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I used to ask every new dialysis patient the same thing — "What was your A1C before your kidneys failed?" After 11,000 patients and the same answer every single time, I stopped asking. It was always "managed." It was always between 6.5 and 7.5. It was always someone who did everything their doctor told them to do. The chairs aren't full of people who ignored their blood sugar. They're full of people who trusted the wrong number. I need to tell you something I've been carrying for a long time. And I'm telling you now because last month I got my own prediabetes diagnosis — and I refuse to end up in one of my own chairs. I'm Sandra Keller. I've been a dialysis nurse for 14 years. Roughly 11,000 patients connected to machines. Let me tell you what that actually looks like — because most people only know the word. They don't know the room. Three days a week. Four hours a session. A needle goes into a fistula — a surgically created access point in the arm that leaves a scar most patients hide under long sleeves even in summer. The machine pulls their blood out, cleans it — does what their kidneys cannot anymore — and pushes it back in. For four hours. While they sit there. I've watched people cry during sessions — not from pain but from the weight of what their life became. I've watched a 61-year-old man read the same magazine in the waiting room every Tuesday and Thursday for three years while his wife was connected. I've watched patients stop traveling because they cannot miss a session. I've watched marriages buckle under the schedule. I've watched grandchildren learn to plan around Grandma's dialysis days — "we can't do Saturday, Grandma has her treatment." I've watched patients stop coming. And I know what that means. One of my long-term patients — a woman named Ruth, 63, three years in my unit — told me something I think about every single day. She said: "This isn't living. This is just not dying yet." And you know what every single one of them says when I ask how they got here? "I did everything right. My blood sugar was managed. Nobody told me my kidneys were dying." Every. Single. One. Last month I sat in my own doctor's office and heard the word "prediabetes" attached to my name. A1C: 6.4. Fasting glucose running 135 to 145. And here's the part that made my hands go cold — my creatinine had crept from 0.8 to 1.0 over ten months. My GFR — the number that tells you how well your kidneys are actually filtering — had dropped from 98 to 86. On paper, none of that is alarming. My doctor said "we'll keep an eye on it." But I've heard those exact words before. I've heard them from the charts of people who are now sitting in my chairs. I know what "keeping an eye on it" looks like from the other end. It looks like quarterly labs that document the decline in neat little rows while the kidneys quietly fall apart between appointments. I know what a creatinine of 1.0 looks like at the beginning. Because I've held the hands of people whose creatinine started at 1.0. And I felt something I'd never felt in 14 years of nursing — real, bone-deep terror. Not for my patients. For myself. Two weeks later, something happened that changed the direction of everything. A patient came into my unit for his session. Type 2 for twelve years. On dialysis for nineteen months. I'd known him the whole time. He pulled a bag out of his jacket and set it on the table next to his chair. "Sandra. Tell your people about this." I picked it up. Ceylon cinnamon. Concentrated extract. 7,200mg equivalent in MCT oil. Called Metabolae. "My brother-in-law started taking it four months ago. A1C was 7.2. Now it's 5.9. His kidneys haven't gone further down. He was headed where I am. Not anymore." He looked at me. "My brother-in-law is not sitting in one of these chairs. And he was supposed to be." I took the bag home that night. I did what I've done my whole career when something doesn't add up. I opened my laptop at 11:30 PM and started reading. Here is what I found. And here is the thing I should have learned years earlier. Your A1C measures one thing: the percentage of your red blood cells coated in glucose. It's a rolling 90-day average of how much sugar is floating in your blood. That is all it measures. It does not see what that sugar is doing while it circulates. It does not see the tiny capillaries threading through your kidney tissue. It does not see the small vessels feeding the nerves in your feet. It does not see the delicate blood supply behind your eyes. It sees the level of the flood. Not where the flood is going. A 6.4 can be called prediabetic and your kidney filters can still be quietly wearing down behind it. A 6.8 can be called "managed" and the decline keeps moving. Both things are completely true at the same time. Because the A1C is tracking the water level. Your kidneys are paying the price of the current underneath. This is what produces foam in your toilet. The tiny filters inside your kidneys — glomeruli — have been under sustained pressure from glucose circulating through their walls for years. They start to fail. Protein leaks out. It shows up in your urine as foam that sits there after you flush. That foam is not a warning sign that something might happen. It is evidence that something is already happening. Let me explain the mechanism underneath — because once you see it, you'll understand why "managed" doesn't mean "safe." Every cell in your body has tiny doors on its surface — protein transporters called GLUT4. Their job is to open up, grab glucose from the blood, and pull it inside the cell where it gets converted to energy. In a healthy body, insulin gives the signal, the doors open, glucose moves from blood into cell, and blood sugar comes down. In insulin resistance — the thing underneath type 2 diabetes — those doors stop responding. They're still there. They just stopped coming to the surface. Insulin gives the signal. Nothing happens. Your pancreas sends more insulin. Still nothing. The glucose has nowhere to go, so it stays in your blood and keeps circulating. Your cells are starving. Your blood is flooded. And the sugar floating through your bloodstream keeps passing through every small blood vessel in your body, hour after hour, year after year, wearing the walls down from the inside. Think of your kidneys like the finest mesh screen you've ever seen — millions of tiny filters. That excess sugar is like fine sand being forced through the mesh under pressure. Hour after hour. Day after day. Month after month. The mesh starts to tear. First it leaks a little protein — that foam. Then the tears get bigger. Then the filtration rate drops. Then the whole system starts to fail. Metformin slows the flow of sand a little. But the sand is still coming. And the mesh is still tearing. And the monitoring? The monitoring just measures how torn the mesh is getting. Nobody is stopping the sand. And it is not just the kidneys. That same sugar pileup strips the insulation off your nerves — that's why your feet burn and your hands tingle. It starves your brain of fuel — that's why the fog rolls in by 2pm and the words get lost. It wrecks the tiny blood vessels behind your eyes — that's why the floaters showed up. It locks your body in fat-storage mode — that's why the belly won't budge. It shatters your sleep — that's why you're up three times a night with a racing heart. And it damages the blood vessels responsible for intimacy — that's why that part of your life quietly disappeared and nobody connected it to blood sugar. All of it — kidneys, nerves, brain, eyes, sleep, weight, intimacy — traces back to the same closed doors. Your doctor monitors the headline number. The story underneath it is your organs falling apart. Now — your medications. Metformin works on the input side of this problem. It tells your liver to produce less glucose. It reduces the flood. That is a real, useful thing and your doctor is not wrong to prescribe it. But it does not touch the doors. The GLUT4 transporters are still not responding. The glucose that remains in your blood — even at a "managed" level — keeps circulating. Keeps passing through your kidney capillaries. Keeps grinding the mesh. Because the drug that reduced the flood did not open the drain. And here is what stopped me cold at 2 AM in my kitchen with 14 years of dialysis nursing behind me: The research on how to open those doors exists. It has been published. Peer-reviewed. Cited by the ADA's own journals. Sitting in databases that a 15-minute appointment leaves no time to read. There is a specific compound that triggers GLUT4 transporters directly. It bypasses the broken insulin signal entirely. It goes to the cell, speaks to the machinery inside it, and wakes the doors back up. A 2003 study in Diabetes Care — the ADA's own flagship journal — showed these compounds produced a 29% drop in fasting blood glucose. A study published in the Journal of the American College of Nutrition found that MHCP triggers the same internal chemical cascade that insulin is supposed to trigger, and was 20 times more effective at activating this pathway than any other natural compound tested. Twenty times. A second study in the Archives of Biochemistry and Biophysics confirmed that Ceylon extract physically increases the number of GLUT4 transporters at the cell surface. The doors do not just crack open. They multiply. A 2012 review in the Journal of Medicinal Food analyzed eight randomized controlled trials and found meaningful drops in both fasting glucose and A1C. Published. Replicated. Real. And in 14 years of working at the end of the road — watching thousands of patients get pulled into those chairs — not once had anyone put this in my hand. Not because doctors are hiding it. Because the pipeline that moves research from a journal into a treatment room runs on patent money. You cannot patent a plant. So no pharmaceutical company funds the trials that would land it on a sales representative's desk. No sales rep walks it into a primary care office. The studies stay in databases. The patients keep coming in with foam in their toilets and GFRs that drop another point each quarter. That is not your fault. You took the pills. You tracked the number. You kept every appointment. You were not failing the system. The system was only giving you half the answer and never telling you the other half existed. Now. You have probably tried cinnamon before. You sprinkled it on oatmeal. You found a bottle at the grocery store or on Amazon and took it faithfully for three months and watched your meter not move. I've watched patients bring supplement bottles to their dialysis sessions and ask me if they should keep taking them. I need you to understand exactly why most of them fail. They use the wrong plant. The cinnamon in your spice cabinet and in most capsules is Cassia. It looks the same. It smells similar. It is a completely different species with a completely different chemical makeup. At the doses required to move blood sugar, Cassia silently burdens your liver. The European Food Safety Authority documented that as little as a quarter teaspoon per day pushes daily coumarin intake past safe limits — and coumarin damages liver tissue at therapeutic doses. You were not taking the wrong amount. You were taking the wrong plant. True Ceylon cinnamon contains 250 times less coumarin. It is the only species appearing in the clinical research showing real metabolic results. They are catastrophically underdosed. Clinical trials used concentrated extract equivalent to 6,000 to 7,200mg daily. Most capsules contain 500 to 1,500mg of raw powder. That is not a small gap. That is the difference between a therapeutic dose and a decorative amount. They use the wrong delivery format. The active compounds in Ceylon — the ones that wake up GLUT4 transporters — are fat-soluble. Your cell walls are a double layer of fat molecules. Fat-soluble compounds need fat to pass through them. A dry powder capsule has no fat. So the compounds reach your gut, look