just made sense. Her skill in helping her clients balance their personal and professional lives has made her one of the most sought-after coaches across multiple industries. But that high demand also means she’s selective, and any new client better come prepared to be honest and vulnerable, ready to put in the work.
“Thank you. I feel good, too.” She slides her notepad onto her lap, pen in hand, signaling I’ve got the floor. “Let’s pivot a bit today, and dive into what’s making you feel like your life is unraveling.”
By the time I finish giving her the rundown on everything that’s happened over the past three weeks—seeing Julian for the first time since the divorce, gearing up to plan an event that reconnects me to Cornelia, and now a love interest I’ve pulled out of thin air to throw off Mom—Savannah is nodding, her expression showing she gets why an emergency session was a must.
I don’t even get to Lincoln Bridges or the fact that Hillary has ignored my last three calls and texts. At this point, it feels like overkill.
I’m fully expecting her to latch on to the low-hanging fruit, taking on a wedding after a year-long hiatus.
Except she throws me for a whole loop when she fixes me with a pensive stare and asks, “Do you want Julian back?”
Julian?
The crease between my eyebrows deepens, and I gasp. “What? No!”
She gives me that slow, deliberate nod—the kind that usually means she’s weighing the truth in my words.
So, just to make it clear that hussy of a new anchor can have him, I repeat myself. “No. I absolutely do not want him back, under any circumstances.”
Again, she nods her understanding.
But a flicker of disbelief flashes inside me. Out of everything I just unloaded,Julianis what she thinks I’m most hung up on?How? Why?
“Savannah, I’ve spent the last year finding my footing again,” I say, the weight of this truth settling in my chest. “Yes, it was awkward and unnerving seeing him face to face, but trust me, I’m more certain than ever. I’m ready to embrace my independence, redefine my life on my own terms—without the social constraints set by my mother, the Livingstons, or any other highfalutin, entitled folks who think they get to dictate how I live my life.”
“And you feel like you’re ready to set goals and action steps toward that end?”
I pause, considering what she’s really asking. I’m not even sure what life looked like before everyone started telling me what it should be. “Honestly?”
She nods, her pen poised above the page.
