Page 5

STACY

“ L ook on the bright side,” Erica had chirped. “He let you down gently. He was honest. You’ve got to give the guy some credit.”

Her relentless optimism makes me want to punch a wall. She always finds a silver lining, even in the darkest clouds. Like when her car got broken into and they stole the entire sound system.

She just shrugged and said, “At least they didn’t take my Beamer,” as if that made it all okay.

That’s Erica. Sunshine bottled up in human form, impervious to disappointment. I’m not Erica, not in the farthest stretch of anyone’s imagination.

What’s more, this isn’t about stolen electronics or scratched paint. This is my heart. My trust. My dignity. Torn into pieces and tossed aside like yesterday’s trash.

Let me down gently? Please.

I could list a hundred reasons why that’s bullshit, but one eclipses them all.

Why did he need to let me down at all? Why whisper promises in silence? Why pull me in like the tide—just to vanish like mist?

Because he’s hiding. Behind instincts and ancient fears. Behind “the curse of the wolf,” as if that excuses walking away.

I remember Monica’s trembling voice when she told us about Raul’s secret and his belief in the ‘curse’. She’d cried in our arms and honestly I didn’t believe her. Who dies of a broken heart?

My disbelief didn’t matter. Raul believed it—and now Ray’s using that same excuse to not even try. A way to not consider what we could be. It’s like he’d rather avoid the possibility of pain than risk even a glimpse of happiness.

I get it, but understanding is a long way from forgiving. I’m nowhere near forgiving him, not now, maybe not ever.

We’re not children. We don’t have to write our names in the sky and profess eternal love. I’m not even asking for wedding bells. Just… a chance. A moment to figure out if the way my breath catches around him means something… if there is something that could be.

I could have told him all of this. I wanted to and would have, if he’d given me a moment, but that didn’t happen. He left me in the forest like I was baggage too heavy to carry. Like loving me was a burden he never intended to pick up. Which hurts worse than it should.

I toss and turn, sheets tangled around my legs, my skin clammy with frustration. No position is comfortable. No thought is quiet. Pulling the sheets over, only to toss them off. I must fall asleep at some point because the alarm clock’s shrill buzz tears through my skull.

The instant I wake up my thoughts are still spiraling around Ray. Great. This Monday is going to be hell.

I smack the clock harder than I should, knocking it off the stand.

It continues to blare, indignantly, from the floor.

I drag myself out of the tangled sheets.

The air feels heavy, like the grief left in the aftermath of a nightmare.

I’m not a morning person—never have been, but since working at the Bank of America, I’ve learned to fake it.

Being a bank teller isn’t glamorous, but it’s reliable.

Structured. Safe. A world where two plus two always equals four.

I know exactly when I clock in and when I clock out.

I’m guaranteed to have my nights free. Which is better than Monica can say.

Her hospital shifts pay better, but I don’t envy the stress or the long hours, life-and-death decisions and walking a tightrope of responsibility. All while trying not to crumble.

That isn’t the life for me. I like my little bubble of order. Even if, right now, it feels like everything is closing in. My apartment is somehow smaller. The entire world is.

I arrive at work, grumpy, and still thinking about Ray.

But I put on my best smile and a willingness to fake it till I make it.

The sliding doors hiss, letting me into the building.

The absurdly high ceilings above, dramatic by design.

Modeled like some Roman cathedral built to remind the masses how small they are before the might of imperial capitalism.

I realized a long time ago that’s the point. It’s not about aesthetics—it’s intimidation. Seminar after seminar has subtly drilled the idea into us. Power, prestige, illusion.

The marble counter waits like a silent sentinel.

A thick barrier to keep the masses away from the money that doesn’t actually sit in the vaults anymore.

Sheila’s perched on her stool staring at her screen.

Dressed in a navy-blue pantsuit crisp that is intimidating in its own right.

We started this job within a week of each other, which bond has formed something at least akin to friendship.

“Morning, your redness,” she calls without looking up. “Seven thirty-four? That’s practically a miracle.”

“Please, don’t start, Sheila,” I mutter, brushing past. “God, I hate Mondays.”

“You’ve been hating Mondays since your first week here.” Her fingers pause on the keyboard as she looks at me. “Rough night?”