for a fat carrier to cross the cell wall, find none, and pass straight through without ever reaching the cells that need them. Your cinnamon did not fail because cinnamon does not work. It failed because it was never delivered. The bag that my patient set down on the table next to his chair? He was taking Metabolae. True Ceylon cinnamon. Cinnamomum verum, sourced from a single estate in Sri Lanka's Central Province — the original home of true cinnamon, where the tree has been cultivated for over two thousand years. DNA-verified at the species level. An actual Certificate of Analysis, not a label claim. Dosed at 7,200mg equivalent per softgel. A 12:1 concentrated extract. The dosing range that corresponds directly to the published clinical trials. Suspended in MCT oil from coconuts. Not as a filler. As the delivery system — the fat bridge that carries the active compounds through your cell wall and into the cells where the GLUT4 transporters have been waiting for years to be told to surface. Third-party tested. GMP-certified. Every batch verified for purity, potency, and coumarin levels. Made in an FDA-registered facility. Zero fillers. I ordered a bag that night. Week 1, the fog lifted. Not managed — lifted. I finished a twelve-hour shift and still had thoughts left. My feet stopped aching after long days on the floor. I slept through the night for the first time in months. Week 2, my fasting readings — which had been running 135 to 145 — started showing up in the 110s. I checked three times the first morning I saw 108 because I didn't believe it. Week 4, the readings stabilized in the low 90s. Stable. Consistent. The kind of numbers I had not seen since before any of this started. Week 8, I pulled my own labs. Creatinine back to 0.8. GFR climbed from 86 to 91. Week 10, my doctor pulled up my full panel. A1C down from 6.4 to 5.4. Creatinine holding at 0.8. GFR at 94. Seven pounds gone without changing what I ate. She looked at the numbers. Looked at me. "What did you change?" I handed her the research I'd been reading at 11:30 PM for three weeks. She read for ten minutes. Closed the folder. "Your kidney function improved." I nodded. "Keep doing whatever you're doing." That patient who set the bag on the table? He's still on dialysis. That door closed for him a long time ago. But his brother-in-law — the one he told me about — came in with him to a follow-up visit two months later. I met him in the waiting room. A1C 5.9. Creatinine stable. GFR climbing. Not in a chair. Not going to be. He looked at me and said: "The drain opened." I've recommended Metabolae to eight patients now. Or to their family members in the monitoring window — the ones who still have a chance. Every single one has come back and reported the same pattern. Better sleep within the first week. Steady energy through the day. Lower fasting glucose within the first month. One woman — 58, A1C 6.9, protein spillage climbing for three years — came back at her 90-day follow-up with spillage down 45 percent. She cried when she told me the foam in her toilet was gone. Another patient's GFR went from 53 to 59 in four months. His nephrologist, who had been preparing him for the dialysis conversation, told him the trajectory had changed and asked what he had added. But the one I think about most is Ruth. I told her what I'd found. She looked at me with tears running down her face and said: "Tell everyone. Don't let them end up like me." That's why I'm writing this. If you are sitting in the monitoring window right now — if your A1C is between 6.0 and 7.5, if your doctor keeps saying "we'll keep an eye on it," if your creatinine is creeping up a tenth at a time, if your GFR is dropping a point or two each quarter, if there is foam in your toilet, if your feet tingle — try Metabolae risk-free. Ninety-day money-back guarantee. No questions asked. If your fasting glucose does not come down, if your kidney markers do not move, if you see no difference in 90 days, you pay nothing. The patients who see real movement in their kidney function are the ones who committed to at least three months. That is how long it takes to give your GFR a real chance to stabilize and shift. That is how long it takes to move A1C meaningfully. The 90-day guarantee means those three months cost you nothing if the numbers do not move. Here is what happens if they do. Your fasting glucose starts dropping between weeks 2 and 4. Your sleep improves within the first week — most people stop waking multiple times within 5 to 7 days. Your energy levels out through the day. And at your next lab draw — the one where your doctor has been saying "let's keep an eye on it" — she pauses. Looks at the numbers. Looks at you. Asks what you changed. You tell her. She uses a word you have not heard in years of appointments. "Improving." Not managed. Improving. The window stays open. The chair stays empty. One softgel daily with breakfast. That is the whole protocol. Metabolae is a small company sourcing verified Ceylon from a single estate in Sri Lanka's Central Province, testing every batch, using a fat-based delivery system that costs more to produce. When a batch sells out it waits on the next harvest. If you click and see out of stock, sign up for the notification. If it is available, order now. There is a promotion running currently. Three bottles at a significant discount — which is exactly the window for the kidney markers to actually move. If you are dealing with: Foam in the toilet that will not go away no matter how many times you flush. Tingling or burning in your feet that your doctor calls neuropathy. Fasting glucose that will not come below 130 no matter what you cut out. Creatinine climbing a tenth at a time every quarter. GFR dropping while your doctor "keeps an eye on it." An A1C your doctor calls "managed" or "prediabetic" while your body keeps sending signals that something is wrong. Give it 90 days. Track your fasting glucose every morning. Note your sleep, your energy, your feet. Go back for your next labs. If the numbers do not move, you get your money back. But if they do — if your kidney markers hold or climb, if the foam stops, if your doctor pauses over your labs and says the word you have been waiting to hear for years — you will understand why I now have a standing conversation with every patient who still has a chance to avoid my chairs. The doors are closed. The sand is still coming. But the window is still open. Don't let someone else tell your story with the words "I wish someone had told me sooner." I just did. Click below and get Metabolae while it is still available. ~ Sandra Keller, RN, Dialysis Unit, 14 years 👉 https://metabolae.com/products/ceylon-cinnamon-7200mg

Three years ago, my husband and three children threw a grand party for his mistress—and humiliated me by making me sign the divorce papers like a public execution. Heart shattered, I walked out that door and never looked back. No home. Marco took it. No family. They chose Margaret. No money. Everything was in Marco's name. Even then, I didn't ask anyone for help. I spent three years learning business, mastering finance, and understanding exactly how money worked. I built myself into a financial titan. Now, I'm back. And they're all on their knees, sobbing at my feet. "Mommy, please—we're starving on the streets! Just take us back!" "Lucia, please stop this. Just give me one more chance to love you!" -------------------------------------------------- Chapter 1 The ballroom sparkled with golden lights. Lucia stood near the entrance in her blue dress, the one she bought just for tonight. She kept touching her necklace. The silver one. Marco gave it to her on their first date. People smiled. Friends. Family. Neighbors. They said congratulations. They said everything looked beautiful. She planned it all. Every flower. Every candle. Every tiny detail. "Mrs. Hart, you look so happy," someone said. She was happy. She thought she was. The door opened. Marco walked in with a woman. Young. Maybe twenty-five. Blonde hair. Red dress tight against her body. She held Marco's arm like she owned him. Lucia's smile died. The room got smaller. Hotter. She couldn't breathe right. Marco looked at her. His eyes were cold. Empty. "Everyone, listen up." His voice cut through everything. The music. The laughter. The joy. The room went silent. Everyone turned. Stared at him. At the woman. At Lucia. "This is Margaret," Marco said. No feeling in his voice. Nothing. "I'm leaving Lucia for her." The words punched into Lucia's chest. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. What? "We've been together for two years." Marco's voice stayed calm. Like this was normal. "Margaret is moving into the house. Lucia's things are packed. They're in the garage." Two years. She made his breakfast. Washed his shirts. Slept beside him. Kissed him goodnight. Two years of lies. "Marco." Her voice cracked. "This is our anniversary. Our party. The children..." "The children know," Margaret said. Sweet voice. Too sweet. "They've known for months. They support us." No. Where were they? Ria? Lucas? Monica? There. Corner of the room. All three standing together. Ria stared at her. Sixteen with Marco's eyes. She crossed her arms. "Mom, just sign the papers. You're making this harder than it needs to be." The words cut. Deep. "Ria, baby, I don't..." "Dad's been unhappy for years," Lucas said. Fifteen. Her boy who used to be scared of thunder. "We all knew. Everyone knew except you." Monica giggled. Thirteen. The baby Lucia still tucked in at night sometimes. "Margaret takes us shopping. She actually listens to us. You never do." Lucia's legs shook. The floor tilted. Was she falling? Standing? She didn't know anymore. "I gave you everything." She looked at Marco. The man she loved. The man she believed in. "Everything I had." "You gave too much," Marco said. He pulled papers from his jacket. Divorce papers. "You smothered me. Margaret gives me freedom. She makes me feel like a man again." Margaret smiled. Victory written all over her face. "Sign them." Marco held out a pen. "Here?" Tears filled Lucia's eyes. "Now? In front of everyone?" "You're embarrassing yourself," Ria said. "Just do it already." People watched. Some turned away. Others whispered. Some pulled out phones. Taking pictures. Recording. Her pain as entertainment. Lucia's hand shook. She took the pen. The paper blurred. She couldn't read it. Didn't matter. She signed anyway. Her name looked strange. Broken. Not hers. Marco grabbed the papers. Folded them. Put them away. No thank you. No sorry. Nothing. "Leave now," Margaret said. "Your boxes are labeled. Don't take anything that isn't yours." "That house..." Lucia's voice was barely there. "I made it a home." "It's in my name," Marco said. "Always was. You have no claim." Ria stepped closer. "Mom, seriously. Everyone's uncomfortable. Just leave." "Yeah," Lucas said. "This is awkward." Monica laughed again. High. Cruel. Lucia looked at them. Her babies. She carried them. Fed them. Loved them. They looked at her like trash. "I loved you," she whispered. To all of them. "So much." "Not enough," Marco said. He pulled Margaret close. Kissed her. Right there. In front of Lucia. In front of everyone. Some people gasped. Others cheered. Lucia's feet moved. One step. Another. Through the crowd. Out the door. Rain. Heavy and cold. It soaked her dress in seconds. The special dress. Ruined now. She walked. Didn't know where. Her feet hurt in the heels but she kept going. Past houses with warm lights. Families inside. Real families. The tears came. Hot against her cold face. Her whole body shook. Remember when Ria took her first steps? Right into Lucia's arms. Lucia cried then too. Happy tears. Remember when Lucas learned to ride a bike? He fell. Scraped his knee. Lucia held him. Kissed it better. Remember when Monica drew that picture in kindergarten? Four stick figures holding hands. "That's us, Mommy. Our family." Gone. All of it. She fell. Her knees hit wet concrete. Hands in dirty water. She didn't get