Chapter One
Anne
It was a lovely day when I left my apartment this morning. I should have known it wouldn’t stay that way.
Sitting back down on the edge of the driver’s seat, I try to clean my right shoe where a pigeon decided to take a dump as soon as I’d stepped out of my car.
Ruefully, I look down at my new heels. It will take a miracle from the Goddess to get this stain out. Sighing, I stand up and toss the tissue into the bin next to my parking spot before starting my walk toward the building.
The Moonvale Pack headquarters rises before me, all glass and steel and modern architecture that somehow manages to feel welcoming despite its corporate and formal nature. The song that was playing on the radio in the car is still vibrating between my lips in a soft hum as I make my way up to the entrance.
The lobby doors slide open with a soft whoosh, and the all-too-familiar scent of fresh coffee, mingled with the faint buzz of the building stirring to life, meets me like a welcoming committee. The guys at the security desk toss a polite “goodmorning” my way, and I reply with a wave and a smile as I move past them.
I take the elevator to the third floor, where the administrative offices sprawl in an organized maze of cubicles and meeting rooms. It’s quiet; it’s always quiet this early, with just a handful of other staff members disappearing into their cubicles. I love being among the first to arrive, enjoying the peaceful stillness of the place right before it fills with the bustle of coworkers, emails, phone calls, and meetings.
My heels click softly against the polished floor as I make my way to my cubicle, tucked nicely in a corner. I set my bag down on the desk and take a moment to settle in.
My workspace is pretty homey. There’s my succulent plant—a present from three years ago that is miraculously still alive despite my sporadic watering schedule. A calendar hangs on one of my wall partitions, dotted with colorful stickers marking important deadlines and meetings. A small collection of nice pens sits in a decorative holder shaped like a wolf—a gag gift from the office Secret Santa that I ended up actually loving. Sticky notes in various pastel shades create a rainbow across one side of my monitor, each one a reminder of tasks or an encouraging quote I’ve written to myself.
And of course, there are those familiar eyes staring at me. My gaze lands on the small photograph hanging from the bottom corner of my monitor, held there by a small piece of tape I’ve replaced more times than I can count and will probably replace a thousand times more.
“Good morning to you, too, Kain.”
The words slip out automatically now; at this point, it’s basically habit. The edges of the picture are curled a little, and the colors are definitely starting to fade, but I’ve looked at it so often that if I were a half-decent artist, I could probably draw it straight from memory.
Two teenagers beam at the camera. The girl’s sun-streaked hair is pulled into a ponytail, her skin brown from spending too much time outdoors. The dark-haired boy standing next to her has his arm slung around her shoulders, his chest sticking out and a wide smile on his lips. Both of them look happy and carefree.
Kain’s amber and gold gaze makes my heart tighten, and I swallow my grief before smiling. I lean forward. My eyes stay on the photo, and my mouth moves almost of its own accord.
“My new shoes got shat on today,” I murmur. “I knew I shouldn’t have bought them. I knew it.”
Yes, I know it’s silly, sitting here and speaking to an image like it’s a real person. But this has become part of my routine over the years. I can’t even remember exactly when or how it started, or how long it’s been, but every day, right before I dive into work, Kain and I have our little one-sided conversations. And silly as it is, it helps. It helps make this emptiness feel a little less vast.
“But Sienna keeps telling me I need to splurge a little. She says it’s healthy. Of course, this is why I don’t splurge,” I add, a quiet huff of breath escaping me. “Now they look uneven. Not that you’d notice. You’d probably say they look fine. But they don’t. They really don’t,” I mutter. “Ugh. They were expensive.”
And then I pause, just like I always do. I wait for him to say something back, even though I know no words will ever come. Even though I know I will never hear his voice again, my heart still aches to, even just one more time. Sometimes I look at this picture hard enough that I can remember the sound of him so vividly that, for just a moment, it eases the depth of the hollowness in my chest.
It’s a hollowness that feels particularly heavy today. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the golden quality of the light this morning and how it reminds me of late summer afternoons when we wereyoung—like the day we took that picture. Or maybe it’s just one of those days when, even more than usual, I wish he were still here.
“You’d probably tell me I’m being dramatic about the shoes.” My voice comes out softer now, the dull ache threading through every word. “You always said I had a flair for the dramatic.”
I smile faintly as the words fade. My throat tightens, and my eyelids flutter rapidly against the sudden sting. What I would give to hear him tease me about being dramatic! Even now, after ten years, there are few things in my life I wouldn’t trade just to hear his voice again.
“I miss you,” I whisper to him right before I close my eyes to hold back the tears threatening to fall.
“Good morning, Anne.”
The voice shatters my thoughts like a stone through glass. I jerk upright in my seat, pulling my hand away from the photograph as I look up.
Derek approaches from a few feet away, his laptop bag slung over his shoulder in a way that tells me he has just arrived. He’s wearing his usual business casual and has a friendly smile on his face.
“Derek! Good morning,” I say, and my voice comes out far too brightly. I clear my throat and try again. “Sorry, I was just, uh, organizing my desk.”
“At this hour? You’re making the rest of us look bad.” His grin is teasing with no judgment in it. He moves closer and rests his bag on the top of my cubicle wall. “Actually, now that I think about it, it figures. You’re always the first to get to work. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe you love your job,” Derek says with a warm chuckle.
I can’t help but chuckle back, and I welcome the small talk distracting me from the ache in my chest. “I do love my job.”
Derek snorts at that, shaking his head slightly. “Nobody in the world actually loves their job, Anne. If we could all get paid to sleep, I’m pretty sure we’d never work a day in our lives.”
