~~Luke~~The universe must truly hate me.I mean, it’s the only explanation why every time I try to do something right, something that makes me happy, it comes with problems like an estranged husband who doesn’t understand boundaries. A man like Ryan.He stands frozen in the doorway, his gaze fixed on Julie like she’s the only person in the room.Julie taps my arm, bringing me back to life. I pull myself together and step back to grab my pants, fumbling to get them on. Suddenly I feel like a teenager caught in his girlfriend’s bedroom by her father. Meanwhile, Julie has left the dresser. She's staring at Ryan with an icy glare. “Was I unclear,” she says, “when I told you you’re no longer welcome in this house?”I watch her walk toward him, the silk nightgown clinging to her in ways that leave nothing to the imagination. The bottom half of the gown is folded and still hanging askew around her waist. Reflexively, I reach forward, tugging the fabric down so she isn’t flashing Ryan an
Ryan hesitates, still standing in the doorway, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he glares at us.Julie’s patience has clearly reached its limits. “Leave, Ryan,” she says.He takes one last look at her, and then, after what feels like an eternity, he steps outside. I feel the tension release from my shoulders, a relief washing over me. But Julie isn’t done. She strides out after him. I follow her, partly to make sure Ryan doesn’t pull any funny business, but mostly because watching him get humiliated is proving to be its own special kind of therapy.Grant, the security guard, is waiting outside, his eyes darting from Julie to Ryan to me.“Mrs. O’Brien, I’m so sorry,” he says. “I tried to stop him from coming in, but the gate’s sensor recognized his car.”Julie gives him a short nod. “Don’t worry about it, Grant. I’ll fix that.”Without another word, she walks over to Ryan’s car, reaching up. She tugs at the sticker tag, struggling with it for a while before ripping it from the w
~~Julie~~By some miracle, Luke got me an interview with Illusionaire, one of the biggest luxury department store chains in the world. I didn’t even know they’re hiring. Fortunately, right when I needed a job, their New York branch had a vacancy for a CMO. Which is rather convenient. Too convenient. But I’m not about to ask questions. Not after that rigorous virtual interview I had two days ago with the hiring team. I swear, they were trying their best to find me unqualified.I’m surprised they called me back for the second round of interviews. The panel interview with the company's stakeholders.I’m driving down Fifth Avenue, my mind a mess of nerves.I glance at the dashboard clock. Fifteen minutes to spare. Good. Enough time to mentally prepare myself—or have an existential crisis. I hit the shuffle button on my playlist. Whitney Houston’s "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" blasts through the speakers. Perfect. I crank up the volume and start singing along. My voice cracks on the high
Wow. I don't think she lubed me enough to ram in like that.Things don’t often catch me unaware, especially not partnership details of the company I’m interviewing at. So whatever this is, it’s new.My mind races. “I understand the concern,” I say, choosing each word like a sniper picking targets. “I assure you, I’m more than capable of maintaining professionalism in any situation. My focus will be entirely on Illusionaire and its goals.”“Great.” She leans back in her chair, the faintest hint of a smile playing at her lips. It’s not satisfaction. It’s something closer to ‘Let’s see if you’re lying.’The rest of the interview goes like a flash. Questions come at me. I try my best to answer without showing how much I want to strangle Ryan. My facade seems to be working. They are nodding to most of my replies and giving detailed answers to my questions.I can tell I’m winning some of them over. But the woman with glasses—Ms. Ice Queen herself—remains unreadable. I can feel her watching
I’m pretty sure I broke at least three traffic rules on my way to Luke’s house. My knuckles are white against the steering wheel, and my brain is a jumble of half-formed phrases. Now that I’m pulling into his driveway, I’m not so sure why I hurried. The weight of what he told me—his son, the anniversary, the crowd in his home—is pressing down hard on my chest. I sit in the car for a moment, staring at the mansion. What do you even say to a man who’s grieving his child? ‘Hey, sorry about your son—pass the salt?’ Condolences have never been my strong suit. But I’m already here, so I grab my purse and head to the door.The second I open it, I’m hit with a cacophony of noise. Laughter, chatter, a screaming baby, and telenovela blaring from the TV. I step inside and take a moment to absorb the chaos. The first thing I notice is Javier, comfortably seated in his wheelchair near the center of the room. Next to him is a woman in her twenties holding a baby, who seems to be waging an epic
My chest tightens, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. I feel their eyes on me, waiting for some kind of reaction, but I can't find the right words. I can’t even move.Carolina breaks the silence. “It was crazy. Before last year, he’d never done anything like that. Sure, he gets sad on the anniversary—we know that. It’s why November 12th is marked on our calendars. We usually just visit the grave, say a few words, drop some flowers. We did that last year as usual, and then we parted ways. But Lucas… he went back. We were lucky it didn’t get to the press.” “Umm,” Sofía cuts in, “what if it did?” “It would have been a mess, stupid. He’s an important man.” “Who deserves to grieve,” I whisper, my voice so quiet it’s almost drowned out by the hum of the TV. “Did you say something?” Carolina asks. I stand abruptly, the armchair creaking under the sudden shift. “Thank you for the wonderful little time we had together,” I say, forcing a tight smile. “But I’m going upstairs now. To se
