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I walk into a memorial night and find another woman sitting where I used to. She wears my biker's spare cut as if it belongs to her. "It's cold in here." Emmalynn sat there in Cassius's leather like a woman trying to explain why she was wearing another wife's robe. I nodded once. "Then you should tell whoever gave you that to fix the heat." The room kept breathing around us. Cassius lowered his voice. "Tiana, not here." I pressed both palms flat against my thighs until the shaking stopped. For eight years, I had mistaken knowing for belonging. No ring. MC men liked words like claimed and mine, but Cassius gave me keys instead. The clubhouse. His house. His truck. A whole life in metal teeth. I reached into the front pocket of my jeans and worked it free. I stepped closer and dropped the key into his palm. The same hand that had slid beneath my shirt in our kitchen. The same hand that had, at some point, offered his jacket to another woman. He went still. Good. Let him feel one small thing coming and not be able to stop it. I looked past him to Emmalynn. "Keep it," I said. I moved toward the hall and didn't turn around. Cassius did not follow me when I pushed through the hallway door. He did not call my name. Maybe he knew I would not answer. Maybe he had chosen, again, the room behind him. ————— Tiana Floyd balanced the tray of clean glasses against her hip and shouldered open the clubhouse door with the part of her body that didn’t already ache from twelve hours in the garage. Noise hit first. Bass from the old speakers near the pool table. Men shouting over a card game. Bottles clinking. Someone laughing too loud near the bar like grief had rules and everybody was trying to break them before midnight. The memorial banner for Big Ron hung crooked over the far wall, black cloth, white letters, one corner sagging where the tape had given up. Tiana noticed that before she noticed anything else because she always noticed what needed fixing. The banner. The sticky patch by the bar mat. The stack of plates nobody had moved from the kitchen pass-through. The Harley carburetor Pierce had left on the end table like furniture. Her hands were still damp from the dishwasher at Black Harbor Cycles. She had stayed after closing to finish the glasses because Molly said the clubhouse was short tonight, and because Big Ron had once driven forty minutes in sleet to bring Tiana a torque wrench when hers snapped during a rush job. She had not come for Cassius. She told herself that while she stepped inside. Half the room went quiet. Not all the way. A biker clubhouse never went silent unless there was a gun on the table or blood on the floor. But the sound dipped wrong. A card slapped down too soft. Someone cut off a laugh before it landed. Molly Bradley looked up from behind the bar and then looked down so fast she nearly knocked over a bottle of Jack. Tiana kept walking. One boot in front of the other. Tray steady. Chin level. She had learned that from the men in this room, though none of them knew it. Don’t flinch where they can see. Don’t bleed on their floor unless you plan to charge them for cleanup. Her corner was taken. The old corner booth sat beneath the framed photo of the club’s first Tacoma run, the one where Cassius was twenty-three, leaner, meaner, wearing no VP patch yet and grinning at the camera like he didn’t know how rarely life let a man keep anything. Tiana used to sit under that photo during long nights, one knee tucked up, parts catalog open, Cassius’s hand warm on the back of her neck whenever he passed behind her. Emmalynn Shields sat there now. Not just in the booth. In Tiana’s place. She had one leg crossed over the other, pretty boot swinging, pale hair falling over the shoulder of Cassius Parrish’s spare leather jacket. His jacket. The black one with the torn inner cuff Tiana had stitched by hand last winter because Cassius refused to replace leather that had “good road left in it.” She had used gray thread because black was missing from her kit, and he had teased her for three days, telling everybody his woman marked him like a bad repair job. The gray stitches flashed under the clubhouse lights when Emmalynn lifted her drink. Tiana’s fingers tightened under the tray. One glass shifted. Barely. Cassius sat beside Emmalynn, not touching her, which somehow made it worse. If his hand had been on her thigh, Tiana could have thrown the tray, cursed him out, made the room take sides. But he sat with a few inches between them, shoulders turned toward Devon Black, expression carved down to business. Respectable. Manageable. Nothing to see here unless you were the woman who knew the jacket smelled like cedar soap, gun oil, and Cassius’s skin after a ride. Emmalynn looked up. Her smile came slow, careful around the edges. The kind of smile a woman wore when she wanted to look sorry without giving anything back. “Tiana,” she said, voice soft enough to make Tiana sound rude if she didn’t answer. “Hey.” Cassius turned. There it was. Not guilt first. Not shock. Calculation. His eyes moved over the tray, her grease-stained cuffs, her wet hairline from the kitchen steam, the empty space by the door behind her. He took in the room like a VP before he took her in like a man. That was the first thing that cut clean. “Tiana,” he said, already rising. Too late. She walked to the bar. Molly reached for the tray. “I can take those.” “I’ve got it.” “Tee—” “I said I’ve got it.” Molly’s mouth closed. Her hands curled around the bar rag until the terry cloth twisted white between her fingers. Tiana set the glasses down one by one instead of dumping them. Pint glasses on the lower shelf. Shot glasses near the register. Big Ron’s old chipped mug, washed and dried for no good reason, behind the tap where he used to leave it. Her body knew the work. Her hands could do it while the rest of her stood in that half-second of room silence, still hearing it stretch. ...... Behind her, Cassius moved. She knew his walk better than she knew the sound of her own truck. Heavy right step from the knee injury he pretended didn’t bother him in cold weather. Chain at his belt. Boots that never scraped because he picked up his feet like a man who expected broken glass. “Tiana.” She reached for the bar rag Molly wasn’t using and wiped a ring of beer from the counter. “You working tonight?” Molly asked, too bright. Tiana looked at her then. Molly had been the one who brought soup when Tiana had the flu two winters ago. Molly had helped her paint the garage office blue because Cassius claimed he didn’t care about wall colors and then spent the next month leaning in the doorway like he loved watching Tiana get specks of paint in her hair. Molly had sat in this very clubhouse and said old ladies survived because they told each other what the men were too stupid to say. Now Molly couldn’t hold her eyes. “No,” Tiana said. “I’m not working.” The