up. Couldn't. Thunder. Lightning. The sky was angry. Like her insides. Her phone buzzed. She pulled it out. Message from Marco. "Don't contact the children. Don't contact me. Move on." Move on. Like it was easy. Like she could just forget. Another message. Ria. "Mom, you're so dramatic. We're all happier without you. Accept it." The phone slipped from her hand. Fell into water. Screen went black. She stayed there. On her knees. Water soaking through her dress to her skin. Cold. So cold. Cars passed. No one stopped. She was nothing. Nobody wanted her. Not her husband. Not her children. Nobody. The necklace. She grabbed it. The silver one Marco gave her. Twenty years ago. When he said he loved her. When he promised forever. Lies. She ripped it off. The chain broke. She threw it into the street. Her makeup ran down her face in black streaks. Her hair stuck to her cheeks. Her dress clung heavy to her body. She tried to stand. Her legs wouldn't work right. They shook. Weak. Finally up. Barely. She looked back at the ballroom. The lights still glowed. Music still played. They were still celebrating. Without her. Celebrating her ending. A sound came from her throat. Half laugh. Half sob. Wrong. Broken. She turned away. Started walking again. Water in her shoes. Each step hurt. Where was she going? Didn't matter. She had nowhere. No home. Marco took it. No family. They chose Margaret. No money. Everything was in Marco's name. Nothing. She had nothing. The street blurred. More tears. Or maybe just the water running into her eyes. Remember their wedding day? Marco said she was beautiful. He said he'd never leave. He promised. Liar. Remember Ria's birth? Sixteen hours of labor. Worth it. Every second. To hold her baby. That baby just told her to leave. Remember Lucas's first word? Mama. He said mama. He reached for her. That boy said everyone knew except her. Like she was stupid. Remember Monica's first day of school? She cried. Didn't want Lucia to go. Held onto her leg. That girl laughed at her. In front of everyone. How? How did they all stop loving her? When did it happen? Was she blind? Stupid? Was she really that bad? Her chest hurt. Actual physical pain. Like something inside was tearing apart. She stopped walking. Middle of the sidewalk. Water pooled around her feet. A woman passed by. Looked at her. Looked away quick. Kept walking. Another person. A man. He crossed the street to avoid her. She was that woman now. The one people avoided. The one they pitied. The one they whispered about. Did you hear? Her husband left her at their anniversary party. For a younger woman. Even her kids don't want her. Poor thing. She didn't want pity. She wanted her life back. Her family. Her home. Her heart. But it was gone. All of it. She started walking again. Had to keep moving. If she stopped she might never start again. The water kept falling. Getting harder. Heavier. Her whole body was numb now. From cold. From pain. From everything. Somewhere a dog barked. A car horn honked. Normal sounds. Normal night. For everyone else. For her, everything ended. She thought about going back. Begging. Maybe if she said sorry. Maybe if she promised to change. Be better. Be whatever Marco wanted. No. She saw his face. Cold. Done with her. She saw Margaret. Smiling. Winning. She saw her children. Looking at her like she was nothing. They didn't want her back. They wanted her gone. She was gone now. Walking in the dark. In the rain. Alone. Her shoes rubbed blisters into her feet. She took them off. Held them in one hand. Kept walking barefoot. The concrete was rough. Cold. Hurt her feet. Good. The pain was good. It meant she was still real. Still here. Still something. Even if that something was broken. She passed a store window. Saw her reflection. Didn't recognize herself. Hair wild. Face streaked. Dress hanging off her body. She looked destroyed. She was destroyed. Somewhere behind her the party continued. Marco and Margaret probably dancing now. Her children probably eating cake. Laughing. Happy. Without her. Like she never mattered at all. The thought made her stomach turn. She bent over. Nothing came up. Just dry heaving. Her body trying to reject reality. She straightened up. Kept walking. Had to keep walking. Didn't know where. Didn't know why. Just knew she couldn't stop. Because if she stopped, if she stood still, she might break into pieces so small no one could ever put her back together. So she walked. Alone. Barefoot. In the rain that wouldn't stop falling. Chapter 2 Lucia didn't plan to walk to the bridge. Her feet just took her there. The river below was black. Angry. Water rushing fast and loud. She gripped the railing. Metal cold. Wet. Slippery. How did she get here? Just walking. Walking. Then the bridge. The water below looked like it could swallow everything. All the hurt. All the pain. Her phone buzzed. Marco. "Where are you? People are asking questions. You're embarrassing me." She stared at the screen. Her fingers shook. Embarrassing him. Another buzz. "Answer me, Lucia. Don't make this worse than it already is." She didn't respond. Her phone kept buzzing. Message after message. "If you're trying to get attention, it won't work. I'm done with your drama. Answer me now." "You're being childish." "Grow up, Lucia." "Think about the children. You're embarrassing them too." The children. But Marco was worried about embarrassing them? She looked at the railing. At the gap between the bars. No job. She stopped working when Ria was born. Marco said they didn't need her income. Said she should focus on the family. So she did. No career. No money of her own. Nothing. Where was she supposed to go? The house was Margaret's. Everything in Marco's name. Her friends? Couple friends. Marco's work friends and their wives. They'd pick his side. Her family? Her parents died five years ago. Car accident. She had no siblings. No one. The river kept rushing below. Her phone buzzed again. "Fine. Don't answer. But you're signing more papers tomorrow. My lawyer will contact you. Don't make this difficult." She turned the phone off. Shoved it in her pocket. Before Marco, there was someone else. Not a boyfriend. A friend. Alexander. Alex. Her best friend since she was seven. They grew up on the same street. Rode bikes together. Did homework together. Told each other everything. When she got engaged to Marco, Alex stopped talking to her. Just like that. One day they were best friends. The next day he was gone. She tried calling. Texting. He never answered. That was eighteen years ago. She hadn't seen him since. Another person who left her. Who would want her now? No job. No skills. No money. Three kids who hated her. No one. She climbed onto the first bar of the railing. Her bare feet slipped. She gripped tighter. The water looked closer. Darker. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Ria with tiny fingers wrapped around her thumb. Lucia used to sing lullabies. Made up songs. That baby told her to leave tonight. Lucas scared of shadows. Loud noises. Dogs. Lucia held him through it all. That boy said everyone knew Marco was unhappy. Except stupid Lucia. Monica. Pink and screaming and perfect when she was born. That girl laughed when Lucia signed the divorce papers. How did she lose them? The rain fell harder. Her dress stuck to her skin. Heavy. She climbed higher. Second bar. Her feet barely fit. She wobbled. The water roared below. What would happen if she jumped? Marco would be relieved. No messy divorce. He'd comfort Margaret. Play the grieving husband. Poor Marco. So tragic. The kids would be fine. They had Margaret. They didn't need Lucia. Nobody did. What was the point? Get a job at a store? Rent a tiny apartment? Start over? Her bones hurt. Her heart hurt. Everything hurt. Maybe it was easier to just stop. She looked down at the water. It didn't look scary anymore. It looked peaceful. Final. She let go with one hand. Held on with just the other. The wind pushed against her. She closed her eyes. Took a breath. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. She let go with the other hand. For a second she just stood there. Balanced. Then her foot slipped. Wet metal. No grip. She was falling. No. Wait. Her arms flailed. Reaching for anything. Just air. The water rushed up. Wrong wrong wrong. She wanted to scream but her throat closed. Falling. Fast. A sound behind her. Footsteps? Running? She didn't have time to look. The wind howled in her ears. Or was that her own breath? Her own terror? Faster. The water below black and waiting. Her dress whipped around her legs. Her hair flew into her face. This was it. Then something grabbed her arm. Hard. A hand. Strong fingers wrapped around her wrist. Squeezed. Held tight. The falling stopped. She hung there. One arm stretched up. The other dangling. Body swinging over the water. The hand pulled. She rose a little. But her wrist was slippery. Wet from the rain. The grip started to slide. No no no. She swung her other arm up. Desperate. Clawing at air. The hand adjusted. Grabbed tighter. Different angle now. Both hands gripping her arm. Pulling. Her shoulder burned. Felt like it might rip out of the socket. But she was rising. Inch by inch. Thunder cracked overhead. Lightning lit up the sky for a second. In that flash she saw the water below. Close. So close. Her feet kicked. Found nothing. Just empty space. The hand kept pulling. Strong. Steady. Not letting go. She scrambled with her feet. Finally touched the railing. Cold metal agai nst her toes. She pushed. The hand pulled. Then she was over. Back on the bridge. She collapsed. Hands and knees on wet concrete. Gasping. Shaking. The hand stayed on her shoulder. Steady. Warm despite everything. Chapter 3 Lucia looked up. Rain poured down his face. Dark hair plastered to his forehead. But those eyes. Brown. Familiar. "Alex?" Her voice came out hoarse. "It's me." He knelt beside her on the wet concrete. "You're okay now." Alexander Kane. Her best friend. The one who vanished eighteen years ago. Here. Saving her. She couldn't process it. Her brain felt foggy. "Can you stand?" he asked. She didn't know. Could she? He helped her up. Her legs shook. He wrapped an arm around her waist. "My car is just over there." He pointed. "Let me take you somewhere dry." She nodded. Couldn't speak. He guided her across the bridge. Each step felt wrong. Like she shouldn't be walking. Shouldn't be breathing. His car was black. Expensive looking. He opened the passenger door. Helped her inside. The seat was leather. Soft. She sank into it. He got in the driver's side. Started the engine. Heat blasted from the vents. "Where do you live?" he asked. "I'll take you home." Home. The word stabbed. "I can't." The words stuck. "Marco. He. The house." She couldn't finish. Alex looked at her. At her ruined dress. Her bare feet. Her destroyed face. "Okay," he said quietly. "You'll come to my place then." She wanted to say no. But where would she go? So she said nothing. He drove. She stared out the window. Buildings passed. Lights blurred. They drove for twenty minutes. Then he turned onto a long driveway. Trees lined both sides. Tall. The driveway went on forever. Then she saw it. A mansion. Actual mansion with columns and big windows and gardens. "You live here?" The words came out small. "Yeah." He parked in front of wide stone steps. "Come on." The front door was huge. Wood with carvings. He pushed it open. Inside was. She didn't have words. Marble floors. A staircase that curved up. Paintings. A chandelier hanging from the ceiling. "This way." Alex led her through hallways. Past rooms she couldn't look at properly. Her mind was too tired. He stopped at a door. Opened it. "Guest room. The bathroom is through there." He pointed. "Take a hot shower. I'll find you something to wear." She walked in. The room was bigger than the bedroom she used to have. Used to. Past tense. The bed had white sheets. Fluffy pillows. "Lucia." Alex's voice made her turn. "You're safe here. Okay?" He left. Closed the door. She stood there. Dripping water on