The Exes and The Architect Chapter 1

I’ve had four boyfriends.

The first was an arrogant, old-money scion. I chased him for two years. We lasted three months.

When he dumped me, he looked down his nose at me, his eyes cold. "Harper, to me, you were just a game."

The second was a brilliant academic, an associate professor. I pursued him, too. We were together for a year.

His smile was gentle when he ended it. "Reed, I don’t have the time to wait for you to grow up."

The third was an A-List actor. Ironically, he was the one who chased me.

When he cast me aside, his voice was laced with spite. "A bastard child is a nasty thing, after all. You just need a little attention and you come crawling."

Years later, when I finally announced my marriage to the fourth, they all came calling.

* * *

Life’s a long journey, and with you, I’ll take my time.

I posted the announcement on my social media—a picture of Owen Maxwell and me, our signed marriage license held up between us.

Friends flooded the comments with a gratifying wave of love and blessings.

Then I saw one comment that felt like a needle scratching glass.

Are you seriously going through with this?

It was from Elias Hawthorne. My first boyfriend. My so-called first love, though the ending was so humiliatingly brutal that it purged him of any possibility of becoming a "ghost of my past" or "the one that got away."

Given Elias’s staggering arrogance, I was surprised he hadn't scrubbed me from his contacts entirely. Maybe he kept me around as a footnote, a minor conquest he occasionally enjoyed glancing at, like a museum piece he owned.

I replied to the well-wishers, pointedly ignoring Elias’s loaded question.

I sent a quick voice note to Owen: "Could you pick up that small blueberry micro-cake on your way back?"

The moment I hit send, a new message popped up, and my hand actually trembled: Marcus Albright. Why on earth was Marcus texting me?

You're getting married?

My feelings toward Marcus were complicated, a tangled knot of longing and anger. When we were together, I had truly envisioned a future—house, dogs, kids, the whole middle-class dream.

Marcus was a PhD Candidate when we met, six years my senior, polished, polite, and overwhelmingly gentle.

He was just as calm when he ended things. I had been hysterical, pleading with him not to leave, yet he’d simply dried my tears and smiled that serene, hollow smile. "Harper, you’re just too immature. I don't have the time to help you find yourself."

Marcus was always so painstakingly controlled. Even when I was a screaming mess, he remained detached. He listed my failings like bullet points in a dissertation, which, for months afterward, sent me spiraling into crippling self-doubt and emotional exhaustion.

But those dark days were behind me. I glanced at the marriage license resting on my coffee table. I had found my ground.

Yes. We signed the papers this morning.

The "typing..." indicator stayed on for a long time. Finally, one sentence came through: Congratulations, and happy wedding.

Thank you, Professor.

It was startling. The intense love and the residual sting of betrayal I felt for Marcus had, with time, faded into something polite and dull.

I logged off the chat and scrolled through social media. The top news story was A-List actor Dean Kinsley’s live-stream. He had been on camera when his expression suddenly froze into a dark scowl.

The comments section was full of speculation: What did the king see? His face just went totally black!

I raised an eyebrow. Dean Kinsley, still unable to mask his immediate emotions. Given his massive family influence and Hollywood status, I supposed he never needed to hide anything.

Dean was my third ex. Although the words he used when we broke up were cruel, they hadn’t cut deep. From the first day we started dating, I knew it wouldn't last. I knew his motives were shaky, but I was so crushingly lonely then. When he pursued me, I accepted.

I was slightly curious what news had wiped the smile off his face.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Owen was back, holding my small cake.

Looking at the towering, solid man in front of me, it was still hard to believe we were finally here.