words settled. A couple of brothers near the pool table stopped pretending not to listen. Cassius came up on her left. Close, but not crowding. He knew better. That almost made her want to laugh. “Can we step outside?” he asked. She wiped the same clean spot again. “Why?” His jaw ticked once. “Because this isn’t the place.” Tiana folded the rag. Made the corners meet. Pressed it flat with her palm. “Funny.” “Tiana.” She turned then, and the first full sight of him hurt in a way she had not prepared for. Cassius Parrish still looked like the man who used to come home after midnight and peck her shoulder before washing his hands because he knew she hated oil on the sheets. Broad chest under his black cut. VP patch at the front. Dark beard trimmed close. Eyes the color of coffee left too long on the burner. Controlled. Watchful. Dangerous in a room full of dangerous men. And tired. That part almost got her. The faint shadow under his eyes. The tension at the sides of his mouth. The two fingers tapping once against his thigh before he stopped himself. She hated that she noticed. She hated more that her body answered him before her pride could lock the door. Her stomach pulled tight. Her skin remembered his hand at the back of her neck, his mouth near her ear, the low laugh he gave only when she said something filthy enough to surprise him. Emmalynn shifted in the booth. The jacket creaked. Tiana looked at the sound. Cassius followed her gaze, and something in his face changed. Not enough. Never enough when the whole room had already seen what he had given away. “It’s cold in here,” Emmalynn said. Nobody asked her. Nobody needed her to talk. Still, she did, sitting there in gray stitches and borrowed leather like a woman trying to explain why she had wandered into somebody else’s house and put on the wife’s robe. Tiana nodded once. “Then you should tell whoever gave you that to fix the heat.” Pierce Dickson muttered, “Screw,” under his breath by the pool table. Devon Black’s eyes narrowed from the officers’ table. President eyes. Warning eyes. The kind men used when they thought a woman had forgotten where she was. Tiana had not forgotten. That was the problem. She knew exactly where she was. She knew which floorboard dipped near the jukebox. Knew which cabinet stuck in the kitchen. Knew the names of the brothers who took sugar in their coffee and the ones who lied about not needing reading glasses for paperwork. Knew the spare blankets in the back room smelled like dust because nobody remembered to wash them unless she did. She knew this room. She had loved this room. For eight years, she had mistaken knowing for belonging. Cassius lowered his voice. “Tiana, not here.” There it was. The room kept breathing around them. Harlee Singleton stood frozen near the hallway with a tray of empty bottles, eyes wide, young enough to still believe silence meant safety. Richard Cruz leaned against the far wall, arms folded, face unreadable. Devon didn’t move. Molly rubbed at the bar until her knuckles reddened. ...... Tiana looked at Cassius’s hand. No ring. They had never married. MC men liked words like claimed and old lady and mine, but Cassius had never put papers between them. He had put a key on her ring instead. Clubhouse. Garage. His house. His truck for emergencies. A whole life in metal teeth. She reached into the front pocket of her jeans. Cassius went still. Good. Let him feel one small thing coming and not be able to stop it. The key ring was warm from her body. She found the clubhouse key by touch because she had used it more than any other. Brass, worn smooth, a notch near the top from the night Cassius dropped it in the parking lot and ran over it with his boot. She had laughed until he pecked her against the truck and told her a bent key still opened the right door. Tiana worked it free. Her thumbnail split at the edge. A thin bite of pain, clean and useful. Cassius watched the key come loose like it was a blade. “Tee.” Nobody called her that in his voice. She hated him for using it now. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said,” she told him. “You never wanted it here.” His face hardened, then cracked at the edges before he could stop it. “That’s not what this is.” “No?” “No.” She stepped closer and dropped the key into his palm. His fingers closed around it by reflex. The same hand that had rested low on her back in this room. The same hand that had slid beneath her shirt in their kitchen while pasta boiled over because neither of them cared enough to turn off the stove. The same hand that had, at some point, offered his jacket to another woman and left Tiana to find out under clubhouse lights. Tiana looked past him to Emmalynn. “Keep it,” she said. Emmalynn’s smile vanished. Cassius took one step after Tiana when she moved toward the hall. Devon’s chair scraped. “Cass.” Cassius stopped. Of course he did. Tiana didn’t turn around. She pushed through the hallway door, past the framed ride photos, past the dent in the drywall from the night Pierce had gotten drunk and tried to prove he could do a handstand. Her boots hit the back entry tile, and the clubhouse noise thinned behind her. For one second, alone by the exit, her hands shook. She looked down at them like they belonged to somebody else. Grease under her nails. Split thumbnail. A faint crescent scar near her wrist from the first engine she had rebuilt for Cassius, back when he still stood over her pretending he wasn’t impressed. She pressed both palms flat against her thighs until the shaking stopped. Then she opened the back door. Rain struck the alley hard enough to bounce off the pavement. Cold water slid under her collar before she made it three steps. She did not run. Running would give the room a story. So she walked across the gravel lot past Cassius’s bike, past Emmalynn’s little white car parked too close to the officers’ row, past the old oil drum where Big Ron used to smoke when Devon banned cigarettes inside. At her truck, she stopped. The clubhouse door opened behind her. Cassius filled the frame, leather cut dark against the yellow light, her key still in his fist. He did not call her name this time. Maybe he knew she would not answer. Maybe Devon had told him not to follow. Maybe he had chosen, again, the room behind him. Tiana got into her truck and shut the door. The engine took two tries because she had been meaning to replace the starter for a month and kept fixing everybody else’s machines first. When it caught, the clubhouse music kicked up loud enough to reach the parking lot. Same bass. Same laughter trying too hard. Same building she had once opened before sunrise to make coffee for men who now could not look her in the face. Tiana put the truck in reverse. Cassius stayed in the doorway with her key in his hand. She backed out slowly, wipers dragging rain across the glass, and did not look away until the clubhouse turned into a blur of yellow light behind her.