~~Luke~~ I knew this day would come, the day my son’s murderer, Sara, would make parole. I’d pictured it a million times—what I’d do, what I’d say, who I’d become. Sometimes, in those imaginations, I tell myself it won’t matter. Fifteen years is a long time to keep the past hovering over your head, so whenever she got out, I’d be indifferent about it. But I see now that I’ve been lying to myself. I’m not calm. I’m not indifferent. I want to set something on fire. In my defense, that theory might have worked if she’d actually stayed in prison the entire fifteen years. But it’s been five years. “What the fuck do you mean by she’s out?” I say, getting out of bed. “Where did Mom get this information?” I know it's from my mother. It can't be from my dad. He's secretive about everything, especially sensitive things. Carolina shifts uncomfortably, her arms crossing like she’s trying to shield herself from something. I can feel the room’s air tighten, heavier than it was a second ago. S
I clear my throat, trying to shake the haze. “It’s about Sara.”There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “As in your ex-wife?”“Yes. She’s out on parole.”“Hold on,” he says. “Didn’t she get like ten years?”“Fifteen,” I correct him. “It’s been five. She’s out.”“Wow.” His tone shifts. “That’s… unexpected.”“Yeah, no shit,” I say. “Why is she out?”There’s the sound of typing in the background, Jerome’s fingers flying across a keyboard, most likely. “Hang on. What’s her last name again?”“González.”“Got it. Sara González. Child endangerment, vehicular manslaughter, reckless driving. Hmm.” He pauses, and I can hear him exhale. “Got out on the 11th of November. Says here: Good behavior.”The words hit like a freight train. “What?”“Good behavior,” he repeats, like he’s reading off a grocery list.“That’s the biggest bullshit I’ve ever heard,” I snap, my grip tightening on the phone. “Good behavior? That’s the reason?”“Don’t kill the messenger,” Jerome says. “Look, it’s unusual, s
~~Julie~~ The pain started several hours ago. At first, it was manageable—a dull ache radiating through my lower abdomen. It felt like my body was whispering its warnings. But now, hours later, it’s no whisper. It’s a full-blown scream. Sharp, relentless waves of pain grip me, tightening like a vice around my insides. I’ve been timing the contractions, because the last time this happened, Dr. Casey Patel had sent me home with enough instructions on how to detect real labor. If this isn’t labor, then God help me, because it feels like this baby is about to crawl up my spine and burst out of my chest. I clutch the bannister with one hand and my lower abdomen with the other, pausing halfway down the stairs to catch my breath. Every step feels like a test of endurance, like I’m descending a mountain instead of my own staircase. “Paula!” I shout, hoping the cook will come running. But it isn’t Paula who appears. Instead, Javier rolls into view at the bottom of the stairs, his expressio
~~Julie~~I have to say this: Luke’s family knows how to party. It’s like everyone’s high and energetic. Even the children aren’t left out. It’s one thing to practice a dance, and it’s another to actually use those moves. I’m stumbling, but I don’t care. Because I’m happy. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I can’t keep track of the number of people I’ve danced with. I’ve lost Luke for the hundredth time tonight. The last time I saw him, he was being dragged into a conga line by his mother, who seemed to have the stamina of a teenager. Somewhere between the flashing lights and the sea of bodies spinning and stomping, he’d disappeared again.I stumble slightly in my heels, though at this point they feel more like medieval torture devices. My silver dress—once sleek and elegant—is now sticking to me like a second skin, the fabric damp with sweat from almost an hour of dancing. I brush confetti out of my hair. It’s everywhere—on my shoulders, even stuck to the perspiration on my arms.A
It’s our first dance as a couple, and Julie’s arms are draped around my neck, her warmth melting into mine as we sway to the soft rhythm of the music. Her dress catches the golden glow of the chandeliers, shimmering like something out of a dream. But it’s not the dress or the lights that have me mesmerized—it’s her.Her cheeks are flushed, a shade of pink that makes my heart stutter, and her eyes, those deep, captivating pools, glisten with unshed tears. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but all I can manage is, “You’re beautiful.”Julie’s blush deepens, and she looks away for a moment before meeting my gaze again. “You’ve already said that. Twice.”“Because it’s true.”Around us, everyone is watching.Julie bites her lip, a nervous gesture that only makes her more endearing. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Feeling this… shy?”I chuckle. “Like teenagers on a first date.”“Exactly. The entire room is watching, and I don’t know where to look.”“You’re doing great so far,” I say. “Jus
