The internal lecture is familiar—I've been giving it to myself since I arrived in Oakridge Hollow three months ago. No relationships. No pack dynamics. No opening myself up to the kind of vulnerability that almost destroyed me the first time around.
Maybe a random fling here and there, because let's be honest—it's been a hot minute since anyone's touched me in a way that didn't involve violence or manipulation, and my poor pussy deserves some loving. But flings only. One-night stands with men who don't know my last name or my family history or the bounty that's apparently been placed on my head.
No commitments. No complications. Just survival until my family finds someone else to offer up to their precious rich Alpha allies.
The thought makes me laugh—a bitter, hollow sound that echoes off the exposed brick. As if they'd ever give up. As if Aunt Vivienne would ever stop calling. As if the Carlisle family would ever admit defeat when there's money and power on the line.
But a girl can hope, right? A girl can dream of a world where her worth isn't measured in breeding potential and bloodline connections.
My phone rings.
The sound cuts through my spiraling thoughts like a knife, and I jump slightly, heart rate spiking before I can control it. For one horrible moment, I'm convinced it's going to be Aunt Vivienne again—round two of the morning's lecture, maybe with additional guilt-tripping about family duty and legacy obligations.
I swear to God, if she's calling to tell me about another "amazing quality" those three assholes possess, I'm going to scream.
But when I grab my phone from where it's buried under a pile of unfolded laundry, the screen shows a different name entirely.
Mila.
I exhale in relief, swiping to answer. "Hey, you. What's up? Do you need me at the café?"
"No, no—" Mila's voice is rough, the kind of congested that makes every word sound like it's being dragged through gravel. She pauses to cough—a wet, ugly sound that makes me wince in sympathy. "Sorry. No, the café's covered for today. I need a huge favor, though."
I shift on the bed, tucking my phone between my shoulder and ear so I can gesture at nothing in particular. "Hit me. What do you need?"
Another cough, followed by what sounds like a full-body shudder. "I was supposed to attend this pre-Valentine's mixer event tonight. It's one of those Oakridge community things—youknow how they are about participation in local events. Makes the town look good for tourism or whatever."
Pre-Valentine's mixer. Because nothing says romance like forced social interaction in a small town where everyone already knows everyone else's business.
"Okay," I say slowly, already sensing where this is going. "And you're calling me because...?"
"Because I'm so damn sick there's no way I can make it." Mila groans—a sound of pure misery that transcends phone speakers. "I've been throwing up since last night. Can't keep anything down. There's no universe where I'm leaving this bathroom, let alone putting on real clothes and socializing with humans."
Yikes. That sounds genuinely awful.
"That sucks," I say, meaning it. "But can't you just... skip it? Tell them you're sick?"
"It's mandatory." The word comes out like a curse. "Part of the business license agreement for anyone operating in Oakridge Hollow. Miss a required community event without coverage, and they can fine you. Report you to the commerce board. Make your life generally miserable in the way only small-town bureaucracy can."
Small towns. Gotta love the charming authoritarianism hidden beneath the cozy exterior.
I pout, even though she can't see it. "But won't they check my ID? I'm not exactly a business owner in Oakridge. I just work at the bakery."
"No, no—as long as you say you're there for Mila, covering for Hazel's Hearth & Home, it should be fine." Another coughing fit interrupts her, and I wait it out with a wince. "I already reached out to the event manager. Explained the situation. She said as long as I could get coverage, she wouldn't report it as a no-show."
I look around at my disaster of an apartment. At the boxes I should be unpacking. At the organizational system I should be implementing. At all the productive things I could theoretically be doing with my Saturday evening.
Or... I could go to a party. Drink free alcohol. Pretend to be a functioning member of society for a few hours.
Sigh. Why not?
"Fine," I say, and I can practically hear Mila's relief through the phone. "You totally owe me, though. Like, multiple shifts worth of owed. Maybe name a pastry after me or something."
"The Rosemarie Croissant," she says immediately, her voice warming despite the congestion. "Layers of flaky deliciousness with a surprising kick. We'll make it with cinnamon and brown sugar."
Okay, that actually sounds incredible.
"Deal," I say. "Now go rest. Drink fluids. Stop talking to me and focus on not dying."
