004

MACEY

I was mad. Mad at myself, mad at Damien, mad at the whole night before.

My chest still felt heavy, like I was carrying around a storm that refused to settle. I couldn’t sit with it. The thoughts, the what-ifs, the way his voice had lingered in my head—it was all too much.

The second I got home, I grabbed my phone and texted Zinna. I’m sick. I typed it fast, before I could overthink it. Cold from staying in the office too late. That sounded way more professional than the truth, which was: I’m spiraling and need space before I lose my mind.

After hitting send, I tossed the phone on my bed and headed for the bathroom. The shower was supposed to rinse everything away—the tension, the confusion, the way Damien’s name seemed to be carved under my skin.

I told myself I’d just stand there for ten minutes, fifteen tops. But time didn’t care. One minute turned into an hour, then another, and before I knew it, I’d been standing under the hot spray for almost three hours. My skin was pink, my fingers pruney, and I still didn’t feel lighter.

By the time I finally dragged myself into bed, it was past three in the morning. The apartment was quiet, but my head wasn’t.

I tossed, turned, stared at the ceiling, and hated how badly I wanted to check my phone to see if maybe Damien had texted me. He hadn’t, of course. That wasn’t his style.

The next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming through my curtains like it was trying to blind me on purpose.

My phone buzzed against the nightstand, rattling loud enough to pull me halfway out of the mess of sheets I’d twisted myself into. I reached for it with a groggy hand and squinted at the screen.

11:04 a.m.

And a message from Zinna. Please take all the time you need to rest.

I groaned into my pillow. She really shouldn’t have said that. Because I absolutely planned to take all the time. A whole day, maybe two.

The thought of going back into that office and pretending like last night hadn’t shredded me from the inside out? Impossible. Today was for hiding, for catching my breath, for maybe baking cookies.

My phone rang again, snapping me out of the haze I’d been drifting in. At the exact same moment, the oven timer went off with an obnoxious beep-beep-beep that made me curse under my breath.

“Shit—the cookies.”

I dashed into the kitchen, yanked the oven door open, and grabbed the tray with my mitts just before the batch turned into charcoal.

My apartment instantly filled with the heavy smell of sugar and almost-burnt butter. Great. If I’d ruined them, that would’ve been the cherry on top of my already stellar morning.

Balancing the tray awkwardly on the counter, I snatched up my phone without even checking the screen. “Hey, Sam,” I said, trying to sound alive, as if I hadn’t been hiding from the world in sweatpants with wet hair all day.

“Girl, where the hell did you put your phone?” Samantha’s voice came through sharp, familiar, and just a little too loud for my half-dead brain. “I’ve been calling you all morning. At first, I thought maybe you were stuck in a meeting or buried under some spreadsheet, but now you sound like you literally just woke up.”

I groaned, pressing the phone between my shoulder and my ear so I could wrestle the tray onto a cooling rack. “Well… I’m sick.”

“You’re sick?” she repeated, her tone changing instantly. Concern. Suspicion. A dangerous mix when it came to Sam. “Mace, I’ve told you this job is stressing you out too much. You can’t keep running yourself down like this. It’s not healthy.”

Her words hit a little too close to home. I forced a weak laugh, hoping to soften them. “I’m fine. Really. It’s just a little cold. Nothing dramatic.”

But she didn’t buy it. I could practically hear her frown through the phone. That little pause before she spoke again? That was Sam mentally filing my excuse away under Lies I Will Drag Out of You Later.

“Don’t argue with me,” she said firmly, her mom-voice fully activated. “I’m coming over tonight. Girls’ night. You need one.”

I bit back a smile. Trust Sam to bulldoze her way into my apartment when I needed it most. “No problem,” I said. Then, narrowing my eyes, I added, “Wait—does girls’ night include Azalea?”

“No,” she said quickly, almost too quickly. “She’ll be with her dad. Mason’s on watch duty.”

Of course. Mason. That man was like the human equivalent of a locked door—always there, always looming, always managing to annoy me even when he wasn’t physically present. “Of course he is,” I muttered, rolling my eyes so hard I was surprised they didn’t get stuck.

“Fine, come over,” I said with a resigned sigh. “But bring wine.”

“Done,” she answered immediately. Then she hesitated. “Should I invite Jessica too?”

“Sure. The more the merrier.”

Sam let out a groan. “Jess is pregnant, remember? She can’t drink.”

“Oh, right.” I smacked my forehead dramatically, even though no one could see me. “Then she can still come for the gossip. Or she can babysit the cookies I nearly burned.”

That made Sam laugh, the kind of laugh that always made me feel lighter, like maybe the world wasn’t completely on fire. “God, you’re hopeless,” she said.

“Hopeless but loveable,” I shot back, already feeling my chest unknotting in a way the three-hour shower hadn’t managed.

We stayed on the line a moment longer, her chatter about work and my half-baked replies filling the space. For a little while, it felt almost normal, like the mess in my chest could wait. Finally, she promised to be over by seven, and I promised to have something edible waiting.

“I’ll see you later,” she said softly, that note of care still laced into her voice.

“See you,” I echoed, then hung up.

The kitchen was quiet again, save for the faint hum of the fridge. I eyed the tray of cookies. They were still warm and gooey in the center, maybe even salvageable. I picked one up and instantly regretted it. “Ouch!” I hissed, shaking my hand when the heat scorched my fingertips.

Still, I dunked it into a glass of milk anyway, the way I always did when life felt too big to swallow whole. The cookie practically melted in my mouth—sweet, messy comfort food at its best. Exactly what a girl with comfort problems needed.

After that, I showered again—shorter this time—and threw myself into work. Designing was the only thing that made sense when my emotions didn’t.

I sketched, erased, sketched again, chasing lines and lace on paper until hours slipped away. The wedding gown commission was driving me crazy, but I’d finally convinced the bride not to have her mother’s face printed on the veil. Small victories.

The doorbell rang, sharp and sudden, cutting through the hum of my apartment. I flinched, glancing at the clock on the wall. Six fifteen. My chest jolted with relief.

“Shoot. Sam’s here already.”

I wiped my buttery hands on my black leggings, leaving faint smudges, and hurried toward the door. “I’m coming, Sam!” I called, my voice carrying down the hallway.

Just saying her name out loud made my stomach feel a little lighter. I’d been counting down to this girls’ night since she demanded it over the phone. Wine, gossip, and mindless laughter were exactly the kind of anesthetic I needed. Anything to distract me from the endless loop of thoughts I’d been spinning in since last night.

My pulse steadied as I reached the door. I could already picture her standing there with that bossy grin, a bottle of cheap rosé tucked under one arm, and probably a bag of chips she’d insist was “dinner worthy.”

I smiled without even realizing it and twisted the lock.

The door swung open—

And the smile shattered.

I froze in place.

It wasn’t Sam.

It was him.

“Damien?”