PROLOGUE
Indie
The low hum of chatter and clinking glasses filled the dimly lit bar at L'Ultima Cena, busier for a weeknight than I expected it to be. The Italian restaurant was a town favorite that had recently come under new ownership. Perhaps the locals were curious to see what—if any—changes had been made.
I weaved through the crowded tables, my eyes scanning for an empty stool at the counter. I made it to the bar and placed my drink order, begging the slight tremor in my hand to piss off.
I sat in a daze waiting for my rum and coke, contemplating all of my life choices up until this point. Curating for Reverie had been my dream job. Iris had been my ideal employer. The art gallery had become the place I wanted to be most, surrounded by vibrant colors and thought-provoking pieces that were hand-picked by me. It was there, in that space of creativity and expression, that I experienced some of my best days.
Until—for an entire month—Iris left Reverie in my hands and fucked off to Thailand. She’d given me next to no notice before leaving. Ameditation vacation, she called it. I was the one who needed to fucking meditate at that point, but spending thirtydays without speaking and surviving solely on coconut lentils and turmeric shots was not my idea of a good time. It was nothing but a desperate attempt to reconnect with hercreative spirit, and I hadn’t heard from her at all for the entire month of August. The days had blurred together for me during her time away, each one blending seamlessly into the next as I developed a new routine at work, filling both our roles and learning as I went.
And then I got the call that she wasn't coming back.
She’d decided to stay.
And because of that, Reverie was closing.
When I took my first steps towards pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts just over four years ago, I knew that my career path would be filled with challenges and uncertainties. The realm of art is fickle, and heavily influenced by the economy—which we all know is an ever-changing dumpster fire. And of course, there’s also always the chance that your easy-going boss will prioritize their own creative muses over your livelihood, leaving you in the dust with no artwork to showcase and no gallery to display it in.
I was well aware of the risks, but my love of art overshadowed everything else. I had been ready to embrace the unpredictability of it all and was excited about the unconventional opportunities I knew would come with it.
But now, I had already exhausted all of those opportunities. At almost 23, I found myself without a job or any other prospects in my area. I sat, feeling lost and defeated, wondering what else was there for me in Fate Trace. The answer screamed resolutely in my mind: Fuck all, that’s what.
A thick knot formed in the back of my throat and my vision blurred around the edges.
Ugh. I was going to cry.
Scratch that. Iwascrying.
I slid the barstool away from the polished wooden counter and darted through the crowded room toward the bathroom.
My cheeks were already wet and I couldn't stand the thought of weeping in a room full of strangers. The dim lighting and stifling background noise only amplified my feelings of vulnerability as I pulled out my phone and quickly requested an Uber while rushing to the bathroom.
I shoved the first door I came to open, and pressed my back against the wall next to it, sliding to the floor. I was hyper-aware of how disgusting public restrooms were, especially in a bar, but I couldn't find it within myself to care at that moment.
I pulled my knees up to my chest, hot tears streaming down my face as I forced myself to breathe.
The door opened again, but whatever. I was 100% not the only woman to ever cry in a bar restroom and I would most definitely not be the last. In the best-case scenario, they would ignore me. Worst, I would get a drunk girl pep talk. Which… honestly I could probably use right about now.
A pair of brandy leather Oxfords appeared next to me, stopping mid-stride. Not your typical choice for women's evening attire, but to each her own.
Except, “Ah. Uh…” There was a long pause, and I couldn’t blame them for being rendered speechless because the person in question had a voice so sexy and deep, that they were most definitely not a drunk girl at all. “This is themen’sroom,” he finally said.
Oh.
Great.
Fantastic, even.
I sucked in a long breath through my nose and tilted my head up… andup…and my eyes caught on the vibrant moth tattooed on the front of his throat… and up, until I finally met his eyes. “Are you sure?”
During my time of great distress which was becoming greater by the moment, he looked down at me andsmirked. “The urinals didn’t give it away?”
I looked to the right, hoping like hell as I turned my head that he was joking and found… urinals.
I sighed and dropped my head back down to my knees.
The air shifted in the room and when I lifted my head again, we were eye to eye. He’d crouched down to me, a concerned look on his face.