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THE NIGHT OF BROKEN DREAMS Myra’s pov Today was my eighteenth year birthday, and tonight my mating ceremony, the day I would get rejected by my mate and my life would change. The reflection in the mirror didn’t look like me. My hair was pinned up, dark curls falling in loose tendrils around my face, and a thin silver chain circled my brow, a single moonstone resting at the center of my forehead. I should have felt beautiful. Regal. Like a Luna about to claim her destiny. But all I saw was the hollow look in my eyes, the stiffness in my smile, the way my fingers trembled as they smoothed down the fabric of my dress. “Stop fussing. You look perfect,” Aria said softly, coming up behind me and squeezing my shoulders. My best friend’s reflection met mine in the mirror. Her bright blue eyes, usually so full of mischief, were gentle tonight, full of hope for me. “He’s going to see you and remember why the Moon Goddess chose you to be his mate.” I swallowed hard. “If only everyone else believed that.” Aria’s smile faltered, just a little. I couldn’t blame her. I knew what the pack thought, what they whispered when they thought I wasn’t listening. The orphan girl. The Beta’s daughter who couldn’t even shift. The future Luna with no wolf, no strength. They pitied me. And worse they doubted me. The only reason I stood here tonight, preparing for my mating ceremony, was because of my parents’ honor. My father and mother had died protecting the Alpha King during the great rogue invasion seven years ago. They’d been heroes. Respected, everyone loved them. And I was what was left. “I’ll prove them wrong tonight,” I whispered, more to myself than to Aria. “I’ll be a good Luna. I’ll serve the pack. I’ll make Malik proud.” Aria’s hands slid down my arms, and she hugged me from behind. “He already is, Myra. And after tonight, everyone else will be too.” I nodded, trying to draw strength from her words, from the soft warmth of her embrace. But as I turned from the mirror, I caught the faintest sound voices outside the chamber. “She looks the part, but we all know it’s a joke,” someone murmured. “A Luna who can’t shift? What will she protect us from? Goddess above, we are werewolves…” another snickered. They thought that because I couldn't shift I didn't have werewolf perks like enhanced senses, but I did. I could hear every single word of their whispers. Aria looked like she wanted to go defend me, I didn't want a fight today so I just caught her wrist and shook my head. Aria’s eyes flashed with anger. “Fucking assholes, ignore them. They don’t matter.” But their words burrowed deep, echoing every secret fear I’d tried so hard to bury. I squared my shoulders. “Let’s go.” --- The clearing was alight with torches, the full moon high above, casting silver over the gathering of my pack. Hundreds of eyes turned to me as I stepped onto the sacred stone path. There were stiff polite nods with tight, forced smiles on their faces as they watched me walk down the aisle. But Malik would come. He would take my hand, and everything would change. I lifted my chin, my heart pounding in my chest like a drumbeat. And I waited. And waited. The minutes stretched, endless. Murmurs rose among the crowd. I could feel their eyes on me… Where was he? Why hadn’t he come? Was he… changing his mind? I clenched my hands together, trying to still their shaking. I felt Aria’s presence behind me, steady, a silent support, but it wasn’t enough to stop the cold dread creeping through my veins. The crowd stirred. A figure broke through the trees at the edge of the clearing, his dark form outlined by the moonlight. Malik. His hair was tousled, his ceremonial tunic rumpled and half-unfastened, his boots dusty as if he’d been running. His face was pale, jaw tight, dark eyes stormy as they met mine. He staggered towards me like a drunken man. The whispers grew louder. What had happened? Why did he look… like this? Malik walked toward me. My heart had leapt at the sight of him, but the joy was short-lived, drowned beneath the weight of the expression on his face. Resolve. “No…” I breathed, before he even spoke. I knew what was going to happen. He stopped before me, towering, his scent cedar and smoke filling my senses, familiar and beloved. I reached for his hand, but he didn’t offer it. “Myra Sunrose,” he said, his voice carrying across the clearing, steady and clear. I shook my head, unable to stop the tears that burned my eyes. “Please—Malik—” “Stop…No…please.” I tried. “I, Alpha Malik Nightshade,” he continued, voice hardening, “reject you as my mate.” The words hit like a blade, slicing clean through me, leaving me hollow. A gasp rippled through the crowd. Aria let out a soft cry behind me. “No,” I whispered again, but I could feel the bond the beautiful thread that had tied my soul to his, fraying. The pain came, swift and brutal, searing through my chest, my head, my very bones. My knees buckled. The world spun. The last thing I saw before the darkness claimed me was Malik’s face, haunted and broken. --- The world returned slowly, blurred and full of ache. I was lying on a cot, the soft glow of lanterns casting shadows on stone walls. My chest throbbed. My head pounded. “Malik…” I croaked, the name torn from my lips without thought. My heart called for him, the bond shredded but the longing still raw and alive. I heard a small sharp laugh. I turned my head, vision swimming, and saw her. Evelyn Ashe. The she-wolf who had always hovered at Malik’s side. Very popular in the pack, she was everything I wanted to be, beautiful, graceful, fierce. She sat beside the cot, arms folded, a smirk twisting her perfect mouth. “Why would our Alpha choose a weak girl like you to be our Luna?” she said, voice dripping with venom. “Someone who can’t even shift? Someone who has always been a weak pampered little brat? You don't deserve Malik.” The words stung more than they should have. I tried to sit up, but my body wouldn’t obey. Tears blurred my sight. I wanted to be strong, to tell her she was wrong, to fight back. But I couldn’t. I was weak and useless. And he had seen that. He had rejected me. Sobs tore from my throat, ragged and unstoppable. The grief, the humiliation, the shame all of it crashed over me like a wave, pulling me under. Evelyn’s laughter followed me as I wept, as the pain dragged me down into darkness again.

