Hi my loves, the seeds of a new love story sprouted on Valentine’s Day. You may be surprised to learn of the unlikely source of inspiration—the trending hashtag on #antivalentinesday.
I wondered, as authors do, why would anyone be anti the day of love? But then I remembered this day can be so full of heartbreak and broken dreams for so many. I remember many Valentine’s Days on my own. I didn’t meet my partner until I was 44—I’d almost given up on love after so much heartbreak and disappointment.
So my story prompt began there, ‘where the heroine reveals all the heartbreak she has felt on Valentine’s Day.’
I hope you enjoy this excerpt, and I hope wherever you are, whoever you are with, love is in your heart. (READ TO THE END FOR THE 2-BOOK BUNDLE!)
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The restaurant was dimly lit, the scent of roses thick in the air, as if love itself had seeped into the walls. Couples leaned in, whispering sweet nothings over candlelight, their faces illuminated by the golden glow of romance. But for Sophia Hartwell, Valentine’s Day had never been anything but a cruel joke wrapped in red ribbons and false promises.
She sat alone at the corner table, nursing a glass of deep red merlot, watching the parade of lovers, feeling like a ghost haunting the holiday that had never once been kind to her.
“How many times have I been here before?” she murmured under her breath, tapping a manicured nail against the stem of her glass. “How many versions of heartbreak have I lived through on this wretched day?”
Sophia had loved. Oh, she had loved deeply, foolishly, with the kind of reckless hope that made a person believe in things like fate and forever. But Valentine’s Day had always been the day that shattered those illusions.
She thought of Ryan, her first love. Senior year. The boy with the crooked smile and a promise he’d never keep. They’d planned the perfect Valentine’s date—chocolate-covered strawberries, a lakeside picnic under the stars. But instead, he’d taken another girl. She remembered the way her heart had cracked, the humiliation burning through her cheeks as she watched them together, blissfully unaware of the devastation they’d left in their wake.
Then there was Daniel, the man she’d thought she would marry. They had spent two years wrapped in what she believed was an unshakable love. On Valentine’s Day, he’d given her a small, velvet box, and for one foolish second, she had believed it held an engagement ring. Instead, it had contained a pair of diamond earrings—his way of cushioning the blow when he told her he wasn’t ready for a lifetime together.
And James… James had been the worst of them all. A love that burned too brightly, consuming everything in its path. He had made her believe in magic, in soulmates. And then, on Valentine’s Day, he’d left. No explanation. No goodbye. Just a note on the kitchen counter that read: I can’t do this anymore.
Now, here she was, years later, a woman who had given love every chance, only to have it ripped away each time. Valentine’s Day wasn’t a celebration—it was an anniversary of loss.
A low chuckle pulled her out of her reverie. “Drowning your sorrows, Sophia?”
She turned, her gaze settling on Adrian Blackwood, the one man who had never given her a reason to hope or a reason to cry. He was handsome in that effortless way—charcoal-gray suit, dark hair just unruly enough to hint at the rebellion underneath. He slid into the seat across from her without invitation, his sharp blue eyes full of something between amusement and understanding.
“You look like a woman with a vendetta against Cupid,” he said, signaling the waiter for another glass.
She lifted a brow. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
He studied her, his gaze lingering on the way her fingers curled protectively around her glass. “Tell me,” he murmured, leaning in slightly, “why do you hate this day so much?”
Something about his tone—gentle but unrelenting—made her exhale a shaky breath. She didn’t know why she answered, why she let herself unravel in front of him, but maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the exhaustion of pretending she wasn’t wounded.
“Because Valentine’s Day has always been the day I lose,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “The day I realize love isn’t what I thought it was. It’s not grand gestures or whispered words or rings in velvet boxes. It’s disappointment wrapped in pink ribbons. It’s love letters that turn into goodbye notes.”
A shadow passed over Adrian’s face, and for the first time, she wondered what his ghosts looked like.
“You ever think,” he said slowly, “that maybe it’s not the day that’s cursed? Maybe you’ve just given your heart to the wrong people.”
Sophia let out a dry laugh. “Well, if that’s the case, my track record is abysmal.”
Adrian didn’t laugh. Instead, he reached for her hand, the unexpected warmth of his touch making her pulse stutter.
“Maybe,” he said softly, “you’ve been looking for love in the wrong places.”
She wanted to scoff, to pull away, to remind him that she was not some starry-eyed fool waiting for a love story. But something in his expression—steady, unflinching—held her still.
And for the first time in years, on a night she had always dreaded, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t lost the war on love just yet.
Adrian Blackwood had never been a man for grand gestures. He didn’t believe in sweeping declarations or hearts carved into tree trunks. Love, to him, had always been something transactional—a currency exchanged between two people who needed something from each other.
He had watched too many relationships crumble under the weight of their own illusions. His parents, once the embodiment of devotion, had shattered their marriage like fine glass, leaving behind nothing but splinters of resentment. He had learned early that love was a dangerous bet, one that left you empty-handed in the end.
And yet, sitting across from Sophia Hartwell, watching the way her shoulders curled inward as if she could protect herself from memories that still cut deep, he felt something tighten in his chest.
He had known her for years—seen her through heartbreaks, through failed love affairs, through the quiet resilience she carried like armor. But tonight, she wasn’t just the woman who had survived Valentine’s Day after Valentine’s Day of betrayal. She was the woman who had never been given the kind of love she deserved.
And for the first time in his life, he wanted to be the man who gave it to her.
Adrian leaned back, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, letting the silence stretch between them. She wasn’t looking at him—her gaze was fixed somewhere past him, past the crowded restaurant, past the years of disappointment she had relived in a single breath.
“Tell me,” he murmured, his voice low, measured. “When was the last time you believed in it?”
