Carter's POV
The ballroom of the Grand Meridian Hotel glittered with the kind of opulence that still made me uncomfortable, even seven years into my sobriety. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen explosions of light above the crowd, casting diamond-shaped shadows over faces I mostly didn't recognize. Men in tailored suits clutched champagne flutes, women in evening gowns laughed at precisely calibrated volumes. A ballet of wealth and influence, choreographed down to the smallest gesture.
I adjusted my tie for the fourth time in ten minutes, feeling the familiar tightness in my chest that social events like this always triggered. Finding investors for a small, independent publishing house wasn't easy, especially when your resume included a year-long gap tactfully labeled as "personal sabbatical"—corporate speak for rehab and recovery.
"You look like you're planning an emergency exit," Meredith said, appearing at my shoulder with two glasses of sparkling water. My boss and mentor handed me one, her eyes scanning the room with the practiced ease of someone who had navigated these waters her entire life.
"Just cataloging the nearest escape routes," I admitted, accepting the water gratefully. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to another former escape artist," she replied with a knowing smile. Meredith had been sober for fifteen years. She'd taken a chance on me when no one else would, bringing me into Horizon Publishing when I was still struggling to find a job.
If it hadn't been for Olivia and Sebastian's recommendation, I doubt I would've gotten the interview. Former junkies don't exactly top the hiring lists, even at progressive publishing houses. But Sebastian had gone to college with Meredith's son, and Olivia had written me a reference letter that made me sound like a literary prodigy rather than a recovering addict desperately trying to piece together some semblance of a future.
"Remember," Meredith said, voice dropping to ensure privacy, "half the people in this room are as uncomfortable as you are. The difference is they're pretending not to be."
I nodded, taking a slow breath. "I just need to convince three people that our literary fiction imprint is worth investing in."
"And you will," she said simply, with the unwavering confidence that had kept me going on my darkest days. "Your passion for these books is your superpower, Carter. Let them see that."
Before I could respond, someone caught her attention, and she excused herself, leaving me with my sparkling water and my anxiety. I scanned the crowd, mentally rehearsing my pitch about the importance of publishing diverse voices and experimental formats in an increasingly homogenized literary landscape.
That's when I saw her.
She stood near one of the tall windows, framed by heavy burgundy curtains. Her midnight blue dress seemed to absorb and refract light differently than the sequined and beaded gowns around her. Simpler, more elegant. Her hair was pulled back in a loose arrangement that revealed the graceful line of her neck.
For a moment, I thought I was imagining things. It had been six months since Olivia and Sebastian's wedding. Six months since I'd sat on a curb eating pistachio ice cream with a woman whose name I never learned.
I'd thought about her often in the quiet moments between deadlines and meetings. The woman in the garden who spoke about paintings and starlight, and lives written by someone else. I'd looked for her name in gallery programs, wondering if she'd ever claimed her art publicly.
Now she was here, smiling politely at something a tall man beside her was saying. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. I recognized that smile—I'd worn it countless times during early recovery, when I was physically present but emotionally somewhere else entirely. A smile that said, "I'm here because I have to be, but I'd rather be anywhere else."
The man next to her had his hand firmly on her lower back, fingers splayed possessively. He was talking to an older couple, gesturing emphatically with his free hand while keeping her anchored to his side. She stood perfectly still, like a prize on display.
"Carter? Carter West?"
I turned to find Phillip Werner, one of the angel investors I'd been hoping to connect with tonight. His handshake was firm, his smile genuine.
"Mr. Werner, it's a pleasure to finally meet you in person," I said, switching into professional mode despite the distraction pulling at my attention from across the room.
"Please, it's Phillip. Meredith speaks very highly of you and your vision for Horizon's new imprint."
We talked for twenty minutes about publishing trends, market segments, and the surprising resilience of print books in a digital age. I found my rhythm, the passion for my work overriding my social anxiety. When he asked for a formal proposal by the end of the month, I knew I'd made progress.
As he moved away to greet other guests, my eyes found her again. This time, she was alone, studying a large abstract painting on the far wall. Without allowing myself to overthink it, I made my way toward her, weaving between clusters of conversations.