expensive carpet. The bathroom. Right. She walked through the door. Marble everywhere. A tub big enough to swim in. A shower with glass walls. She turned on the water. Steam filled the space. She peeled off her dress. It fell in a wet heap. She stepped into the shower. The water burned her skin. She didn't care. She stood under the spray until her fingers pruned. When she got out, there were towels. Big. Soft. White. And clothes on the counter. A t-shirt. Sweatpants. Too big for her. Must be Alex's. She put them on. Rolled up the pants. Back in the bedroom, she sat on the edge of the bed. Stared at her hands. A knock on the door. "Come in," she said. Alex walked in with a tray. A mug. Steam rising from it. "Tea," he said. "Chamomile. My daughter swears by it." Daughter. Alex had a daughter. Eighteen years. People had whole lives in that time. "Thank you." She took the mug. Wrapped her hands around it. He sat in a chair across from the bed. "Do you want to talk about it?" "Marco left me." The words tumbled out. "Tonight. At our anniversary party. In front of everyone. He's been with someone else for two years. The kids knew. They wanted him to leave me." Saying it made it real. Made it hurt more. "I'm sorry," Alex said. "Why were you on that bridge?" she asked. He was quiet for a moment. "I was driving home. Saw someone on the railing. I stopped." "You didn't know it was me?" "Not until I grabbed you." He leaned forward. "Lucia, what were you doing?" She couldn't answer that. "I didn't know where else to go," she whispered instead. "You can stay here. As long as you need." "I can't." "Why not?" Because she'd already taken too much from people. Because she was a burden. "Stay," Alex said. "At least for a week. Figure out your next steps." A week. Then what? But she nodded. "Try to sleep," Alex said. He stood. Walked to the door. "I'm down the hall if you need anything." He left. She put the mug on the nightstand. Lay down. Pulled the covers up. The sheets smelled clean. Fresh. Nothing like before. She closed her eyes. Didn't think she'd sleep. But exhaustion pulled her under anyway. When she woke, sunlight streamed through the windows. Bright. Harsh. For a second she didn't know where she was. Then it all came back. She sat up. Her body ached. Her head pounded. A clock on the nightstand said 9:47. Her phone. Where was her phone? She found it on the dresser. Alex must have brought it in. She turned it on. Messages flooded in. Marco. Seventeen of them. She scrolled past those. Then she saw one from an unknown number. She opened it. "Hi Lucia! It's Margaret. Marco gave me your number. Hope you don't mind! Quick question, where do you keep your face products? I want to try your routine. Your skin always looked so glowy!" Lucia stared at the screen. Face products? She hadn't used face products in years. Just soap. Water. Whatever was cheap at the store. But Margaret thought. Margaret assumed. Another message came through. "Also, do you have a specific brand for your hair? It always looked so shiny!" Shiny. Lucia touched her hair. Dry. Frizzy. Damaged from years of cheap shampoo. She wanted to throw the phone. Wanted to scream. But she did nothing. Just turned the phone off. Put it back on the dresser. A knock on the door. "Come in," she said. The door burst open. A girl bounced in. Curly dark hair. Big smile. Energy radiating off her. "Hi! You're awake! Dad said not to bother you but I couldn't wait anymore. I'm Lena!" Lena. Alex's daughter. "Hi," Lucia managed. "Dad said you're staying with us for a bit. That's so cool. We never have guests. Well, we do but they're boring business people. You're different. I can tell." The girl talked fast. Bright. Bubbly. "I'm Lucia," she said. "I know! Dad told me. He said you were friends a long time ago. Like before I was born." Lena sat on the edge of the bed. Uninvited but somehow not intrusive. "How old are you?" Lucia asked. "Fifteen. Well, fifteen and a half." Same age as Lucas. The thought stabbed. "Are you okay?" Lena's smile faded. "You look sad." "I'm fine," Lucia lied. "Dad says that too. When he's not fine. Adults always say they're fine." Smart kid. "I have kids," Lucia said. Didn't know why she said it. "Three of them." "Cool! Where are they?" "They don't want me." Lena's face scrunched up. "That's stupid. Kids always want their moms." If only. "My mom died," Lena said. Casual. "Cancer. I was five. I barely remember her." "I'm sorry." "It's okay. I mean it's not. But I'm okay. Dad made sure." Lena picked at the blanket. "He's really good at taking care of people. Even when he's sad. He was really sad after Mom died." Ten years. Alex's wife died ten years ago. "You live in this huge place," Lucia said. "Just the two of you?" "Yep. Well, and the staff. Maria cooks. Roberto does the gardens." Lena shrugged. "It's a lot of space. Gets lonely sometimes. But Dad works a lot. Building companies. I don't really get it. Just know he's really rich." Extremely wealthy. Looking around, it was obvious. "Must be nice," Lucia said. "Sometimes." Lena's smile came back. "Other times it's weird. People at school treat me different. They want to be my friend because of Dad's money. Not because they like me." "That sounds hard." "It is. But you learn who's real and who's fake pretty fast." Lena stood. "Anyway! Dad said to tell you breakfast is ready when you want." Lucia looked at the clock. Almost ten. "Come down when you're ready!" Lena headed for the door. Turned back. "I'm really glad you're here. The house feels less empty." She left. Lucia got out of bed. Found the bathroom again. Splashed water on her face. Looked in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy. Red. Her face was pale. She looked like a ghost. Stop it. She went downstairs. Followed the sound of voices. The kitchen was huge. White cabinets. Marble counters. An island in the middle. Alex stood at the stove. Lena sat on a stool. They were laughing about something. They looked happy. She stood in the doorway. Suddenly feeling like an intruder. Alex saw her. "Hey. You're up. Hungry?" "I don't know," she said honestly. "Well, I made eggs. And toast. And bacon. And pancakes because Lena insisted." "I always insist," Lena said. "Pancakes are life." Lucia sat on a stool. Alex put a plate in front of her. But she picked up a fork. Took a bite. It tasted like nothing. But she chewed. Swallowed. "So," Alex said. Leaning against the counter. "You can stay here. Week or so. Figure out what you want to do next." Lucia's hands tightened around the fork. "I can't pay you." "I'm not asking you to." Her throat closed up. "I don't have anything." "Then stay until you do." Alex's voice was gentle. "No pressure." Lena grabbed her arm. "Please stay! I've always wanted another girl in this house." Something in Lucia's chest cracked. This girl. This bright girl who didn't know her. Who had no reason to want her here. But she did. "Okay," Lucia whispered. "Great!" Lena squeezed her arm. "This is going to be so fun!" Fun. When was the last time Lucia had fun? She couldn't remember. Alex smiled at her. Small. Understanding. For the first time since Marco walked in with Margaret, something other than pain settled in her chest. Not hope. Not quite. But possibility. Maybe. Chapter 4 Alex stood in his office. Door closed. Locked. He stared at the monitor on his desk. Security footage from the guest room hallway. Lucia was still asleep. He rubbed his face. Hadn't slept. Just watched. Made sure she didn't leave. Didn't hurt herself. His phone buzzed. Thomas. His private investigator. "Confirmed. Marco Lewis filed divorce papers this morning. Moving fast." Alex's jaw clenched. Of course. Lock everything down before Lucia could think straight. He typed back. "Keep monitoring. I want to know everything." He put the phone down. Looked at the monitor again. Lucia. Thirty-three years he'd loved her. Thirty-three years of watching from the shadows. He was seven when he met her. She was seven too. First day of second grade. New kid. Poor kid. His clothes were too big. Hand-me-downs from his older cousin. The other kids laughed. Called him trash. Said he smelled. Then Lucia stood up. Tiny thing with wild hair and a voice that didn't match her size. "Shut up. All of you. He's new and you're being mean." She sat next to him that day. Every day after that. Her family had money. Big house. Nice cars. But she never cared that he had nothing. They were inseparable. Did everything together. Then high school happened. Sixteen years old. She was laughing at something stupid he said. He looked at her and. Oh. Oh no. He fell in love with her that day. Never told her. How could he? She was Lucia Hart. Beautiful. Smart. Rich family. He was Alex Kane. Poor kid with holes in his shoes and a drunk father. So he stayed quiet. Stayed her best friend. Died a little every time she talked about other boys. Then college. Marco showed up. Marco with his car and his clothes and his confidence. Marco who could give her everything Alex couldn't. She fell for him. Fast. Talked about him constantly. Alex listened. Smiled. Pretended his heart wasn't breaking. When she got engaged, he couldn't anymore. Couldn't watch her marry someone else. So he left. Changed his number. Moved cities. Built his company from nothing. Turned heartbreak into empire. And he watched her. Always. Hired Thomas five years after her wedding. Just to check. Make sure she was okay. Reports came. Photos. Updates. Lucia looked content. Three kids. Nice house. He told himself that was enough. She was happy. That mattered. But he kept the reports coming. Couldn't stop. Couldn't let go. Then last week Thomas called. "You need to see this." Photos of Marco. With Margaret. Coming out of hotels. Kissing in parking lots. "How long?" Alex asked. "Two years. Maybe more." His blood boiled. "Find out everything. I want dates. Times. Proof." Thomas delivered. Marco was planning to leave Lucia. Their anniversary party. Public humiliation. Alex tried to stop it. Drove to the venue. But he was too late. People were leaving. Talking. Gossiping. "Did you see her face?" "So embarrassing." He grabbed someone. "Where did Lucia go?" "She ran out. In the rain." He searched. Drove through streets. Panicking. Then he saw her. On the bridge. Climbing the railing. His heart stopped. He ran. Grabbed her wrist just as she fell. And now she was here. In his house. A second chance. He didn't deserve it. But he had her here. That's what mattered. A knock on his office door. "Dad?" Lena. He unlocked the door. She walked in. Looked at him. "You didn't sleep," she said. "I'm fine." "You always say that." She sat across from his desk. "We need to talk about Lucia." "What about her?" "I saw your face this morning. When you looked at her. I've never seen you look at anyone like that. Not even Mom." Alex's chest tightened. "Lena." "Tell me the truth. Who is she?" He sat down. "We were friends. I told you that." "Friends don't look at each other the way you looked at her." Smart kid. Too smart. "She was my best friend. Growing up." "And?" "And I fell in love with her. In high school." Lena leaned forward. "Did you tell her?" "No." "Why not?" "Because I was poor. She was rich. I had nothing." "That's stupid." "Maybe. But that's how it felt." Alex looked at his hands. "Then she met Marco in college. He had everything I didn't." "So you left." "Yeah." "And now she's here." "Yeah." "Do you still love her?" The question hung there. Heavy. "Yeah," Alex whispered. "I never stopped." Lena was quiet. Then. "How did you find her last night? On that bridge?" Alex went cold. "What?" "You just happened to be driving by? That's a pretty big coincidence, Dad." He couldn't lie to her. "I've been keeping track of her. For years. Through an investigator." Lena's eyes widened. "You've been stalking her?" "Not stalking. Making sure she was okay." "Dad. That's literally stalking." "I know. I know it sounds bad. But I needed to know she was safe." "And when you found out about Marco cheating?" "I tried to stop it. Tried to get