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Victor's text hit Elara's phone at 9:47 PM. *Final notice. 48 hours or we seize the house.* She read it three times in the bathroom stall of the Thorne Dynamics ballroom, her hands shaking hard enough to nearly drop the phone into the toilet. Outside, two hundred of New York's elite celebrated another record quarter. Inside this stall, Elara's life was collapsing. Seven figures. That's what the debt had become over ten years. Medical bills from Leo's leukemia. Her mother's cancer treatment. Her father's gambling addiction. Numbers that had stopped feeling real and started feeling like a life sentence. The fire stairwell was empty. She kicked off her heels, and sat on the concrete steps. Sipping the remaining champagne, it was the 5th glass she’s had, pulling her knees to her chest, her expensive navy dress bunching around her thighs. Professional. Composed. That's what she'd been for three years as Marcus Thorne's executive assistant, you have to be, if you work for Marcus you’ll know he's the Devil in Dior. The stairwell door opened. Marcus descended slowly, his jacket unbuttoned, his tie loosened. The dim light caught the sharp angles of his face, carved jaw, dark eyes that missed nothing. He stopped two steps above her. He’s the type of man that turns heads when he enters a place, handsome? Yes, sexy? Yes, when it comes to work? a nightmare in black suits "You left the gala," he said. "I needed air." "You've been gone for eleven minutes." He moved closer. "I don't employ people who disappear." She looked away. "I’m sorry it was a family emergency, there's nothing you can fix." "Try me." Three years working under him, he literally gets off making her life miserable. Unreal goals, Inhuman workload, impossible deadlines, yet she always delivered and made sure she'd maintained perfect distance. Hated his guts, he was always set out to make her work difficult. Now, drunk on champagne and desperation, she felt it crumble. "My brother. Financial trouble. A debt collector. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars by tomorrow." He pulled out his phone immediately. "No." She grabbed his wrist. "You can't just…." "You work for me. Your problems are containable." His eyes locked on hers. "We're going to contain this." Something broke open inside her. For the first time in three years, she wasn't alone with it. He reached out, and for a terrifying second, she thought he would touch her face. Instead, his fingers brushed the collar of her dress, adjusting the thin strap where it had slipped on her shoulder. “Let go of control, just for a moment,” he said, his thumb resting where her neck met her shoulder, the heat searing her skin. "I can't," she whispered. "Yes, you can." He closed the final inch, ran his hands through her short dress, Elara felt electric waves through her. His mouth descended, not with the arrogance of a boss, it was gentle but with the demanding hunger of a man who had not been with anyone for too long. She kissed him back. It wasn't tender. It was desperate, her mouth against his, tasting cologne and expensive scotch. She expected him to pull away. Marcus Thorne didn't blur professional lines. Marcus didn't blur anything. Instead, he kissed her again. His hand gripped the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, destroying the careful pins. The other hand pulled her close until there was no space between them. He tasted like control and power, and she wanted to drown in it. He spun her around and pressed her back against the brick wall. His mouth moved to her neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks she'd have to hide tomorrow. "Tell me to stop," he said against her skin. She didn't. She pulled his shirt up instead, needing to feel him. His chest was solid muscle, warm skin stretched over ribs she could feel under her palms. He made a sound, almost a growl and then his hands were everywhere. Her dress was hiked up around her waist. His fingers found the edge of her underwear and tore them away completely, the fabric ripping in his grip. "Fuck," he breathed. "You're soaked." He didn't waste time. His hand pressed between her thighs, fingers sliding inside her, and she gasped into his neck. His thumb found her clit and worked it in rough circles while his fingers pumped deeper, fingering her so hard. She could feel her own wetness coating his hand, dripping down her inner thighs. He moved the other free hand pressing her boobs and sucking on it passionately, tongue curling around the nipple and biting softly yet hardly. Her hips rocked against his hand desperately. This was insane. This was career suicide. This was….Damn she hates her boss, how’s this possible, she tried to stop but she couldn’t, the champagne was hitting harder now. He stopped and stepped back just far enough to unbuckle his belt. His pants dropped. Already hard and thick, stroking it once before reaching for his wallet. "Don't you fucking move," he said. He tore open a condom with his teeth and rolled it on with one hand while the other gripped her hip, keeping her pinned against the wall. Then he positioned himself and pushed inside her in one hard stroke. Elara's cry echoed off the concrete walls. He was big, bigger than she'd expected, filling her completely, stretching her almost to the point of pain. He didn't give her time to adjust. He pulled out and thrust back in, establishing a brutal rhythm that knocked her back against the brick with each movement. "Is this what you wanted?" he demanded, his voice rough. "Is this why you kissed me?" She couldn't answer. Could barely breathe. He was hitting something deep inside her that made her vision blur. His hand moved from her hip to grip her thigh, pulling her leg up and around his waist, changing the angle, going even deeper. The cold wall at her back. His heat pressing against her front. The sound of their bodies colliding in the empty stairwell, wet and urgent and absolutely forbidden. "Fuck, you're tight," he groaned. "So fucking tight." He was hitting so fast and rough and didn’t notice the condom had broken. The pleasure was insane. Her orgasm built fast, a pressure that started at her core and radiated outward. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders, tasting blood from biting her own lip. "Come," he commanded. She did. Hard and sudden, her muscles clenching around him as pleasure ripped through her body. She bit down on his neck to keep from screaming. He followed seconds later, his hips jerking erratically as he finished inside her, his breath harsh against her ear. For a moment, they stayed pressed together, both breathing hard, still connected. Then he pulled away. His expression was already closing off, back to the nonchalant ceo. He fixed his pants with mechanical precision while she slid down the wall, her legs shaking so badly she could barely stand. "That didn’t happen," he said quietly. Her heart dropped in her stomach. "Marcus" "Go home. It’s Christmas holiday, see you at work next week, make sure you’re early." He didn't look at her. "This won't happen again." He left before she could respond, his footsteps disappearing up the stairs. Elara sat alone on the concrete, her dress torn, his marks on her skin, and realized she'd just made the worst decision of her life. It was 1 week later when she bought the first pregnancy test. Then four more after that just to be sure. Shit!!! what the fuck have i done. Two Pink Lines It had been a week since Elara slept with the devil. Christmas wasn’t supposed to feel like this. The holiday was meant for family dinners and bad movies, not sterile hospital hallways that smelled like bleach and something darker she couldn’t name. But here she was, Day seven of her vacation, sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside her mother’s bed, pretending everything would be fine. Her phone buzzed. Another email from Marcus. *Subject: Q4 Report - Revisions Needed* She opened the attachment. Forty-three pages of financial projections that needed reformatting by tomorrow. On Christmas week. Because Marcus Thorne didn’t believe in holidays, only deadlines. “You’re working again,” her mother said softly. Elara looked up. Her mother’s face had that grey pallor that came with stage three cancer, her cheeks hollow, but her eyes were still sharp. Still watching everything. “Just a quick edit.” Elara locked her phone and forced a smile. “Nothing major.” “You work too hard, baby.” “The job pays well, Mama. Really well.” The lie tasted bitter. Her savings account had $3,000 left after this month’s payment to Victor. The chemo her mother needed cost $80,000. “I’ve got it covered. The treatment, everything. You just focus on getting better.” Her mother’s thin hand reached out, wrapping around Elara’s wrist. “I don’t want you sacrificing your life for me.” “I’m not sacrificing anything.” Elara squeezed back gently, careful of the IV line. “You took care of me my whole life. It’s my turn now.” “Has your father come by?” The question landed like a stone in still water. “No.” Elara kept her voice neutral. “Haven’t seen him all week.” “Elara…” “And I’m praying it stays that way.” She couldn’t hide the edge in her tone. “Luca showing up only means he needs money or he’s running from someone he owes. Either way, it’s trouble we don’t need right now.” Her mother’s eyes filled with that particular sadness that came from loving a man who kept breaking her heart. “He’s still your father.” “He’s a gambling addict who put us in this mess.” Elara stood, smoothing down her jeans. “I need to head home, but I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Earlier if you need me.” “You’re a good girl, Elara. Too good for all this.” Elara kissed her mother’s forehead, tasting the salt of unshed tears she refused to let fall. “Get some rest, Mama. I love you.” “Love you too, baby.” The taxi ride home was quiet. Elara stared out the window at the Christmas lights strung across brownstones, families visible through warm windows, living lives that didn’t involve debt collectors and dying mothers and mistakes made in fire exits. She pulled out her phone, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram. Mimi had posted pictures from her campus in London, surrounded by friends at some holiday party. Elara double-tapped the image, feeling the distance between them like a physical ache. The next post was one of those viral memes. A girl holding up twelve fingers with the caption: *Period check. 12/12 months DONE. We survived besties.* Elara’s thumb froze mid-scroll. Twelve months. When was the last time she’d gotten hers? She tried to think back. November had been hell at work with the annual report. October… she couldn’t remember. Everything blurred together in a haze of hospital visits and late nights at the office and Victor’s constant threats. But she’d gotten it in November. She was sure. Maybe. Possibly. Her heart started doing something uncomfortable in her chest. “Miss? We’re here.” The taxi driver was watching her in the rearview mirror. Elara paid quickly, her hands shaking as she handed over crumpled bills. The bodega on the corner was still open, fluorescent lights harsh against the darkening street. She walked in like she was in a dream, past the rows of chips and energy drinks, to the back wall where the pharmacy items were kept. Pregnancy tests. An entire shelf of them. This was stupid. She was being paranoid. Stress could delay periods. She’d read that somewhere. And they’d used a condom. Marcus had used a condom. She’d seen him put it on. But intrusive thoughts were a bitch, and Elara had never been good at leaving questions unanswered. She grabbed the cheapest box and paid without making eye contact with the cashier. Her apartment was dark and cold. She hadn’t been home much this week, spending most nights on the hospital’s uncomfortable chairs. The space felt foreign now, like it belonged to a different version of herself. One who hadn’t fucked her boss in a stairwell. The bathroom light flickered twice before staying on. Elara tore open the box with shaking hands, reading instructions she already knew by heart from countless pregnancy scares in college that had amounted to nothing. Pee on the stick. Wait three minutes. One line meant not pregnant. Two lines meant… She didn’t let herself finish the thought. The test felt absurdly light in her hand. Such a small thing to hold so much weight. She did what needed to be done, set the stick on the edge of the sink, and pulled out her phone to set a timer. Three minutes. She couldn’t watch it. Instead, she sat on the closed toilet lid and stared at the cracked tile on the floor, counting the seconds in her head because the silence was too loud. Her phone buzzed. Another email from Marcus. She didn’t open it. The timer went off. Elara stood slowly, like her bones had aged a decade in three minutes. She picked up the test with hands that didn’t feel like her own. Two pink lines. Clear as day. Unmistakable. She bought four more tests from three different bodegas, spacing them out so the cashiers wouldn’t remember her face. Took them all within an hour, lining them up on the bathroom counter like evidence at a crime scene. Two lines. Two lines. Two lines. Two lines. Elara sat on her bathroom floor as the reality settled into her bones. She was pregnant. With Marcus Thorne’s baby. “Shit.” Her voice cracked. “What the fuck have I done?