Sophia blinked, turning her gaze back to him. “Believed in what?”
“In love.”
She let out a breathy laugh, the kind that wasn’t really laughter at all. “I don’t think I ever did. Not really.” She paused, then admitted, “But I wanted to.”
Adrian felt that confession settle in his bones. He knew that feeling well—the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t the illusion he had always believed it to be.
“I used to think,” she continued, tracing the rim of her wine glass with a delicate finger, “that if I just gave enough, if I just loved hard enough, it would be enough to make someone stay.”
He didn’t miss the tremor in her voice. He wanted to tell her she had never been the problem. That she had never needed to prove her worth to men too blind to see it. But words had never been his weapon of choice.
Instead, he reached across the table, his fingers brushing over hers. She flinched—just barely—but she didn’t pull away.
“Maybe love isn’t about making someone stay,” he said, watching her carefully. “Maybe it’s about finding someone who doesn’t need convincing.”
Her breath hitched. And for a fleeting moment, Adrian wondered if he had said too much. If he had let too much slip.
Because this wasn’t just about Sophia’s heartbreak.
It was about his own.
About the nights he had spent convincing himself he was better off alone. About the moments he had watched her from the sidelines, never daring to step forward. About the years he had told himself he didn’t feel anything when, in reality, he had been feeling everything.
He had never wanted to be the man who caught feelings. Never wanted to be the one who saw someone else’s pain and ached to take it away.
But sitting across from Sophia, he realized that maybe love wasn’t the lie he had always believed it to be.
Maybe, just maybe, it had been waiting for him all along.
The warmth of Adrian’s fingers lingered long after he pulled away. A simple touch, nothing more. And yet, it unraveled something inside her—something she wasn’t ready to name.
Sophia had spent years building walls so high even she sometimes forgot what lay behind them. She had learned to smile through disappointment, to laugh at the absurdity of her own failed love stories, to wear her heartbreak like an elegant coat that no one could see through.
But Adrian had always seen.
It unnerved her, the way he looked at her now. Like he wasn’t just listening to her words but hearing the ones she hadn’t spoken. Like he knew how much she wanted to believe in love again but was terrified of what it might cost her.
Because that was the truth, wasn’t it?
Love had never just been a feeling for her. It had been a risk. A gamble. A slow-building hope that had shattered every time she placed her heart in someone else’s hands.
And Adrian Blackwood was a man who had never gambled with emotions.
“I don’t think I know how to trust it anymore,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Love, I mean.”
His gaze never wavered. “Maybe that’s because you’ve never been given a reason to.”
She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is.”
Sophia arched a brow, studying him. “You say that like you’ve figured it out.”
“I haven’t,” Adrian admitted. “But I know that love isn’t supposed to feel like something you have to earn.”
Her breath caught in her throat.
Because that was exactly what she had been doing—her whole life.
Trying to be enough. Trying to fit into someone else’s idea of who she should be. Trying to shape herself into the kind of woman a man might choose to stay for.
She had spent years contorting herself into someone more lovable, more desirable, more worthy. And still, they had all left.
Her first love, who chose another girl.
The man who dangled a velvet box in front of her, only to fill it with jewelry instead of promises.
The one who walked away without a goodbye, as if her love had meant nothing.
And now Adrian sat across from her, saying words that were unraveling every lie she had ever told herself.
Maybe you’ve just given your heart to the wrong people.
Maybe you’ve been looking for love in the wrong places.
Maybe love isn’t supposed to feel like something you have to earn.
She wanted to believe him.
God, she wanted to believe him.
But she was afraid.
Afraid that if she let herself believe—if she let herself hope—she would only end up proving herself right. That love was nothing more than a beautifully wrapped illusion, waiting to break her all over again.
“You think I’ve been looking in the wrong places,” she murmured, her fingers toying with the stem of her glass. “Tell me, Adrian… where should I have been looking?”
She didn’t know why she asked. Maybe she wanted to hear him say it. Maybe she wanted him to finally put words to what had been lingering between them for years.
For a long moment, he was silent.
Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he reached for her hand again—this time, threading his fingers through hers.
“Here,” he said softly. “Maybe you should have been looking here.”
The world stilled.
Sophia felt her heart slam against her ribs, her breath catching in her throat.
Because there it was—the risk.
Right in front of her.
And for the first time in a long, long time, she wondered if maybe… just maybe… it was one worth taking.
I hope you enjoyed this excerpt. The full-length story, The Valentine Gamble: A runaway bride, friends-to-lovers-romance is out now!
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p.s. you may also enjoy
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AMAZON:
US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DXDLTHW3
CA: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0DXDLTHW3
UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DXDLTHW3
AU: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B0DXDLTHW3
iBOOKS, BARNES & NOBLE AND OTHER GREAT BOOKSTORES:
https://books2read.com/u/3806ZL
The sun hung high in the sky, fierce and relentless, baking the marble courtyard beneath Haya’s bare feet. She barely noticed. She only had eyes for her daughters—her whole world wrapped in the giggles and tiny hands of three little girls.
Nine-year-old Amira, bold and fearless, twirled like a desert dancer, her dark curls catching the light. Six-year-old Laila sat cross-legged beside her, carefully painting a picture with the watercolors Haya had given her that morning. And three-year-old Noor, her baby, clutched her mother’s dress, humming softly as she traced patterns in the dust with her little fingers.
Haya closed her eyes and breathed them in, their laughter, their innocence, their scent of jasmine oil and fresh air. A moment so perfect it almost hurt.
Then she heard the gate creak open.
Kareem.
Her estranged husband’s presence always sent a chill through her, despite the blistering heat. Tall, impeccably dressed, with the kind of wealth that could buy silence, he moved with the quiet arrogance of a man who had always controlled everything—except her love.