SHATTERED HEARTS.

ANASTASIA. 

The glass slipped, a brief rebellion against my fingers, and exploded against the stainless steel sink. Shards scattered across the countertop, and it made everywhere disorganized. 

The noise was a brutal sound, perfectly synced with the screaming climax of Twenty One Pilots from the Alexa. 

I winced. 

Moving on autopilot, my hands began the careful work of gathering the pieces. My attention, however, was on my phone. The group chat–Liam, Jenna, Harper–was filled with memes and dull chatters. I labelled them friends, but academic acquaintances’ was  more honest. We're all pre-law students, drawn together by nearness and ambition, I knew they were not close to me for any other reason thato get favoured when it was time to apply to Dad’s law firm.. 

It's hard for me to trust that anyone's interest was genuine. Since I was a child, most people have been drawn to the gravitational pull of my father's success or the spectacle of our family drama–specifically, the endless war between Dad and his stepmother, Cierra. 

In pre-law, it's worse. Everyone was fighting for an internship at Luca & King Law Group. 

My father had made it clear: no preferential treatment. If I desired a spot at one of the world's best firms, I had to earn it. And the gatekeeper wasn't even him. 

It was Damien. 

The managing partner of the New York branch. A perfectionist. A man whose very presence could make you forget each and everything you had prepared to say. His presence was that intense. 

I swiped away from the group chat and found the contact I should not have: Cierra. 

I had gotten her number after a chanced and awkward encounter at a restaurant, a moment of misguided optimism. I told myself it was for a day like today. Dad’s birthday was approaching, and some naive, peace-making part of me thought I could bridge the long-term fightbetween them. 

The fight my father created when he sued his stepmother for the family home after his father’s death. He proved the will was invalid, won the house, and left Cierra with nothing but a burning resentment. 

Now she's appealing, not just for the house, but to get a share of the Luca & King Law Group. Dad said she didn't stand a chance. 

I had it. I had the understanding that the situation between them might never change. I knew the history was ugly–that Cierra was the woman who “stole” my grandfather's place–but I believed in a cease-fire. I hit the call button before my courage disappeared.. 

The line buzzed as I stared out at the window, my fingers tracing the edge of a glass fragment.

“Who is this?” Her voice was calm, bitchy, and cold. 

“It's Ana.” 

The silence stretched for so long that I thought the call had dropped. “What do you want?”

“Dad's birthday is coming up. I thought…maybe you'd consider coming.” 

Her laugh was a short and dry sound. “The only thing I want for your father's birthday is for him to drop dead.” Then the line went dead. 

That went….well. 

I lowered the phone, the sting of her words were a whole throb. But I had expected it, and hope was a persistent thing. 

A text notification flashed on my phone, a welcome distraction. 

Liam: Getting out of here. Want to meet up?

Liam. We’ve been in a state of vague dating for weeks. We go out, we kiss against his Harley, and I feel nothing. Jenna said I'm more into the thrill of the harley than the owner of the harley, and she's not wrong. I had a habit of seeking things I wasn't supposed to do. 

Kissing Liam felt like one of them, a pale imitation to a greater, more forbidden mischief. 

The real problem was that Damien, who occupied that part of my mind, refused to be evicted. I said yes to Liam to try to force him out. So, with unsteady fingers, I typed my reply. 

Me: Sure. Dad is working late. The house is safe. 

Liam: Can't wait to see you, beautiful. 

The word landed like a pebble in my chest. Beautiful. It hurts because it's not coming from the one person I'm desperate to hear it from. The one I was, officially, and completely over. 

A flicker of movement in the garden snagged my attention. 

I looked up, and my breath caught  in my throat. 

Him. 

Damien. 

My hand moved, and I felt a sharp bite of pain in my forefinger. A shard had nicked me, but I barely registered it, my entire being focused on the man striding from the garden to the front door. 

He didn't walk merely: he commanded the space he moved through. His hair was all purpose and laid to the back perfectly, there wasn't a strand of hair that wasn't slicked to the back, another trait of his perfectionist self. 

His tailored suit was a uniform of impeccable professionalism, it couldn't conceal the reality of the body beneath–the one I've seen half-naked, sweating and powerful in the boxing ring with my father. 

He was my first, devastating introduction to true male beauty, and it ruined me for the boys my age. They would always be boys. He was all man. 

“Alexa, stop,” I whispered, killing the music. I turned gradually, the blood dripping from my finger now forgotten. This was a violation of our unspoken treaty. He hadn't been seen with me since the kiss two weeks ago. His visits were carefully timed for my absence. 

So why was he here?

“Where's Anastasia?” His voice, which sounded like honey, rolled from the hallway and wrapped around me, squeezing the air from my lungs. 

He's asking for me. 

My heart hammered against my ribs. Breathe, Ana. But the instruction was useless. The moment he filled the kitchen doorway, the atmosphere shifted from its normal angle to a whole new intense angle. 

And then I saw his face. 

Damien was always composed, and he always looked like he had everythingunder control. But now, his features were storm clouds. His jaw was clenched, his hands were fisted at his sides–and his knuckles were bruised, as if he'd been punching a wall. 

Are you hurt? The question died in my parched throat. I was paralyzed and anchored by his presence's sheer, terrifying intensity. 

“You need to come with me, Anastasia.”

One sentence was all it took, and the floor felt unsteady beneath my feet. Damien never took me anywhere. 

“W-where?” I had a tremor in my voice. I pressed on the cut on my finger, welcoming the fresh sting of pain—a few drops of blood fell to the tile. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

I focused on that sound. On anything but the dread coiling in my stomach. 

His eyes were usually unreadable and filled with a grim, awful truth. 

“It's your father. There's been an accident.”

The world suddenly held its breath. 

“It's critical.”

The air shattered. 

The world I knew, the fragile peace I was trying to build, cracked into a thousand bloody pieces like the pieces of glass at my feet.