“ The Devil’s Proposal Elara hailed a taxi, dropped into the back seat, the taxi smelled like stale coffee. Elara rummaged through her tote bag for the third time, fingers brushing past lip gloss and crumpled receipts, searching for the USB drive that held Marcus’s edited Q4 reports. If she’d left it on her kitchen counter, she was dead. Not metaphorically dead. Actually dead. Marcus Thorne would fire her on the spot, and worse, he’d do it with that blank expression that made you feel like an insect he’d stepped on without noticing. Her fingers closed around the small drive. She exhaled. “Rough morning?” the driver asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “You have no idea.” Rough didn’t cover it. The past week had been hell wrapped in a nightmare and served cold. She’d worked through Christmas, editing financial projections while her mother slept in a hospital bed and five pregnancy tests sat hidden in her bathroom drawer like evidence of a crime she couldn’t undo. And Marcus. God, Marcus had made sure she earned every cent of her salary. Emails at 2 AM. Revision requests on Christmas Day. A forty-page report that needed complete reformatting because he decided he didn’t like the font. The man was the devil in Dior. No, worse. He was heartless in Hugo Boss. Satan in Suitsupply. Why not just quit? The question had been circling her brain for three years like a vulture. Because she couldn’t. Before this job, she’d been a janitor at a corporate office in Manhattan, mopping floors at 5 AM and dodging the eyes of executives who looked through her like she was furniture. Jobs were scarce when you didn’t have connections or a degree from the right school. And this job, for all its hell, paid well. Well enough that her mother had a hospital bed instead of dying on a clinic floor. Well enough that Leo, her junior brother, could stay in community college. Well enough that she could keep Victor, the debt collector from taking the last thing they owned. The taxi pulled up to Thorne Dynamics Tower, all glass and steel stretching into the grey January sky like a middle finger to everyone who couldn’t afford to work there. Elara paid the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk. The building loomed above her. She made the sign of the cross, muttering under her breath, “Dear God, about to work with the devil again today. Keep me safe.” It was sarcastic. Mostly. The lobby was already buzzing with employees, everyone moving with that particular Monday morning energy that felt more like a death march than a workday. Elara checked her phone. 8:47 AM. She was late. “Elara!” She turned to find Emeka striding toward her, coffee in one hand, his designer scarf draped over his shoulder like he was walking a runway instead of heading to accounting. He looked her up and down, eyebrows rising dramatically. “Girl, you’re glowing. What happened during the holiday? You met someone?” “Emeks, I’m late. Can we not?” “Oh, we’re absolutely doing this.” He fell into step beside her as they headed toward the elevators. “You’ve got that glow. That ‘I had good sex’ glow. Spill.” “There’s nothing to spill.” “Lies. I can smell lies, babe, and you reek of them.” Elara’s phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced down at the screen. *Mr. Thorne: My office. Now.* Her stomach dropped to her feet. Emeka leaned over her shoulder, reading the message. “Is that the devil?” She nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. “Well, don’t keep him waiting.” Emeka’s grin turned wicked. “Go on before he drops hell on earth. And babe? Whatever you did during Christmas, do it again. That glow is everything.” Elara didn’t respond. She was already moving toward the private elevator that led directly to Marcus’s top-floor office, her heels clicking against the marble like a countdown. The ride up felt like drowning in slow motion. She stared at her reflection in the polished steel doors. Dark circles under her eyes that concealer couldn’t quite hide. Hair pulled back in a tight bun that made her look professional and miserable. She looked like someone who’d spent the week having a mental breakdown in installments. The doors opened with a soft chime. Marcus’s office was exactly as she remembered. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Minimalist furniture that probably cost more than her annual salary. Everything is cold, clean, controlled. Just like him. He stood behind his desk, hands in his pockets, staring out at the skyline. He didn’t turn when she entered. “Good morning, Mr. Thorne.” Silence. She stayed by the door, clutching her bag like a shield. The air in the room felt heavy, charged with something she couldn’t name. Her mind raced. Did he know? Had he somehow found out about the pregnancy? Was this the part where he fired her for unprofessional conduct and she lost everything? “Sit.” It wasn’t a request. Elara moved to the chair across from his desk, lowering herself slowly. Her hands were shaking. She clasped them together in her lap, willing them to stop. Marcus turned finally, his dark eyes locking onto hers. His expression gave away nothing. No anger. No warmth. Nothing. He looked at her the way someone might look at a contract they were considering signing. The silence stretched. Ten seconds. Twenty. She was about to break, about to say something, anything to fill the terrible quiet, when he spoke. “Marry me.” Elara blinked. The words didn’t make sense. They were English, she understood English, but strung together like that they became nonsense. Her brain scrambled to process. Did he hit his head over Christmas? Did he think the sex in the stairwell meant something? Did he somehow know about the pregnancy and this was his twisted solution? “I…..” “Should I repeat myself?” His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that came before hurricanes. Elara’s mouth opened. Closed. It opened again. No sound came out. Her heart was doing something violent in her chest, slamming against her ribs like it was trying to escape. Marcus Thorne, her boss, the devil who’d made her life hell for three years, the man who’d fucked her in a fire exit and then dismissed her with cold finality, had just asked her to marry him. And judging by the look on his face, he wasn’t joking. My devil on earth had just made it official. One Million Reason “Marry me.” The words hung in the air between them like smoke. Elara stared at Marcus, waiting for the punchline, the smirk, anything that would indicate this was some elaborate joke at her