“Rough weekend,” I groan, letting my bag drop onto the counter with a thud that startles my screen. “Come upstate, enjoy the countryside, mingle with the locals—they’re nice, warm-hearted people,” I mimic Monica’s voice, thinning mine out to hit the high-pitched perkiness. “What a load of crap.”

Sheila snorts, covering her mouth as she chuckles.

“Sorry, Stac. I’m not laughing at you, but… the impression. That was dead on Monica.”

I give her a look, one eyebrow raised, and she mostly sobers.

“So? What happened upstate?” she asks, eyes twinkling with curiosity.

“Too much. And most of it sucked,” I reply curtly.

I like Sheila, but this isn’t the time or the place to unpack my forest heartbreak.

Besides it’s not like I can tell her about the shapeshifter drama.

Even if that wasn’t a secret to be kept, I’m still trying to understand it myself.

She looks away towards the glass doors, and her expression tightens.

“I think our day just got worse.”

I follow her line of sight—and groan. Of all the smug, entitled bastards in Manhattan, of course it had to be Steve Wilkins.

Steve struts into the bank like he owns the air we breathe.

Technically, he probably could. Billion-dollar oil tycoon.

Private jets, custom suits, and a jawline sculpted by money.

He oozes power—and knows it. All of which results in an arrogance that outsizes even his net worth.

He’s flanked, as usual, by two bodyguards who glare as if we’re about to stage a coup behind the teller line.

“Good day, ladies,” Steve says, lips curling into a lazy, yet somehow still patronizing smile. “It’s a shame you have to work. It’s beautiful outside.”

He keeps his sunglasses on, which tells me everything I need to know. He’s not here for business. He’s here to gloat it over us lowly tellers.

“How may I help you, sir?” Sheila asks, ever the professional.

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” Steve says, shaking his head like she’s a child who spilled juice on the rug. “I’m not here for you. I came to see her.”

Perfect. Exactly what I don’t need.

“What can I do for you?” I ask, voice flat as one of his bodyguards slips a crisp, ivory envelope from his inner pocket into Steve’s hand.

“I’m throwing a party,” he announces, like he’s gifting the Ten Commandments to Moses.

“It’s at my mansion upstate, tomorrow night.

I know it’s short notice, but I’ve been trying to reach your doctor friend for days.

I even went by the Metropolitan—turns out she doesn’t work there anymore. They wouldn’t give me her address.”

He says the last with a look of affront as if he can’t believe that anyone would deny him anything.

“North Haven?” I read off the embossed cardstock. “Mr. Wilkins?—”

“Steve,” he interrupts smoothly.

“Right. Steve.” I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “North Haven’s a bit far, and I have work on Wednesday. I won’t be able to make it.”

“Yes, you will,” he counters, smiling like it’s a foregone conclusion. “I’ll send a limo.” I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up his hand cutting me off. “No, don’t worry. Your manager and I go way back. I’ll have a chat with him, you’ll have the day off.”

I bite my tongue, debating. I want to say no, should say no. Spending time with this smug ass is not the way I want to waste an evening.

“You are still in touch with the doctor?”

“I am.”

“Perfect,” he says, voice purring with satisfaction. “I’ll expect both of you.”

He turns with a flourish, like a magician vanishing into a cloud of entitlement. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Sheila leans over the counter, her eyes wide.

“Holy shit, it’s engraved,” she exclaims, staring at the invitation. “Who engraves paper?”

“Yeah,” I say, though my mind is far away.

An idea sparks, electric and unexpected.

I never liked Steve. It’s not his face—he’s got the build, the smile, the suit.

It’s everything else. The smugness. The assumption that the world is his plaything.

He wears his privilege like cologne—thick and cloying, but maybe…

just maybe, this invitation could be useful.

Steve Wilkins wants me to join him at a party. At his mansion, which happens to be up north, close to…

My mind races. He isn’t invited, but if I go, he’ll follow. I feel it in my bones. I don’t think he’ll let me out of his sight. Even if he wants to pretend I’m a danger to him. Even if he swears we can never be.

And if he won’t do it on his own… Monica joining me will push it, because that will involve Raul. Raul will tip the scales.

They’ll come. He’ll see me there. Get jealous. And then Ray will give me the one thing I want from him. A chance.

It’s reckless. Maybe even pathetic. But it’s something. And right now, I’ll take anything that feels like hope. How can this be anything but the universe telling me to go for it? I tap the engraved card then go to call Monica.