"It's interesting," I said, coming to stand beside her, "but I think I prefer your work."
She turned, confusion giving way to recognition. Her eyes widened slightly, lips parting in surprise.
"You," she said softly. "The ice cream philosopher from the wedding."
I smiled. "Carter," I reminded her. "Though 'ice cream philosopher' has a nice ring to it."
"I remember your name," she said, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I just didn't expect to see you here."
"Likewise," I replied. "Are you exhibiting tonight?"
She shook her head. "No, I'm here with—" She paused, glancing over my shoulder. "I'm here with my fiancé, Aaron. He's one of the event sponsors." She gestured toward the tall man I'd seen her with earlier, now deep in conversation with a group of similarly polished-looking executives.
"And you?" she asked. "What brings you to this particular den of networking and performative philanthropy?"
I laughed at her description. "Work. I'm trying to secure funding for an independent publishing imprint I'm developing."
"You're in publishing?" There was genuine interest in her voice.
"Editorial director at Horizon Publishing," I said. "We're small, but growing. Mostly literary fiction and narrative non-fiction."
"That's..." She seemed to search for the right word. "That sounds meaningful."
Before I could respond, she added, "I still don't know what to call you besides Carter. I never introduced myself that night."
"You didn't," I agreed.
"I'm Aishwariya," she said, offering her hand as if we were meeting for the first time. "Aishwariya Patel."
"It's nice to officially meet you, Aishwariya," I said, taking her hand. It was cool and soft, her grip surprisingly firm.
The name triggered something in my memory—a faint recognition. I'd heard or read it somewhere before. But I couldn't place it.
"So," she said, turning back to the painting. "Do you always remember people's artwork that you've never actually seen?"
I smiled. "I remember everything about that night," I said simply. "Including how passionately you spoke about your painting."
She looked slightly embarrassed. "I was in a strange mood that evening."
"We both were," I admitted. "Did you ever go? To the gallery, I mean."
A complicated expression crossed her face. "No," she said after a moment. "I convinced myself it wasn't important."
I wanted to ask her more—why she'd hidden her name, whether she was still painting, if she ever intended to show her work publicly. But her boyfriend was approaching us, a possessive smile on his face.
"Darling, there you are," he said, placing a hand on the small of her back. "The Goldmans are asking about the charity auction pieces."
He barely glanced at me, his attention fixed on her. I watched her posture shift subtly, straightening, becoming more polished, less real somehow. Her shoulders tensed under his touch, almost imperceptibly.
"Aaron, this is Carter West," she said. "He's an editorial director at Horizon Publishing. Carter, this is Aaron Wells."
Aaron's eyes assessed me quickly, calculating my value in this room. "Publishing? Interesting industry these days. Digital really changing the landscape, isn't it?" His voice carried the practiced precision of someone used to speaking in courtrooms.
It was the kind of generic comment people made when they weren't interested in your answer. Before I could respond, someone called his name from across the room.
"Duty calls," he said. "Nice to meet you. Aish, don't forget about the Goldmans." He kissed her cheek and strode away, immediately engaging with a silver-haired couple by the bar.
"Aish?" I asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Only he calls me that," she said, her tone difficult to read. "I've never particularly liked it."
"Then why—" I started, but she cut me off.
"It's not important," she said quickly. "So, tell me about your publishing venture. What makes it special?"
I recognized a deflection when I heard one, but I respected her boundary. For the next fifteen minutes, we talked about books and authors. Her knowledge of contemporary literature surprised me—she spoke passionately about experimental novels and narrative structures. This wasn't casual interest; this was someone who lived inside stories.
"Do you write?" I asked finally.
"No," she said, then seemed to reconsider. "Well, not really. I journal. I used to write stories when I was younger."
"What happened?"
She shrugged. "Life. Practicality. The usual culprits."
"That night you told me your secrets, but I did not so here I am sharing a very imp part of my life."
Aishwariya's eyes met mine, curious.
"Olivia and Sebastian—they're more than just friends to me. They helped me get back on my feet after a really dark period." I paused, wondering how much to reveal to this near-stranger who nonetheless felt familiar. "I struggled with addiction for years. Started with prescription painkillers after a football injury in high school, spiraled from there. They stuck by me when most people walked away."