there before he humiliated her. But I was too late." "So you went looking for her." "Thomas said she left the party. I drove around. Then I saw her on the bridge." Lena stood. Walked to the window. "This is a lot, Dad." "I know." "Does she know? About the investigator? About you watching her?" "No. And she can't know. Not now." "You have to tell her eventually." "I know." "If she finds out on her own, she'll hate you." "I know that too." Alex stood. Walked over to his daughter. "But right now, she needs stability. Not more chaos. Not more betrayal." "You think she'll see it as betrayal?" "Probably." "Do you think she ever loved you? Back then?" The question hurt. He'd asked himself that a thousand times. "I don't know. She never said anything. Never gave any sign." "Or maybe she did love you and you were both too scared to say it." Worse thought. That they could have had something. That he'd wasted years because he was a coward. "Doesn't matter now," Alex said. "She's healing. That's important." "When are you going to tell her?" Lena asked. "About your feelings? About everything?" "Not now." "When?" "I don't know. When she's stronger." "What if she's never ready?" "Then I'll keep it to myself. Like I have for thirty-three years." Lena turned to face him. "That's sad, Dad." "Maybe. But her happiness matters more." "Mom knew, didn't she? About Lucia?" Alex nodded. "Yeah. Sandra knew." "Did she mind?" "She said she didn't. Said she understood. That people carry ghosts. That loving someone unavailable doesn't mean you can't love someone else." "Do you think she was happy? With you?" "I hope so. I tried to make her happy. I really did love her, Lena. Your mom was incredible. Patient. Kind." "But?" "But she wasn't Lucia." The words came out broken. "And that's not fair. To her memory. To you. But it's the truth." Lena walked over. Hugged him. "I'm not mad, Dad. I just want you to be happy. Really happy." "I am happy. I have you." "You know what I mean." He did. "Give it time," he said. "Let Lucia heal. Then maybe." "Promise me you'll tell her. Eventually. About everything." "Lena." "Promise me, Dad. She deserves the truth." He closed his eyes. "I promise. When the time is right." "Good." She pulled back. "Now go shower. You smell like stress." He laughed. First real laugh in days. "I'm serious. Go. I'll make sure Lucia has everything she needs." "Don't tell her anything." "I won't. But you will. Soon." She left. Alex walked back to his desk. Looked at the monitor. Lucia was awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed. Looking lost. His heart ached. Thirty-three years he'd loved her. Thirty-three years of silence. Maybe Lena was right. Maybe he needed to tell her. But not now. Not when she was broken. He'd wait. Be patient. Be there. And hope. Hope that eventually she might see him as more than just her childhood friend who saved her life. Hope that eventually she might love him back. But even if she didn't. He'd still be here. Still protect her. Because that's what you did when you loved someone. You stayed. Even when it hurt. Even when it was hopeless. You stayed. Chapter 5 Lucia sat on the bed. Her phone in her hand. Staring at the screen. She shouldn't do this. She knew she shouldn't. But her fingers moved anyway. Opening Instagram. Typing in Ria's username. The profile loaded. Public. Of course. Photos filled the screen. Recent ones. From yesterday. Her breath caught. There. A video. Posted three hours ago. She clicked it. Laughter came first. Happy laughter. Then the image loaded. Marco. Margaret. And all three kids. Sitting around a table. Pizza boxes open. Everyone smiling. "Say hi to everyone!" Ria's voice. She was recording. "Hi!" Monica waved at the camera. Big smile. Lucas gave a thumbs up. Grinning. Margaret leaned into Marco. "We're having the best family night!" Family night. Lucia's hands shook. "Margaret makes the best homemade cookies," Monica said. "Way better than Mom's store bought ones." The words stabbed. "And she actually listens when we talk," Ria added. "Like really listens. Not just pretending while looking at her phone." Lucia never looked at her phone during conversations. Never. "Plus she's cool," Lucas said. "She gets us. You know?" Margaret laughed. Kissed Marco's cheek. "These kids are amazing. I'm so lucky." The video ended. Lucia stared at the black screen. Her reflection stared back. Pale. Hollow. She scrolled down. More photos. Margaret braiding Monica's hair. Margaret and Ria shopping. Matching bags. Lucas teaching Margaret how to play video games. All posted today. Captions about how wonderful Margaret was. Not one mention of Lucia. Her chest hurt. Like something inside was tearing. She kept scrolling. Couldn't stop. Another video. Margaret's account. "My new family!" Margaret's voice. Cheerful. Sweet. The camera panned. Marco cooking. The kids setting the table. "I've always wanted kids," Margaret said. "And now I have three perfect ones. Dreams really do come true!" Lucia's phone slipped from her fingers. Fell onto the bed. She couldn't breathe. They replaced her. Two days. Two days and they'd already replaced her. A sound came from her throat. Half sob. Half scream. She grabbed a pillow. Pressed it to her face. Maybe they were right. Maybe she was a bad mother. Maybe Margaret was better. No. No. But look at them. Look how happy they were. The tears came. Loud. Ugly. A knock on the door. Soft. She didn't answer. The door opened anyway. "Lucia?" Alex. She couldn't look at him. "Hey." His voice got closer. "What happened?" She shook her head. The bed dipped. He sat beside her. "Talk to me," he said. She lowered the pillow. Her face was wet. "I looked at their social media," she whispered. "The kids." Alex's jaw tightened. "What did you see?" "They're with Marco. And her. Margaret. They posted videos. They look. They look so." She couldn't say it. Alex picked up her phone. Looked at the screen. His face went hard. "This is cruel," he said. "Maybe it's true." The words came out broken. "Maybe I was a terrible mother. Maybe they're better off." "Stop." "Look at them, Alex. They don't miss me at all." "They're kids being manipulated." "They chose her." "They chose what's easier. That doesn't make you bad." Lucia pulled her knees to her chest. "I should call them. Maybe if I just. If I explain." "Explain what? They don't want to hear it." The bluntness hurt. But it was true. She grabbed her phone. Opened it. Stared at Monica's number. What would she even say? Please love me again? Please remember I'm your mother? Her finger hovered over the call button. "Don't," Alex said quietly. She put the phone down. Face down. Alex was quiet. Then he stood. Walked to the window. "I have an idea," he said. "But you'll probably think I'm insane." She looked up. "What?" He turned to face her. Hesitated. Like he was debating something. "Disappear," he finally said. "What?" "Leave. Go somewhere far. Reinvent yourself. Come back when you're ready." "I can't just leave." "Why not? What's keeping you here?" The question hung there. What was keeping her? Nothing. Nobody wanted her here. "Where would I even go?" she asked. Alex took a breath. "Germany. I have a villa there. Countryside. Quiet. You could stay as long as you need." Germany. Another country. "And do what?" "Learn. Transform." He walked back over. Sat on the bed again. "I can teach you about business. Finance. How money works. You could come back different. Stronger." "Why would I need to know about business?" Alex hesitated again. Like he was afraid to tell her. "Marco is hiding assets offshore," he finally said. Lucia stared at him. "What?" "I had Thomas dig deeper. Marco has accounts in the Cayman Islands. Properties under shell companies. He's been planning this." Her stomach turned. "How long?" "At least five years." Five years. "The affair. The quick wedding. It's all calculated." Alex's voice was steady. "He wants to marry Margaret fast. Lock everything down before you can do anything." "He's going to marry her?" "Already applied for the license. Wedding next month." Next month. Their divorce wasn't even final. "How do you know all this?" she asked. "Thomas is good at his job." "You've been investigating Marco?" "Yes." She should be angry. Should feel violated. But she just felt. Tired. "What else?" "Marco's company. I own shares. Thirty percent." Lucia looked at him. "Thirty?" "I'm the second largest shareholder. Marco doesn't know. The shares are under a holding company." "Why are you telling me this?" Alex looked down at his hands. "Because I can help you. If you want. I can give you leverage. Information. Everything you need to fight back." Fight back. She'd never fought back against anything. "I don't know how to fight," she said. "I'll teach you." "In Germany." "Yes." She stood up. Walked to the window. Looked out at the gardens. Six months in another country. Learning things she didn't understand. Coming back. For what? "What if I come back and nothing changes?" she asked. "What if I'm still nobody? What if they still don't want me?" "Then at least you'll be somebody who chose to fight." "But what if I don't want to fight? What if I just want my kids back?" The words cracked on the way out. Alex stood. Walked over. Stood beside her. "You can't make people love you," he said quietly. "Not even your kids. But you can make them respect you. You can make them regret what they did." "Is that enough?" "I don't know. But it's better than this." She looked at him. Really looked. He looked scared. Like he was afraid she'd say no. Like this mattered to him more than he was saying. "Why do you care so much?" she asked. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away. "Because you deserve better," he finally said. "You always did." The air between them felt charged. "If I do this," she said slowly. "If I go. What happens to me?" "What do you mean?" "I'll be alone. In a foreign country. Learning things I don't understand. What if I can't do it? What if I fail?" "You won't." "You don't know that." "No. But I believe it." She wanted to believe it too. But believing meant hoping. And hoping meant risking more pain. "I'm scared," she whispered. "I know." "What if they're right about me? What if I really am that terrible?" "You're not." "How do you know?" "Because I've known you for thirty-three years. And you've never been terrible. Not once." The words hit something in her chest. She looked back out the window. The sun was setting. Orange and pink. Tomorrow she could leave. Start over. Become someone new. Or she could stay. Keep crying. Keep checking their social media. Keep hurting. She thought about Monica's laugh in that video. Lucas's smile. Ria's happiness. They were fine without her. Better even. Something inside her shifted. Hardened. "Okay," she said. "Okay?" "Yeah. Germany. All of it." Alex's face changed. Relief. "You won't regret this." "I already regret everything else." He almost smiled. She looked down at her phone. Still on the bed. Still showing her kids with someone else. "I want them to see," she said. Voice quiet. "I want them to see me different. Strong. Someone they can't ignore." "They will." "And Marco. I want him to know he made a mistake." "He will." She didn't know if she believed him. But she wanted to. "When do we leave?" she asked. "Two days. I need to arrange some things first." Two days. "What about Lena?" "She's excited. Already packing." Of course she was. Lucia picked up her phone. Looked at it one last time. Then she deleted Instagram. Done watching. Done hurting. "Teach me everything," she said. Looking at Alex. "I want to know how to win." "I will." Outside, the sun disappeared. Darkness came. But for the first time in days, Lucia didn't feel afraid of it. She felt ready for it.