~~Luke~~I don’t know if it’s appropriate for the groom to cry on his wedding day, but right now, it’s taking my entire self-control not to sob. My throat feels tight, my chest is heavy, and every muscle in my face is fighting. Screw it—who made that rule anyway?Julie is walking toward me. Julie. My Julie. And it feels like the first time all over again—the day I saw her sitting on that barstool, drowning her sorrows in a glass of whiskey. I hadn’t planned to approach her. I was headed toward the fire exit, escaping someone whose face I can’t remember now. But then I saw her, and something in me shifted.Now, here she is, making her way down the aisle, radiant in a dress that looks like it was sewn from clouds and moonlight. My breath catches in my throat, and I wonder if it’s possible to actually combust from sheer awe.Her maid of honor walks beside her, clutching her arm with a steadying hand, but Julie doesn’t need it. She’s poised, her eyes locked on mine.“You’re far gone, man,
~~Julie~~People say all brides are late to their weddings. It’s practically a tradition, isn’t it? But me? I was not going to be one of those brides. I had a plan. I gave myself a generous window—ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops—because, really, what could possibly make me late?The answer, apparently, is everything. Here I am, forty minutes behind schedule, crammed in the backseat of a car with Marissa, my maid of honor, wrestling with my veil like it’s some kind of unruly octopus.“Hold still,” Marissa says, her fingers tangled in the fabric. “You keep moving, and this thing’s going to look like a bird nested in your hair.”“I wouldn’t be moving if we weren’t speeding down the road like we’re in a car chase,” I shoot back, my head jerking as the driver swerves to avoid another car.The blame? It falls squarely on last night’s rehearsal dinner. It felt like the entire world showed up. Luke’s family alone must have taken up half the venue, and their energy? Boundless. How do they eve
~~Ryan O’Brien~~ It’s fifteen minutes before the pre-trial, and Ryan’s car pulls into the courthouse. As Justin, his chauffeur and bodyguard, cuts the ignition, Ryan stares through the tinted window at the swarm of reporters and onlookers gathered outside like vultures, cameras poised for the kill. He can practically hear the click of shutters, the incessant questions ready to pounce, though he hasn’t even stepped out yet. Adeline is beside him, looking as bored as ever. Adeline taps her manicured nails against the leather armrest. She looks as though she’d rather be anywhere else, though Ryan knows better. His mother thrives on drama, especially when she’s not the one under fire. “How long is this circus going to take?” she says. “You didn’t have to come.” Ryan loosens his tie, the knot around his neck nothing compared to the one in his chest. Adeline shrugs. “I had nothing better to do. Besides, someone has to ensure you don’t embarrass the family name more than you already hav
I and Marissa, the vice president of marketing, have formed a new habit of meeting for lunch. It started as casual, a convenience thing—we both needed a break from the relentless grind at Illusionaire. Now, it’s become a ritual. I’m still unsure if this qualifies as friendship, mainly because I don’t know what friendship actually looks like. But Marissa talks a lot, and I love to listen. Her stories have this wild, messy charm, like someone spilling glitter across a chaotic art project.We’re at a cozy little café a few blocks from work, the kind of place that tries too hard to be trendy with its mismatched furniture and aggressively minimalist menu. Marissa is mid-rant about her current boyfriend and her dog, gesturing with a fork that’s dangerously close to flinging her salad across the room.“I swear, Nathan only comes over to spend time with Chubbs.”I choke on my sip of iced tea. “Chubbs?”She nods. “My French bulldog. He’s—how do I put this—larger than life. And I mean larger. T
~~Julie~~We’re at a bridal boutique, and Carolina’s excitement could power a small city. Baby Valeria is strapped to her chest, a tiny, sleeping bundle of calm amidst the chaos her mother is stirring up. Carolina jumps from one gown to the next. Her enthusiasm is contagious, even though I’m already sweating from the sheer force of it.“Isn’t Valeria heavy?” I ask, watching as the baby shifts against her chest. “Are you sure you don’t need a break?”She waves me off. “No. You get used to it. It’s like she isn’t there.”“Oh.”Before I can say anything else, Carolina turns to me. She places a hand on my stomach.“You’re already showing!” she exclaims. “Know the sex yet?”I smile. “No, I was thinking we could work a surprise reveal into the wedding.”“Ohhhh!” she squeals. Her face lights up. “That’s magnificent. The family’s going to go ballistic.”“Careful so you don’t wake her,” I say, nodding toward Valeria, who stirs at the sound of her mother’s excitement.“Don’t worry. When she’s
~~Ryan O’Brien~~The cold splash of water shocks Ryan awake. His head is throbbing, each pulse like a mallet pounding against his skull. He groans, squinting against the morning light. Everywhere is bright. Too bright. It’s like a thousand needles piercing his eyes. His mouth feels dry and cottony. He tries to swallow, but his throat is parched. As he tries to sit up, the room spins. You’d think after two months, he’d get used to this feeling. But it hurts every single time."Aww," he says, clutching his head. "What the hell—""Don’t get up too fast."The voice is sharp, familiar, and unapologetic. He blinks away the fog until his mother’s silhouette sharpens before him. She’s standing tall and imposing, dressed in a cream suit that somehow looks both effortless and intimidating. In one hand, she holds a half-emptied glass of water, the one she’d poured on his face. In the other, two white pills."Don’t tell me you’ve finally decided to kill me," Ryan says."What?”"Poison me."She sn