Her expression didn't change to the usual mix of discomfort and pity I often saw when disclosing my past. Instead, she just nodded, her eyes thoughtful.
"That explains the sparkling water," she said, nodding toward my glass.
I smiled, grateful for her easy acceptance. "Six years sober next month."
"And they helped you get your job?" she asked perceptively.
"They did," I admitted. "Not many places are eager to hire someone with 'recovering addict' on their resume, even if it's unwritten."
"That must have been challenging," she said quietly.
"It still is, sometimes," I said honestly. "Rooms like this..." I gestured around us. "They used to be where I'd disappear into a chemical cushion. Now I have to face all the anxiety raw."
"Is that why you looked so uncomfortable earlier?" she asked.
I was surprised she'd noticed. "Partly. Mostly, I just hate the performance of it all. The masks, the posturing."
"I imagine you've worn your share of masks," she said, her insight catching me off guard.
"More than I can count," I agreed. "The high-functioning addict mask was my specialty for years. What about you? What masks are you wearing tonight?"
Something flickered in her eyes—recognition, perhaps vulnerability. "Too many to name," she said softly.
I glanced across the room to where Aaron stood, now commanding attention from a small circle of admirers. "He seems... intense," I observed carefully.
She followed my gaze. "He's a corporate attorney. Senior partner at Mitchell, Calloway, and Dean. Everything is a negotiation to him." Her voice was neutral, but I caught the slight tightening around her eyes.
"Including relationships?" I asked before I could stop myself.
She gave me a sharp look, then softened. "You're perceptive."
"Occupational hazard," I said. "Editors are professional people-watchers."
"What else do you see?" she asked, an unexpected challenge in her voice.
I considered her for a moment. "I see someone who's built a life that looks perfect from the outside. Someone who helps create beautiful moments for others. Someone who speaks about art and literature with more passion than she does about her own life." I paused. "Someone who might be surviving rather than living."
Her sharp intake of breath told me I'd hit a nerve.
"That's quite an assessment from someone who's met me twice," she said, but there was no anger in her tone. Well here it is She doesn't remember about the rooftop at all.
"Am I wrong?" I asked gently.
She looked away. "Aaron is waiting for me," she said, deflecting again. "I should go."
I nodded, understanding. "Of course."
But she didn't move immediately. Instead, she asked, "How did you do it? Move from surviving to living?"
The question felt weighted with unspoken meaning. I considered my answer carefully.
"I started making choices based on what I wanted my life to mean, not what would keep me safe or make others comfortable," I said. "I stopped hiding behind my mistakes and started creating something new."
I watched her absorb my words, something vulnerable flickering across her face.
"For a long time after rehab, I was just surviving—going through the motions, checking boxes, proving to everyone that I could be responsible and stable. It took me years to realize that wasn't enough."
The room seemed to fade around us as I continued, "We convince ourselves that getting through each day is an achievement—and sometimes it is. There are seasons when survival is all we can manage. But at some point, we have to ask ourselves what we're surviving for."
Her eyes never left mine as I spoke. I could see her holding her breath slightly.
"What changed for you?" she asked softly. "What was the turning point?"
"I realized that my fear of failing again was keeping me from trying at all," I said. "And a life built around avoiding failure isn't much of a life."
Aaron's voice cut through our conversation, calling her name from across the room. I watched her flinch slightly at the sound.
"I need to go," she said, but made no move to leave.
"Aishwariya!" Aaron called again, more insistently.
I saw the resignation in her eyes. "It was good seeing you again, Carter."
"Likewise," I said. As she turned to leave, I added, "By the way, I meant what I said that night. About your painting."
She paused, looking back at me with a question in her eyes.
"It matters," I said simply. "Whether anyone knows it's yours or not."
Something like recognition passed between us—an acknowledgment of the strange intimacy we'd shared twice now, separated by months and circumstances.
Then she was gone, moving through the crowd toward Aaron, who welcomed her with a proprietary arm around her waist. He leaned down to whisper something in her ear, his expression displeased. I watched her straighten her shoulders and nod, the mask sliding firmly back into place.