Faster than an Alpha LUNA I never meant to start my first day at Blackridge University with a full-out sprint, but the bus was late, the campus was huge, and I had exactly seven minutes to make it to athlete orientation before Coach Ramirez, my new coach, who according to the rumors I’ve heard, was strict and unforgiving, marked me down as unreliable. That wasn’t happening, not after everything I’d done to get here. So I ran. My sneakers pounded the sidewalk, duffel bag bouncing against my hip with every stride I took. My lungs pulled in the cool morning air that was sharp and clean, tasting faintly of pine and something else I couldn’t place. My long dark curls whipped across my face, sticking to the sweat already beading on my golden-brown skin, and I shoved them back impatiently. It didn’t matter to me what I looked like. It only mattered that I got there on time. Blackridge was beautiful in a way that made my chest tight, with the old brick buildings that were covered in ivy, wide green lawns, and mountains rising blue and hazy in the distance. It felt like the kind of place where important things happened, and I still couldn’t believe that I actually belonged here. I was on a full scholarship for track and field, which was a fresh start far away from the cramped apartment and the worried lines around Mom’s eyes every time the rent was due. I cut across the main quad, dodging groups of students with backpacks and coffee cups. Some of them turned to stare, probably because I was running like my life depended on it, but I didn’t slow down. The athletic complex was on the far side of campus, and the map on my phone said the fastest route was straight across a massive open field. I hopped a low chain-link fence without breaking stride, and the turf felt perfect under my shoes, springy, and brand-new. The farther I ran, the more the air smelled like fresh-cut grass and something sharper, almost spicy, which was weird, but whatever. I focused on getting to where I needed to be until I noticed the goalposts towering at both ends which made me realize that this was an empty football field. Or so I thought. I was halfway across when voices hit me, deep, loud, and most definitely male. A whole group of guys in black practice jerseys were spread out near the fifty-yard line, stretching, tossing footballs, and laughing like they owned the world. Which, from the size of them, they probably thought they did. I tried to veer left, but one of them, out of nowhere, stepped right into my path, causing me to skid to a stop with my chest heaving. The guy in front of me was tall and tan with dirty-blond hair that fell into sharp gray eyes, and there was also a thin scar cutting through his left eyebrow, giving him a permanent half-smirk. He looked like a bundle of trouble with way too much muscle, and that smirk told me that he knew it. “Lost, track girl?” he asked, his voice low and lazy. “This isn’t your playground.” I was initially confused on how he was able to guess that I was a track athlete until I looked down at the Blackridge University Track team jacket I forgot I had on, and realized that I was basically announcing myself. Behind him, the rest of the team had gone quiet, and I felt every single pair of eyes land on me. There had to be thirty guys out here, but only five of them stood out like they were under spotlights. The one who’d spoken, Ryder, as I had heard someone mutter after he stopped me, folded his arms and waited for me to apologize or back down, like that was ever going to happen, and judging from his teammate's reaction, he was most probably used to intimidating girls with his height, and looks. I straightened up, slinging my bag higher on my shoulder. “I’m only just taking a shortcut, buddy. Didn’t realize I needed a hall pass to cross grass.” A couple of low laughs rippled through the group, and Ryder’s smirk widened. “You’re fast. I’ll give you that, but this field belongs to the football team. So maybe stick to the little baby tracks from now on.” Baby tracks. The words lit a fire under me. I’d heard stuff like that my whole life, with people telling me I’m too short, too small, and too female to hang with the serious runners, and every time, I’d shut them up by leaving them in the dust. I looked past Ryder to the end zone which was about eighty yards, maybe ninety, then back at him. “Tell you what,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Race me to the goalpost. If I win, I get to cut across whenever I want, but if you win, I’ll stay on the baby tracks forever.” His eyebrows shot up, and the laughs from the rest of the guys only got louder. From the back of the group, a guy with jet-black hair and storm-gray eyes watched without smiling. He had the vibe of a team captain written all over him, broad shoulders, arms crossed, and a presence that made everyone else shift a little when he moved. Next to him was a blond with sun-bleached curls and a dimpled grin that made him look like he’d just won free tickets to the best show on campus. His green eyes sparkled with so much amusement it was almost embarrassing. A bigger guy who had tattoos covering his thick arms, short dark hair, and piercing blue eyes, muttered something that sounded like “This is dumb,” but I ignored him since my pride was on the line. And then there was the quiet one, who was leaner than the others, and had longish dark brown hair falling over silver-rimmed glasses. His golden eyes never left me, not once, and it was intense in a way that made my skin prickle. Ryder peeled off his practice jersey and tossed it to the grass. His chest and abs were ridiculous, tan and cut like he lived in the weight room his entire life, not that I was staring. Okay, maybe I was staring a little. “You’re on,” he said, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “Ready to eat my dust, track girl?” I dropped my duffel at the curly blond’s feet, and he took it without a word, his dimples deepening. We lined up side by side. Then someone yelled, “Go!” and we took off. The turf flew under me, and the wind roared in my ears. My legs stretched long and powerful, the way they always did when I ran for real. I didn’t look in Ryder’s direction as I never look sideways in a race. I just focused on the white line ahead and let my body do what it knew how to do best. Ten yards in, he was right beside me, strong and fast, definitely way faster than any guy I’d raced before. Twenty yards, and I could hear his breathing, and feel the heat coming off him as he pushed harder, but I’d trained for this. Endless sprints, hill repeats until I wanted to cry, and stairs until my quads burned for days. I found another gear and pulled ahead. Thirty yards… forty, and the gap widened, and I ended up hitting the end zone two full strides before he did. I slowed to a jog, then stopped, hands on my knees, pulling in deep breaths. My heart hammered so hard I felt it in my throat, and when I straightened up, sweat dripping down my back, the entire field was silent. I mean dead silent. Ryder stood a few feet away, bent over, with his hands on his thighs. Sweat darkened his hair, and he looked up at me, gray eyes wide, mouth actually open a little. The cocky smirk was completely gone. No one cheered. No one laughed. The cute captain stepped forward slowly, his gaze locked on me like he was deciding between jumping me, or running away from me, and the others shifted restlessly, some taking half-steps closer without seeming to realize it. The air felt different suddenly, heavy in a way I couldn't properly describe, and the spicy scent I’d picked up earlier but ignored was everywhere now, flooding my lungs, and making my head spin. I immediately knew that it was coming from them. All five of them with the invisible spotlights above their heads. My skin tingled, and my pulse wouldn’t slow down. Ryder straightened up slowly, his voice coming out rough, almost broken. “What… the hell… are you?” I forced a laugh, but it sounded shaky even to me. “A transfer student who just beat you?” He took a step toward me, then another. His pupils were huge and black, swallowing the gray. “No. You’re…” He inhaled sharply, like the air hurt going in. “Omega.” The word dropped into the silence, and a couple of the guys actually growled, low, deep sounds that vibrated in my chest. The captain's jaw clenched so tight I saw the muscle jump, the tattooed one curled his hands into fists, and the quiet one with glasses adjusted them slowly, his golden eyes narrowed behind the lenses. I took a step back. “Okay, that’s… a weird team thing, right? Secret handshake or whatever? Cool, but I’m just gonna…” I pointed toward the far sideline. “Head to orientation.” But they didn’t move. They just stared at me like I was something they’d never seen before, or something they wanted to devour. Maybe even both. The captain finally spoke, his voice was low and controlled, and it sent a shiver straight down my spine. “You just made a very big mistake coming here.” My stomach flipped, but I lifted my chin. I wasn’t about to let some overgrown jocks scare me on day one. “I won fair and square,” I said. “Deal with it.” I stepped around him, grabbed my bag from the curly blond, and started walking. My legs felt heavy, like I was moving through water, and that wild scent clung to my skin, sank into my lungs, and made my head fuzzy in a way I didn’t understand. I didn’t look back, and I couldn’t because I could feel them watching me. Five specific pairs of eyes were burning into my back like they wanted to brand me. By the time I reached the track complex, my heart still hadn’t calmed down. The building was modern with the glass walls, and banners with past championship years. I dropped my bag for a moment and tried to force a smile on my face so it wouldn't be obvious to anyone else that I wasn't having the best morning, but my mind just wouldn’t settle. Why had they looked at me like that? Why did the air suddenly feel different after the race, like a storm was coming, and most importantly, why couldn’t I stop smelling them every time I breathed in? Viral on Day One LUNA Orientation did not go well. I slipped into the track complex five minutes late, breathing a little harder than I’d liked with my curls sticking to my neck like they were out to get me. Coach Ramirez stopped mid-sentence as soon as he noticed me, and stood still with his arms crossed, and his dark eyes narrowing on me like I’d personally insulted him. Everyone else, which was about twenty other scholarship athletes, turned to look in my direction, which was one of my worst nightmares, so I quickly mumbled an apology about the bus being late and took the only empty seat at the back. For the next hour Coach drilled us on rules, schedules, and expectations, and every time his gaze swept the room, it stayed on me a second longer than everyone else. When he handed out the practice calendars, he had practically slapped mine into my hand and muttered, “Don’t be late again, Merrick. We don’t hand out full rides to people who can’t tell time.” Great. First day and I was already on his bad side. Could this day possibly get any worse? By the time we were dismissed, my stomach was in knots. I grabbed my duffel and got out of there fast with my head down, trying to ignore the curious stares from the other runners. I just wanted to find my dorm, unpack my bags that I’d been told were already waiting in my room since I sent them in advance, and after that, I’ll pretend the morning hadn’t happened. Hawthorne Hall was supposed to be a ten-minute walk from the athletic complex, but it felt like thirty. The campus was even bigger than I thought, the paths twisting between old brick buildings and wide lawns. My phone map kept spinning, and every time I thought I had the right dorm, it turned out to be the wrong one. I must have circled the same courtyard twice. Finally I found Hawthorne, a tall red-brick building with ivy crawling up the sides, and I pushed through the front doors, relieved to be out of the sun. The lobby smelled like popcorn and cheap perfume, and just as I was walking past, a group of girls lounging on the couches would look up at me. They stopped talking, and just stared like they had never seen a person before, then one whispered something to her friend, and they both smirked. I kept moving, heading straight to the third floor, room 312. The hallway was loud with doors open, music playing, and girls laughing. Every time I passed an open door or a cluster in the hall, more heads turned, I got more stares, and there was more whispering. I felt like I’d grown a second head or something, and my cheeks burned, but I kept my chin up and walked faster. When I finally found 312, the door was slightly open. I pushed it wider and stopped dead. The room was decently sized, with two beds, two desks, and two closets with sunlight pouring in through a big window. One side was completely bare with white walls, an empty desk, and a neatly made bed. Mine, I guessed. The other side? Total chaos. Posters covered almost every inch of wall space. Shirtless guys with perfect abs and smoldering looks, rock bands, movie stars, and then… wolves. Big, gorgeous photos of wolves running through snow, wolves howling at the moon, and wolves with glowing eyes. One huge poster showed a half-human, half-wolf creature that had ripped muscles, claws, fur along the arms, and a face caught somewhere between man and beast. I stood there staring, duffel still on my shoulder. What the hell was this? The door swung open behind me, and I jumped. A girl with bright red hair piled in a messy bun bounced in, arms full of books and a half-eaten granola bar. She had pale skin, round glasses, and a wide, contagious grin that lit up her whole face the second she saw me. “You must be Luna!” she said, dumping her stuff on her bed. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here earlier. I had film theory and the professor talks forever. I’m Ivy. Ivy Hart. Hi!” She stuck out her hand, and I shifted my bag and shook it awkwardly. “Luna Merrick,” I said. “Yeah, hi.” Ivy glanced around like she was seeing the room for the first time. “Sorry about the mess. I meant to clean up, but I literally ran out the door this morning, but as you can already tell, that side’s all yours.” She pointed to the empty half. “Decorate it however you want. Put up posters of hot athletes or whatever. I bet you’ve got some good ones.” I blinked. “How did you know I’m an athlete?” She laughed, a bright, bubbly sound, and flopped onto her bed. “Girl, you’re famous now. Didn’t you know?” I frowned. “Famous? What are you talking about?” Instead of answering, Ivy dug her phone out of her pocket, scrolled for a second, then turned the screen toward me. My stomach dropped. It was a video, a crystal clear video of me lining up next to Ryder on the football field, me pulling ahead in the race, and me crossing the end zone first. Ryder bent over, hands on his knees, looking stunned, and the camera zoomed in on the team, catching how all of them had frozen, and stared at me like I was a ghost. You could even hear someone whisper “Omega” near the end. The caption read, ‘New girl smokes Ryder Graves on his own field. Who is she???’ with a couple of dumb emojis, but it surprisingly had a lot of views. My mouth went dry. “Someone filmed that?” Ivy nodded, her eyes wide. “Multiple someones, actually. It’s all over the school’s socials, and you're, like, viral on your first day. That’s lucky!” “Lucky?” I repeated, my voice flat. “I have zero interest in going viral. Why is the whole school making a big deal out of a stupid race? Don’t they have anything better to do?” Ivy stared at me like I’d just said the sky was green. “Do you seriously not know who you raced?” “Some cocky football guy?” I shot back, letting her know that I was definitely not impressed just because I happened to race some hot guy. “Ryder Graves,” she said slowly, like I was missing something huge. “Star running back, and one of the gods of Blackridge University. He and his friends, Jace Callahan, Knox Wilder, Theo Vale, and Orion Dusk, are basically untouchable. Think gorgeous insane athletes that come from incredibly rich families, basically the whole package. Girls throw themselves at them, guys want to be them, and they never, ever pay attention to anyone new, especially not a transfer girl. But you, my dear, didn’t just beat Ryder, you got all five of them staring at you like you hung the moon.” I snorted. “Sounds like high school.” Ivy laughed again. “Pretty much, but on steroids.” I turned away, unzipping my duffel and starting to unpack my other things just to have something to do with my hands. T-shirts, running gear, and a couple framed photos of me and Mom. I set them on the empty desk carefully. Famous, viral, and attention. Exactly what I didn’t want, especially if it had nothing to do with my incredible ability as an athlete. I’d come here to run, study, graduate, and disappear into a normal life, not become campus gossip because I beat some jock in a sprint. The rest of the afternoon passed by with me unpacking and attempting to multitask by making small talk with Ivy who talked a lot, like, a lot. She was easy to listen to, though, as well as funny, and having zero filter. She told me about her film major, her obsession with werewolf lore (which explained the posters), and how Blackridge had all these old legends about wolves in the mountains. I nodded along, half-listening, still mad about the video. By early evening, my side of the room looked less empty with my bed made, clothes hung up, and running shoes lined under the desk. Ivy had dragged me to the dining hall for burgers, where even more people stared and were very clearly gossiping about me, and it got so bad that I had to keep my head down and eat fast. Back in the room, I changed into sweats and crawled onto my bed, planning to scroll on my phone for a bit and then crash early since I was still feeling jet lag from the bus ride and all the running had me wiped. That’s when my phone vibrated, showing that I had a message from an unknown number. Reluctantly, I opened the message. ‘Come outside. We’re waiting.’ I stared at the screen, wondering who the hell it was, but before I could ask, another text came. ‘It’s Ryder. The guy you were lucky to outrun earlier. Me and the guys are downstairs, and you’ve got five minutes or we come up and get you ourselves.’ My heart slammed against my ribs, and I stared at the message for a full minute, wondering to myself if I had started seeing things. How did he have my number? Just how many of them did he mean when he said “the guys”? And why did they want me outside? I sat up slowly, glancing at Ivy. She was at her desk with her headphones on, typing something on her laptop. She hadn’t noticed. I looked out the window, and even though I was on the third floor, the parking lot was visible between buildings, and from here I could make out five tall figures leaning against a black SUV under the streetlight. It was a little too far to see their faces clearly, but something about the way they stood, looking all calm and dangerous, made my skin prickle. Just as I was lost in my thoughts, my phone vibrated again. ‘Clock’s ticking, track girl.’ I swallowed hard. Part of me wanted to ignore it, lock the door, pretend I was asleep, and let them get bored until they eventually decided to leave, but another part, the competitive part that never backed down from a challenge, was already sliding off the bed and pulling on my sneakers. I didn’t know what they wanted, or why my stomach flipped at the thought of seeing them again, but I wasn’t about to let them think they could scare me. I grabbed my jacket, told Ivy I was stepping out for some air, and headed for the door. Like Wild Animals LUNA I pushed through the dorm doors and stepped into the parking lot, the cool night air hitting my face in the best way possible. My sneakers crunched on loose gravel as I scanned the lot, and there they were. Five tall figures leaning against a sleek black SUV that was parked under the farthest light, and even from this distance, I picked out Ryder right away with his dirty-blond hair catching the light, his arms crossed, and that same cocky stance from the field this morning. The others were also standing close and talking in low voices, but I couldn’t make out faces yet, just their tall, broad shapes that took up too much space. The second I spotted them, something weird happened to me. I felt a pull right in the center of my chest like an invisible string aggressively pulled me forward and then snapped tight. My feet stopped moving without me telling them to, and I just stood there, frozen on the edge of the sidewalk, and staring. And then the smell hit me. That same spicy scent from earlier, woodsmoke, pine, and something dark and wild, rolled across the parking lot even though there were still twenty, maybe thirty feet between us, and it flooded my lungs, wrapped around me, and sank straight into my skin. My body answered in a way I didn’t understand, and heat bloomed under my ribs, spread down my arms, and pooled low in my stomach. My cheeks burned all of a sudden, and my heartbeat kicked hard, like I’d just finished a sprint. What the hell? I shook my head hard, my curls bouncing against my shoulders. Get it together, Luna. They’re just guys, arrogant, annoying guys who think they own the school. I forced my feet to move again, frowning so deep it probably looked permanent, and as I got closer, all five of them straightened up at the same time. Their heads turned toward me like they’d been waiting for this exact moment, and then, just like they had this morning, they froze, going completely still with their eyes locked on me and their mouths half-open like they were seeing me for the first time all over again. I stopped a few feet away, my hands shoved in my jacket pockets to hide that they were shaking a little. I opened my mouth to demand what gave them the right to text me like that, and how the hell they even got my number, but before a single word came out, they moved. All five of them. They stepped forward at once, closing the distance fast, and then… with no warning at all, they started sniffing me, actually sniffing like a bunch of dogs with their heads tilting, and noses flaring as they leaned in close like they were trying to catch every bit of scent coming off my skin, my hair, and my clothes. One circled halfway behind me, and another dipped his head near my neck, and the spicy smell was everywhere now, so thick I could almost taste it. My body got hotter, the warmth turning into an ache I didn’t understand, and my knees felt weak. I stumbled back, my heart slamming against my ribs. “What the fuck are you doing?” I hissed, my voice coming out louder than I meant, sharp and appalled. “Why are you acting like wild animals?” They stopped, but only barely. They were still too close for my liking and still breathing hard with their eyes darker than before, their pupils huge. The one with the jet-black hair and storm-gray eyes, who was standing closest to me was the one I expected to speak up and say something to make sense of their animalistic behavior, but he didn't say anything. Instead, the guy with the tattoos covering his thick arms, short dark hair, and blue eyes that looked ready to burn holes in something did the talking first. “She doesn’t know,” he blurted out, staring at the others like this was the worst news possible. I blinked at him, then at the rest of them. “Doesn’t know what? Are you guys on drugs or something?” I looked around the circle, my voice rising. “You realize athletes doing drugs is illegal, right? Like, career-ending illegal?” The captain-looking one, with black hair and broad shoulders, the same guy who’d warned me off the field this morning, finally spoke. His voice was low and controlled, but there was an edge to it that made my skin prickle. “What the hell are you?” he questioned. I stared back at him in complete disbelief, then I looked around the empty parking lot like someone might pop out with a hidden camera, and tell me that this was all some kind of elaborate prank. When no one did, I turned back to them. “Pretty sure I’m the one who gets to ask that question,” I said. “If you’re trying to get back at me for beating your