Like she hadn’t processed it yet.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and to my surprise, I meant it.
She nodded slowly.
“It’s been rough.”
Another long silence.
And I asked finally, “What does that have to do with me?”
She looked down at her hands, then back up.
Her eyes were glassy.
“Because it wasn’t just a breakup, Dylan. It was everything. The money, the apartment, the travel, the security. It was all his. I didn’t even realize how much I depended on him until it was gone.”
I stayed quiet.
“I had to move out last week. Back in with mom and dad.”
She gave a bitter laugh.
“You can imagine how that’s going.”
Oh, I could.
“They’re being polite for now. Like I’m some refugee they’re trying to host until I can find my footing. But you know how long that’ll last.”
I did.
I didn’t need to imagine my dad’s passive aggressive quips or mom’s smothering silence.
I’d lived it.
“And grandma?” I asked.
She flinched.
“Worse. She acts like I failed her. Like I embarrassed the family name or something. Told me I should have locked it down before Lucas changed his mind.”
“Charming.”
She nodded.
“She’s been pushing me to get back into influencer stuff. Build a brand. Start a YouTube. Try to revive the glow up, whatever that means.”
I waited a moment before speaking.
“So, you call me because you want a job?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Not a job, just advice, guidance. I know you hate me and I don’t blame you, but you built something from nothing. And I…”
She paused, her voice catching.
“I don’t know who I am without the stuff, the photos, the places, the people. I don’t even know what I’m good at.”
There it was, raw, unfiltered.
The most honest thing I’d heard her say in years.
I leaned back and took a breath.
Part of me wanted to end it there, wish her luck, and walk away.
She’d laughed when I brought up my company, mocked me in front of the whole family.
Let them all believe I was exaggerating or lying.
And now she was asking for help.
But the other part of me, the quieter part, saw something I hadn’t expected.
Leverage.
Not the cruel, manipulative kind.
But the strategic kind.
The kind you use not to hurt, but to shift the story.
Because for the first time in our lives, she was the one asking.
And I wasn’t going to waste that moment.
So I leaned forward.
“You want guidance?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Then here’s the first rule,” I said. “If you want to rebuild, you have to let the old version of yourself die.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
“I’m serious. You don’t get to play both sides. You can’t chase sympathy while clinging to the old image. You can’t be humbled and still flex for likes. You want to start over? Then burn the old playbook.”
She hesitated, then nodded again slowly this time, like she knew I was right.
I sipped my coffee and waited.
And that’s when she told me the rest about how Lucas wasn’t just her fianceé.
He was her financial pipeline.
His name was on everything.
The lease, the bank accounts, even the car.
She had no savings, no plan, no backup.
The sponsorships had dried up months ago when her engagement story stopped trending.
She was broke completely.
But it was what she said next that made me sit up.
“I didn’t just come to you for advice,” she said. “I came because grandma’s been talking.”
My stomach tightened.
“About what?”
“She’s planning something. A fundraiser, a gala, or something ridiculous for the foundation.”
“But it’s not just that. She’s trying to position herself as this philanthropic legend, using me as the face. She wants me to redeem myself by stepping into the spotlight again. Play the fallen angel who found her way back to grace.”