Charlotte: Fated to the White Dragon

If there’s one thing I can say about my family, it’s that we’re tightly wound together like a pack of old socks, maybe not the fanciest, but warm and worn in. That’s me, my mum Melinda, and my dad Oliver. Well, more Melinda’s opinion than ours, but let’s not split hairs. We live in Lexxton: a quiet-ish town with twice as many tongues as brains. Rumours here grow faster than garden weeds after a thunderstorm. Oliver, bless him, ran this dinky coffee shop that somehow brewed magic in a cup. The place always smelled like sweet roasted heaven, and no one could beat the blend he made with them long fingers of his. Funny enough, he looked like a twiggy scarecrow with a constant slouch and a lopsided grin, always ready with a daft joke for anyone who’d listen. Melinda though…eh, she was a force of nature. She had twice her husband's body size—of course I wouldn't dare say that in front of her but, oh well— with squinted green eyes that squinted even more behind her thick specs. And when

I'm sitting in the backseat of a half-worn taxi that smells suspiciously like old takeaway and stale air freshener. The driver’s just turned on the radio, and, bloody hell, it’s some miserable tune straight outta a funeral march. Violins screech like a banshee’s wail, and suddenly, Monday feels like it’s kicked me square in the gut. “Oi, could you just turn that bleedin’ racket off?” I bark, way louder than intended. The poor guy jumps and fumbles with the dial like I’ve just smacked him. “I did ask if you fancied some music…” he mumbles, clearly regretting his life choices. “Some folk are right pains in the neck.” I sink into the torn leather seat, arms folded like a sulky teen, mentally replaying that moment at the coffeehouse. It been two weeks now. Two entire weeks since that stranger had strolled in like he owned the air I was breathing and said those maddening words. 'Found you.' And those two words haven’t stopped echoing through my skull. My overactive imagination's gone

“Can you believe that prick?!” I spit, slouched like a discarded sock in Evelyn’s bougie bedroom. She’s perched elegantly in front of her mirror, dabbing her plush lips with a velvet-red lipstick like she's preparing for a Vogue cover, when she's not actually heading anywhere. Meanwhile, I’m hunched over in a creaky armchair, hacking away at my uneven nails like a woman on the edge. “I mean,” I groan, flicking the nail file like it’s to blame, “this guy just turns up from nowhere, struts into someone’s coffee shop, MY very own workplace, by the way—in his flash posh-mobile, acting like he owns the bloody shop. Such a rude, arrogant piece of shit!" Evelyn pouts in the mirror, then turns toward me, her smirk borderline aristocratic. “Lottie, darling,” she purrs in her perfectly enunciated drawl, “don’t slag off the rich. It screams broke. And… desperate.” She rolls her eyes, then waltzes over and flops on the bed beside me. Her movements all grace and silk, while I resemble a slug in

His eyes flash red through the mask, and all I can think is, Just many glasses did this prick down to get this fucking wasted? Just when I thought I could hide away from misfortune, this prat of a man managed to find me in this dark corner. As if my problems aren't enough. “Now,” he leers and I feel the hot air burning on my nosebridge and my ire boils hot, “be a good lass and—Ahhh!!” He yelps as soon as I sink my teeth into his thick, irritating skin. Fuck, I spit out and break loose from him. I better get out of here, but not without teaching this idiot a lesson. “ARGH! You bloody bitch!” he continues to scream, reeling back. I see a glimpse of red trickling down his arm, but I snatch a shard of broken glass and fling it at him regardless. And I bolt like hell’s behind me. He should've seen that coming, how dare he mess with me! “FUCKIN’ NUTTER!” he yells, somewhere in the distance. I'm laughing heartily at my flawlessly executed revenge as I dart down the half-empty hal

It was barely past nine-thirty and already, I’d dropped a full tray of crockery. The sharp crash echoed through the coffeehouse like a slap to the face, pulling everyone's attention toward the kitchen. Third mishap this morning, my hands wouldn’t stop trembling, and I just couldn’t focus on anything. I mean, how could I?! After I’d called Cameron later that evening, trying to sound all breezy, even though it was eating me alive. I'd purposefully slipped in a soft apology for the night at the ball, only for him to reply casually, like it were nothing, "We never crossed paths last night.” That simple sentence knocked the breath clean out of me. What do you mean we didn’t? Is he trying to take the piss? I know his gait, his scent, the way he always lets out that smug little scoff when he finds something amusing. There's no way I imagined all of it. Unless... unless I'm really losing it! I’ve never mistaken him for someone else in my life, and the first time I do, everything falls apa