friend in one stupid race, you’re a lot more pathetic than you look, and I’m honestly disappointed. I thought Blackridge was supposed to be prestigious, not a daycare for losers with fragile egos.” There was dead silence, and for a second, nobody moved. I could hear my own breathing, harsh and fast, and I could hear theirs too, deeper, and rougher. Then the quiet one spoke up, the one with longish dark brown hair falling over silver glasses, and eyes that seemed to see way too much. “We know we look weird right now,” he said calmly, like he was trying to smooth everything over. “But we had to check something.” I wanted to scream, actually scream, but the last thing I needed on my first day was more attention, more videos, more gossiping, and more viral bullshit. So I swallowed it down and glared at him instead. “Check what?” I asked through clenched teeth. “What could you possibly need to check that involves sniffing me like a bunch of dogs?” Ryder snarled, actually snarled, his lips pulling back a little, and a low growl rumbling in his chest. “We’re not dogs,” he hissed. “Don’t talk to us like that.” I scoffed, my anger overriding whatever weird heat was still vibrating under my skin. “You sure act like it. Look, just because you have nothing better to do with your time than play creepy games doesn’t mean I have to stand here and put up with it. If that’s all the idiotic stuff you’ve got to say, I’m leaving.” I turned on my heel, ready to march straight back to the dorm and lock the door behind me. I was not only angry at them for wasting my time, I was also angry at myself for coming down here in the first place. What was I thinking? That I’d prove something? That they’d apologize? Stupid. I made it three steps. “Wait…” one of them started, and behind me, Ryder’s voice rang out, loud and cocky again. “You’ll be seeing us a lot,” he said, and I could almost picture the smug look on his face. “So get ready for it, track girl.” Despite my urge to tell him to go fuck himself, I didn’t turn around, didn’t slow down, and didn’t answer, but something inside me, something deep and confusing, wanted to. My chest still felt tight, that strange pull tugging at me like it didn’t want me to leave, and the spicy scent clung to my jacket, my hair, and even my skin. My body stayed hot the whole walk back with my cheeks burning, and my heart refusing to slow down. I shoved through the dorm doors, nodded vaguely at the girl at the front desk who stared again, and took the stairs two at a time because the elevator felt too slow, and by the time I got back to my room, my hands were shaking for real. Ivy looked up from her laptop, her headphones around her neck. “Whoa, you okay? You look like you just ran a mile.” “Fine,” I muttered, kicking off my sneakers and collapsing on my bed. “I just… needed air.” She gave me a look like she didn’t believe me, but thankfully went back to her screen, while I stared at the ceiling with my arms over my face. What the hell had just happened? They sniffed me, actually sniffed me, called me a weird name earlier this morning, and have been acting like I was some kind of puzzle they had to solve, and the worst part, the part I hated admitting even to myself, was how my body reacted. That heat, that pull, and the way their scent made everything inside me feel alive in a way I’d never felt before. I rolled onto my side, pulling the blanket over my head like that could block it all out. Tomorrow I’d avoid them, stay on the track side of campus, keep my head down as planned, and focus on running, classes and nothing else. They were just a bunch of entitled football players with too much ego and not enough sense. That’s all. But even as I told myself that over and over, I could still smell them, and some stupid, buried part of me didn’t hate it. Just Another Day LUNA I woke up to my phone alarm going off way too early. The room was still kind of dark, with just a little gray light coming through the curtains, and my head felt thick and fuzzy, like I had barely slept. For a split second, I just lay there staring at the ceiling, and that was when it all came rushing back, the race on the field, the video going around, Ivy showing me how everyone was talking about it, and then last night in the parking lot. Those five guys that acted like total freaks, sniffing me, asking weird questions, and making my body feel things I didn’t understand. My cheeks got hot again just remembering it. ‘No, Luna. Let's stop thinking about it.’ I squeezed my eyes shut tight and told myself to forget everything from yesterday. All of it. I need to forget the dumb jocks and their stupid games, and I should also forget how I somehow drew all this attention to myself because of them. I came to Blackridge to run track, get good grades, and keep my head down. That was it, meaning no drama, and no boys, especially not those boys. Today was going to be different and normal, and I was going to pretend none of that happened, and start my day on a clean slate. I rolled out of bed as quietly as I could. Ivy was still fast asleep on her side of the room with her mouth a little open, and her red hair was everywhere like a wild mess on her pillow. She also had one of her arms hanging off the bed, and looked so peaceful that I didn’t want to wake her. I grabbed my toiletries bag from the desk, toothbrush, toothpaste, face wash, shampoo, and conditioner. Then my towel from the hook on the closet door and a clean set of clothes for after, which consisted of a sports bra, running shorts, a tank top, and socks. Everything I needed for morning practice. As I zipped up my bag, I made a promise to myself. From today on, I was staying far away from that football field like it was the plague. No matter how late I was, no matter how much I needed a shortcut, I would go the long way around campus. I wasn’t giving those guys another chance to show up and act crazy. I slipped on my flip-flops, grabbed my key, and headed out the door. The hallway was quiet, most doors still closed. A few girls were up, but not many, and the shared bathroom was at the end of the hall, past the stairs. I pushed the door open, and warm steam hit me right away. Someone had definitely just showered because the air was thick and humid, and the mirrors were all fogged up. There were four or five girls already in there, with one wrapping her hair in a towel, two brushing teeth at the sinks, and another fixing makeup even though it was barely seven a.m. The second I walked in, it got quiet. They all turned to look at me and just stared with wide eyes and little smiles on their faces that weren’t really smiles. One girl whispered something to her friend, and they both glanced at me again. It was exactly like yesterday in the halls, like I had grown an extra head or painted my face blue or something. I knew why, of course. I knew that I could only blame that stupid video from the field. By now it had probably spread to everyone in the dorm, maybe the whole school. ‘New girl beats football star and makes the whole team look dumb.’ Great way to start the year, Luna. I ignored them, kept my face blank, and walked to an empty sink near the end. Then I set my bag down on the counter with a soft thump, proceeded to pull out my toothbrush and toothpaste, and started brushing like I didn’t notice a thing. Inside, I was groaning. I wished so bad that my scholarship came with a private room, or at least one with its own bathroom, not this shared one where I had to deal with a bunch of girls who already seemed to hate me before I even opened my mouth. It made everything feel harder and made me feel like I was going to be on display every morning until the next best gossip came around. I focused on the mirror. My curls were a mess from sleeping, frizzy from the steam already, my golden-brown skin looked a little tired, and my hazel eyes were still sleepy. I brushed harder, counting in my head. Just get this done, rinse in a few minutes, shower, and then get out. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max. After, I’ll head straight to the dining hall for a quick breakfast, then training. I thought the worst part would be the staring and them whispering while I brushed my teeth. The thought of it was annoying as hell, but I could live with it. I was good at blocking stuff out. Then I heard footsteps behind me, soft, and most definitely coming straight my way. I looked behind me in the mirror, and a tall blonde girl was already walking up to me. She was really pretty with long straight hair that looked like it took forever to blow-dry, blue eyes, and perfect skin. She had on a pink robe that looked expensive, tied tight around her waist, and walked like she owned the place, shoulders back, and head high. In my head, I hoped she just wanted something normal, like, “Hey, how do you get your curls so nice this early?” or “Do you have an extra hair tie?” Anything simple, and anything that didn’t have to do with football or those dumb boys I wanted zero part of. She stopped right next to me, leaned one hip against the counter, and smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re the new girl, right?” I kept brushing, looked at her reflection, and tried not to sound rude or sarcastic with my response. “Is it that obvious?” She let out a little laugh, but it sounded forced. “I’m Brittany. Brittany Evans, Captain of the cheer squad for the football team.” Of course she was. Just my shitty luck. I almost rolled my eyes right there, but I stopped myself. I just wanted this over fast so I could finish and get out. “Congratulations,” I said, but my voice came out flat, like I didn’t care, which I honestly didn’t. Her smile faded quickly, and she stood up straighter and crossed her arms over her robe. “That’s all you have to say?” she asked. I spat toothpaste into the sink and turned on the water to rinse my brush. “What else should I say?” She made a huff sound. “I was nice enough to come over here and introduce myself. The least you could do is tell me your name.” I sighed, but it came out loud and tired. “Luna Merrick,” I said, keeping my response short. I dried my hands on my towel, started putting my toothbrush and toothpaste back in the bag, and zipped it up slowly. She watched me the whole time, and her lips got thinner, like she was mad. Then she just blurted it out. “I hope you don’t think that just because you got lucky and got involved with the football team yesterday, you’re suddenly best friends with them or something.” I stopped moving immediately. My hand was still on the shampoo bottle when I turned slowly and looked at her for real this time, and my face must have shown everything I felt, which was nothing short of pure disgust. “Why in the world would I think that?” She blinked, opened her mouth, then closed it like she didn’t know what to say next. I didn’t wait. I kept talking, my voice low but clear. “Look, I have to take a shower now and get to training, but if you’re worried about me being interested in those dumb jocks, you can relax because I couldn’t care less about them, not even a little bit.” I picked up my bag, my towel, and my clean clothes, walked right past her without looking back, headed to one of the empty shower stalls at the end, and pulled the plastic curtain shut behind me with a sharp snap. I stood there for a second, breathing hard as my heart was going fast again. Had I made it better or worse? I told her straight up I wasn’t interested, so that should calm her down, right? Put out whatever fire she had going. I hoped so, because the last thing I needed was more people thinking I wanted anything to do with those guys. I hung my towel on the hook, set my clothes on the little bench, turned on the water, and waited for it to get hot. Steam started filling the stall, and I stepped under the spray and let it run over me. For a few minutes, it felt good, like it could wash away all the weird stuff from yesterday, but even as I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, I knew it wouldn’t be that easy.