Chapter 1
Rika
Everythinghurts.
The ache emanates from somewhere deep inside my ribs, radiating through my torso, spreading to the tips of my wings and crawling under my skull, turning into an epic migraine.
Not that I'll let anyone see. This hurt is private, something I will keep hidden inside me like all those nights I've cried myself to sleep.
No more. Today is the last time I'm allowing Mitchell Lark to hurt me. Or to hurt our children.
I stand on my front porch, my seven-year-old son's hand gripping mine. Matthew's fingers are small and stiff, squeezing mine like a lifeline. His pale-green wings, the same shade as new leaves in the spring, flutter at the tips as the rest of his body stands as still as a statue.
Pixies of his age don't stand still for long, everyone knows that. If there's a clearer sign that my boy is hurting, I don't know what it could be. And it makes me want to scream and shout and make a scene. It makes me want to throw a tantrum with my hands in the air and hurl obscenities at the man who ruined our family.
But I don't. Because it would be selfish, and my kids are already dealing with one selfish parent.
I watch my husband of fifteen years load the last of his possessions into the trunk of his brand-new little red sports car, holding myself so stiff that my entire spine screams with agony. Mitchell is athletic and tall for a pixie, handsome in the way of Hollywood stars and scam artists, with his perfectly styled lavender hair and wings, his tailored suits and his shoes polished to a high shine.
All of it is fake. Always has been. It's my fault it took this long for me to understand it.
Mitchell hefts another cardboard box marked OFFICE STUFF in his messy handwriting, and he curses under his breath as his hand slips and he barely manages to keep a hold on it, his wings flapping wildly for a second or two. There's a tiny part of me, the petty part, that wishes he fell down and ruined his tailored wool coat and pants on the melting snow.
But he doesn't. Mitchell never falls; he somehow always skirts around the consequences of his actions.
Shit. I sound bitter, even in my own head.
I try not to look her way, but my eyes betray me and stray to Jasmine. My former best friend is standing by the sports car's passenger door in her designer pink leopard print coat and skintight jeans, her bubblegum-pink hair catching the morning light, her curls perfect and shiny. Her equally bubblegum-pink wings are tucked neatly against her back. She looks picture-perfect, as always. And she knows it.
Her pink eyes stray my way, and for a moment, we hold each other's gazes. Then she looks away, but not before a smug little smirk spreads on her pink-painted lips. Her manicured fingers trail along the hood of Mitchell's new car, showcasing a brand-new engagement ring that looks as large as a quail’s egg. I realize with a jolt that she's probably the reason he bought the ridiculous thing in the first place.
She thinks she won something by taking Mitchell away from me. Maybe she's an even bigger fool than I am. Mitchell Lark is no prize, but I'm not about to point it out to her.
She deserves him. Heck, they deserve each other. And when his money runs out or someone richer comes along, she'll move on to her next target.
It wouldn’t be the first time. Women like Jasmine always go where the grass is greener.
Matthew's grip on my hand tightens, and he shifts closer to my hip, his wide purple eyes watchful. He's too young to understand everything that's happening, but he understands enough.
Mitchell places another box on the back seat of his car and walks to Jasmine. He whispers something in her ear, and she kisses him, right there in front of us. Her eyes flick open mid-kiss, finding mine. Making sure I'm watching.
I want to scream. I want to throw something at them. Instead, I bite the inside of my mouth until I taste blood.
Shit. I hope Zoe isn't watching this.
My thirteen-year-old daughter hasn't been handling the divorce well, and by "not well," I mean she's been a hurricane of rage. I can practically feel the tension radiating from inside the house where Zoe's been hiding since Mitchell arrived to pick up the last of his stuff. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight, waiting for the explosion I know is coming.
It doesn't take long.
The front door slams open with enough force to rattle the frame, and Zoe bursts out like a pixie-sized tornado. Her shoulder-length, sapphire-blue hair is wild, her cheeks flushed red, her wings dragging behind her and almost touching the ground. She's carrying a medium-sized box that she immediately hurls onto the lawn.
"Here!" she shouts, her voice cracking with fury. "Take the rest of your crap with you!"
"Zoe Marie Lark, you do not speak to me that way." Mitchell lets go of Jasmine and straightens, his jaw tightening as he walks toward his daughter. "There's no need to make a scene."
"Zoe," I begin, then find nothing else to say.
Zoe doesn't even turn to look at me. Her entire attention is focused on her father. Her fists are shaking and her face is red. Even from where I stand, I can see her pretty blue eyes are filled with tears. She loves her father. Sometimes, I think she loves him more than she loves me. Which makes it even harder on her. I wish Mitchell understood how much he hurt her.
