MACEY

I was mad. Mad at myself, mad at Damien, mad at the entire night before. My chest felt heavy, like I was carrying around a storm that refused to settle. I could not 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 am sick, I typed fast before I could overthink it. Cold from staying in the office too late. That sounded far more professional than the truth, which was I am 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 would just stand there for ten minutes, fifteen tops. Time did not care. One minute became an hour, and then another, and before I knew it, I had been standing under the hot spray for almost three hours. My skin was pink, my fingers were pruney, and I still did not 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 was not. 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 had not, of course. That was not 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 had twisted myself into. I reached for it with a groggy hand and squinted at the screen.

11:04 a.m.

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

I groaned into my pillow. She really should not 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 had not shredded me from the inside out was impossible. Today was for hiding, for catching my breath, and for maybe baking cookies.

My phone rang again, snapping me out of the haze I had 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 to charcoal.

My apartment instantly filled with the heavy smell of sugar and almost-burnt butter. Great. If I had ruined them, that would have 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 had not 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 have 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 ear so I could wrestle the tray onto a cooling rack. “Well… I am sick.”

“You are sick?” she repeated. Her tone changed instantly. Concern. Suspicion. It was a dangerous mix when it came to Sam. “Mace, I have told you this job is stressing you out too much. You cannot keep running yourself down like this. It is not healthy.”

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

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

“Do not argue with me,” she said firmly. Her mom-voice was fully activated. “I am 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 will be with her dad. Mason is on watch duty.”

Of course. Mason. That man was like the human equivalent of a locked door. He was always there, always looming, always managing to annoy me even when he was not physically present. “Of course he is,” I muttered, rolling my eyes so hard I was surprised they did not 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 cannot 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 was not completely on fire. “God, you are hopeless,” she said.

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

We stayed on the line a moment longer. Her chatter about work and my half-baked replies filled 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 will see you later,” she said softly. There was still a note of care in 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. It was 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 did not. I sketched, erased, and sketched again, chasing lines and lace on paper until hours slipped away. The wedding gown commission was driving me crazy, but I had 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 is here already.”

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

Just saying her name out loud made my stomach feel a little lighter. I had 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 had been spinning 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 would insist was dinner-worthy.

I smiled without even realizing it and twisted the lock.

The door swung open.

My smile shattered.

I froze in place.

It was not Sam.

It was him.

“Damien?”