expense. Nothing came. Is this man insane? “You heard me.” His tone was flat, like he’d just asked her to schedule a meeting, not commit to a lifetime legal bond. God, she despised this man. “What is this?” Her voice came out sharper than intended. “Some kind of mental breakdown? A psychological experiment? The physical workload wasn’t torture enough, so now we’re moving into emotional manipulation?” “Marry me, and I will…..” “No.” The word came out loud. Too loud. Sharp enough to cut through the thick glass walls of his office and reach the assistants stationed outside. She saw heads turn, eyes widening before quickly looking away. Marcus blinked. It was the first genuine reaction she’d seen from him in three years. Actual surprise flickering across his face before the mask slammed back down. “No?” “Should I say it in French? Morse code? Sign language?” Elara’s hands were shaking again, but this time it wasn’t fear. It was rage. Pure, undiluted rage at this man who thought he could control everything, including her. “Which translation works best for you, Mr. Thorne?” “You haven’t even heard my offer.” “I’m not interested in whatever twisted game you’ve cooked up in that calculating brain of yours.” She stood, chair scraping against the floor. “Find another assistant to play with.” Marcus watched her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. The look on his face was almost comical. Almost. She’d just become the first person in Thorne Dynamics history to tell Marcus Thorne no, and he genuinely didn’t know how to process it. Elara turned to leave. “One million.” She stopped. Her hand was on the door handle, fingers frozen mid-grip. “One million what?” “Dollars.” Slowly, she turned back around. Marcus hadn’t moved. He stood behind his desk, hands still in his pockets, expression carefully neutral except for that slight tightness around his eyes that suggested he was recalculating every assumption he’d made about this conversation. “One million dollars,” she repeated. The number felt absurd in her mouth. Fake. Like Monopoly money. “For what? A year? Six months? How long does this arrangement last?” “Two years. A marriage contract. You play the role of my wife. After twenty four months, we divorce. You walk away with the money.” Elara laughed. It came out bitter and sharp. “You think you can just throw money at me? After three years of treating me like I’m nothing? Like I’m some object you keep in that office to make your life easier?” She took a step closer to his desk. “All the impossible deadlines. The emails at 3 AM. The constant criticism. The way you look through me like I’m invisible. And now you want me to marry you?” “It’s a business transaction.” “It’s insane.” “It’s practical.” Marcus pulled his hands from his pockets, placing them flat on the desk. “I need a wife. You need money. This solves both problems.” “You don’t know anything about my problems.” “I know you’re drowning in debt. I know your family is one payment away from losing everything. I know you spent Christmas in a hospital instead of enjoying your holiday.” His eyes locked onto hers. “I know Victor called you six times last week.” Ice flooded her veins. “How do you….” “I pay attention, Miss Vance.” The use of her last name felt like a slap. They’d had sex a week ago. His marks had barely faded from her neck. And now they were back to Miss Vance, like nothing had happened. Like she was still just the assistant. The employee. The thing he kept around for convenience. “Take your time,” Marcus said, settling into his chair with infuriating calm. “Think it over. Run the numbers. You’ll come around.” The certainty in his voice made her want to scream. “I won’t.” “You will.” Elara turned and walked out. She didn’t storm. Didn’t slam the door. Just walked out with her head high and her hands steady, even though everything inside her was screaming. The assistants at their desks kept their eyes down, suddenly fascinated by their computer screens. It was the first time in three years she’d walked out of Marcus Thorne’s office without being dismissed. And surprisingly, he didn’t call her back. No sharp command. No snide comment about professionalism. Nothing. Her own office was smaller. Cramped. A desk shoved against a window that overlooked the building next door instead of the city skyline. But it was hers, and right now she needed the space to breathe. Elara dropped into her chair and pressed her palms against her eyes. One million dollars. The number kept circling her brain like a vulture. That kind of money would pay off Victor. Cover her mother’s treatment. Give Leo a real shot at a future instead of community college classes he could barely afford. That kind of money would save them. But marriage? To Marcus Thorne? The man who’d made her life miserable for three years? The man who’d fucked her in a stairwell and then act like she was nothing? Her phone buzzed. She ignored it. The office phone rang. “Miss Vance speaking.” “Hi, um, there’s someone here to see you?” The receptionist’s voice was hesitant. “He doesn’t have an appointment, but he says it’s urgent. His name is Victor.” Elara’s blood turned to ice. Victor. The debt collector. Here. At her office. “Tell him….” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “Tell him I’ll be right down.” She hung up before the receptionist could respond. Her hands were shaking again, but this time there was no rage to hide behind. Just pure, animal fear. Victor had found her office. He’d tracked her down to the one place she thought was safe. And if he was here, it meant the forty-eight hours were up. It meant she was out of time. And he’s here to collect the money she had no hand in spending, her father, her father the drunk gambler had been borrowing money from Victor. Broken Glass Victor was waiting in the lobby, leaning against the reception desk like he owned the place. Designer suit. Expensive watch. Nothing about him screamed debt collector except the dead look in his eyes when they landed on her. Elara’s stomach twisted. “We need to talk,” he said. “Not here.” She grabbed his arm, steering him toward the exit. The last thing she needed was her colleagues witnessing this. “Outside.” They crossed the marble lobby in silence, through the revolving doors and into the cold January air. The parking lot was mostly empty at this hour, just a few scattered cars and the distant hum of traffic. Elara didn’t stop until they were behind a concrete pillar, away from the building’s glass walls. “What are you doing here?” Her voice came out harsh. “How did you even find my office?” Victor smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Your father gave