Two hours later, the gala was winding down. I'd had productive conversations with several potential investors and was feeling cautiously optimistic about Horizon's future. Meredith had already left, encouraging me to "work the room" a little longer before heading out.
I was retrieving my coat from the check when I felt someone approach behind me.
"Surviving or living?" Aishwariya asked softly.
I turned to find her standing there, coat already on, a small clutch bag in her hands. "A little of both tonight," I answered honestly. "You?"
"Surviving," she said. "Barely."
I nodded toward the ballroom. "Where's Aaron?"
"Still networking. He'll be at least another hour." She hesitated. "I told him I had a headache."
"Do you?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "But not the kind of painkillers can fix."
We stood in silence for a moment, the unspoken hanging between us.
"I recognized your name earlier," I said finally. "Aishwariya Patel. There was a painting at the Wilton Gallery last spring—A woman in a beautiful cage, reaching through the bars toward a horizon only she could see.
Her sharp intake of breath confirmed my suspicion.
"That was yours, wasn't it?" I asked gently. "The exhibition you mentioned at the wedding."
She nodded, eyes widening. "How did you know?"
"I didn't, not then," I said. "But I went to that exhibition. Your painting stayed with me
She looked stunned. "You saw it?"
"I did more than see it," I admitted. "I tried to buy it."
"What?" she whispered.
"It had already sold," I said. "I was too late."
She was quiet for a long moment. "Why would you want to buy it?"
"Because it was the most honest thing in that gallery," I said simply. "Everything else felt like it was trying too hard to be important or shocking or intellectual. Your painting just... was."
Her eyes searched mine, as if looking for deception. Finding none, she said, "I stopped painting after that exhibition."
"Why?"
"Because no one knew it was me," she said, a tremor in her voice. "The painting sold, critics mentioned it favorably in reviews, and I couldn't... I couldn't claim any of it."
"You can still paint," I said. "Under your own name this time."
She shook her head. "It's not that simple."
"It never is," I agreed. "But the question is whether it's worth it to you."
She glanced over her shoulder, a habitual movement that spoke volumes about her relationship with Aaron. "He thinks art is a hobby, not a career. Says I should be grateful I have a successful business instead of 'dabbling in paints.'"
The familiar words made my stomach tighten. I'd heard similar dismissals during my active addiction—people who reduced complex pain and struggle to simple character flaws.
"And what do you think?" I asked.
"I think..." she started, then paused. "I think I'm tired of being someone else's version of myself."
I nodded, understanding perfectly. "That's how recovery starts," I said quietly. "With that exact realization."
She looked at me sharply. "I'm not an addict."
"No," I agreed. "But you're trapped in patterns that are keeping you from being who you really are. The way out looks remarkably similar."
She seemed to consider this, her expression thoughtful. "I should go."
I nodded, understanding. "It was good seeing you again, Aishwariya."
She turned to leave, then paused. "Could I..." she began, then seemed to think better of it.
"What?" I prompted gently.
"Never mind," she said. "Good night, Carter."
I watched her walk toward the elevators, her posture straight but something defeated in the line of her shoulders. As the elevator doors were closing, she looked back at me. Our eyes met briefly before the doors shut completely.
I stood there longer than necessary, coat in hand, replaying our conversation. Something about her reminded me of myself three years ago—trapped in a life that looked good on paper but felt empty inside. The difference was, I'd had to hit rock bottom before I could rebuild. I hoped she'd find another way out.
As I stepped out into the cool night air, I pulled out my phone and did something impulsive. I searched for "Aishwariya Patel event planning" and found her company website. Under "Contact," I clicked on the email address and composed a quick message:
Aishwariya,
If you ever want to talk about art, publishing, or the difference between surviving and living, my door is always open. No expectations, no pressure.
- Carter
I hit send before I could think better of it, then slipped my phone back into my pocket and hailed a cab. As the city lights blurred past the window, I thought about second chances and the strange ways lives intersect.
I didn't know if she would respond. I didn't know if our paths would cross again. But something told me this wasn't the end of our story.
Because the sky, vast and mysterious, still remained above us both.