me your details. Workplace, address, everything. Luca’s been very cooperative lately.” Of course he had. Luca would sell out his own children if it meant saving his skin for another day. “What do you want?” “Your father hasn’t been answering his phone for two weeks. His weekly payment is overdue.” Victor pulled out his phone, scrolling through something before turning the screen toward her. Numbers. Dates. A debt that had somehow grown even larger. “The house goes up for collateral if I don’t get payment by tomorrow.” “Tomorrow?” Elara’s voice cracked. “That’s impossible. I need more time.” “You’ve had ten years, Elara.” “Please.” The word tasted like ash. She hated begging. Hated the way her voice went small and desperate. But this was her mother’s house. The only thing they had left. “Just give me one more week. I’ll figure something out. I’ll get you the money.” “One week won’t change anything.” Victor pocketed his phone. “You don’t have it now, you won’t have it then.” “I’ll find a way.” “How? You going to ask your boss for a raise?” He gestured toward the tower behind them. “Girls like you don’t get miracles. You get buried.” “I’m not asking for a miracle. I’m asking for time.” Victor studied her for a long moment. She could see him calculating, weighing her worth against whatever pressure Luca’s debt had put on him. Finally, he sighed. “Twenty-four hours, Elara. That’s all you get.” He started walking back toward the street. “Clock’s ticking.” Tick. Tok. She watched him go, her legs suddenly unsteady. Twenty-four hours. One day to come up with money she didn’t have. One day before they lost everything. The sound of footsteps made her turn. Marcus was walking through the parking lot, phone pressed to his ear, talking in that clipped tone he used for business calls. He must have been heading to his car. His eyes swept past her, lingering for just a second before moving on. He’d heard. She knew he’d heard. The parking lot wasn’t that big, and Victor’s voice carried. But Marcus kept walking. Didn’t stop. Didn’t acknowledge her. Just continued toward his black Mercedes like she was part of the scenery. Elara stood there, watching him disappear into his car, and felt something cold settle in her chest. Of course he didn’t care. Why would he? She was just the assistant. Just another problem that wasn’t his to solve. She went back inside, grabbed her bag from her office, and left without telling anyone. The building felt too small suddenly. Too suffocating. “Elara!” Emeka caught her at the elevator, slightly out of breath like he’d jogged to catch up. “Where are you going? It’s only 2 PM.” “I need to see my mum.” The lie came easily. Too easily. “She’s not feeling well.” His expression softened immediately. “Oh babe, I’m sorry. Do you need anything?” “No. I just need to go.” “Okay. Text me if you need me, yeah?” She nodded and stepped into the elevator before he could see her face crumble. The subway ride home was a blur. Bodies pressed together. The smell of sweat and cheap cologne. Someone’s music bleeding through their headphones. Elara stared at the floor and tried not to think about Victor’s words. Twenty-four hours. The house. Her mother. One million dollars. The thought of what happened at the office started coming back to her. It’s absurd she’s even thinking about it, it’s Marcus Thorne, why would ever want to marry Marcus Thorne, she thought to herself. No. She wasn’t that desperate. She wasn’t going to sell herself to Marcus Thorne for money. There had to be another way. Her apartment building looked the same as always. The familiar brownstone that had been home for the past five years. She climbed the steps to her floor, keys already in hand. The door was open. Elara stopped. She’d locked it this morning. She always locked it. Her hand pushed the door wider. Inside, her wardrobe was open, clothes thrown across the floor. Drawers pulled out and overturned. Everything scattered. “No. No no no.” She dropped her bag and ran to her bedroom closet. Shoved aside the shoes and boxes stacked at the bottom. Her hands found the metal lockbox she kept hidden in the back corner. It was open. The small lock was broken. Empty. Her heart skipped. Three thousand dollars. Every cent she’d managed to save over the past months. Money meant for her mother’s treatment. Money she’d scraped together from skipped meals and extra shifts and selling anything she didn’t absolutely need. Gone. Only one person had a key to her apartment. Luca. Her father had robbed her.

Turtle Matt Renee

InactiveJun 28, 26 · 1d

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read.novelreadingstation.com

Stars Do Not Ask for Returns

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The day we planned to come out, Daniel got a life-threatening task from my father. Before leaving, Daniel promised to marry me if he returned alive. For three years, I turned down all suitors and waited for him. Three years later, he came back. One leg ruined, a finger partially severed, a fresh scar bisecting his face. He dropped to one knee before my father. “Sir,” he said. “I trade my goods for your permission to marry Ava.” Ava stood beside him, one hand resting protectively on her pronounced belly. My father’s eyes flickered to me. Everyone knew that if I wanted to, I could burn this all to the ground. But I only looked at the girl and said, “Congratulations.” For three years, family match files stacked up all around my room. I pulled one out at random and decided to get married. On my wedding day, Daniel stood in front of my car, a gun in his hand. “If you marry him today,” he said, “I’ll kill him.” ... Of the seven most important men under my father’s command, Daniel Roman ranked last. He was the best-looking of them all, and I had been in love with him since I was a girl. My father later said that if he had known about us, he never would have given Daniel that assignment. Of the seven, Daniel was the best fighter. If even he couldn’t make it back, no one else stood a chance. But that job had been three long years ago. “Miss Willa, Daniel is back.” My eyes flew open. I ran from my room without even stopping for shoes. The butler intercepted me in the hall. “Miss Willa…” I took one look at his face and knew something was wrong. “I understand.” I grabbed an umbrella and went outside. The rain was coming down in sheets. I walked so quickly the hem of my dress was soon soaked through. The front hall was crowded. My father’s men were all standing under the portico. Some looked relieved. Others looked furious. I couldn’t tell what they were angry about. “Dad.......

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