CHARLIE
I wake to nausea rolling through my stomach like a wave, my body clammy with sweat despite the cool morning air filtering through my apartment window.
The ceiling spins slightly as I force myself upright, gripping the edge of the mattress until the room steadies.
This has been happening for days now, this bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep seems to cure, but I’ve been pushing through it.
Working double shifts at the diner. Volunteering at the church. Navigating the careful dance of being with three men while the Bishop’s investigation circles closer.
Sleep has become a luxury I can’t afford, stolen in brief moments between their schedules and my own spiraling anxiety.
I drag myself to the shower, letting cold water shock my system into something resembling alertness.
My reflection in the mirror looks hollow, dark circles under my hazel eyes. I’ve lost weight I couldn’t afford to lose, my clothes hanging looser than they did a month ago.
But there’s no time to worry about that now. Maggie Anderson is expecting me at The Flour Pot in an hour, and I can’t be late. Not when this job represents everything I’ve been working toward.
Independence. Purpose.
A future that doesn’t depend on working off a debt or hiding in shadows.
The bakery smells like heaven when I arrive, all butter and sugar and fresh bread. Maggie greets me with her usual warm smile, her grayhair pulled back in a practical bun, flour already dusting her apron. “Morning, Charlie. You ready to tackle the morning rush?”
I nod, forcing energy I don’t feel into my voice. “Absolutely.”
The morning passes in a blur of mixing dough and shaping loaves.
My hands move through familiar motions while my mind drifts to last night.
Marcus’s body pressed against mine in the choir loft, his tattooed hands gripping my hips while he whispered Spanish against my throat.
The way Adrian watched from the doorway, his gray eyes dark with hunger he was fighting to control. Elijah’s blue gaze tracking every movement, his angel face flushed with want.
The memory makes heat pool low in my belly despite the nausea still churning there.
I’m mixing dough for cinnamon rolls when the room tilts sideways.
The bowl slips from my hands, crashing to the floor in an explosion of flour and ceramic shards.
I reach for the counter to steady myself, but my legs won’t support my weight anymore.
The floor rushes up to meet me, and I have just enough time to thinkthis is going to hurtbefore strong hands catch me.
“Charlie!” Maggie’s voice sounds distant, muffled like I’m underwater. “I’m calling 911!”
I try to tell her I’m fine, that I just need a moment, but the words won’t form.
My vision narrows to a tunnel, darkness creeping in from the edges.
I can hear Maggie’s worried voice giving our address to the dispatcher, can feel her hand stroking my hair back from my face, but I can’t seem to make my body respond.
The ambulance ride is a blur of Maggie’s worried face hovering above me and paramedics asking questions I can barely process.
When did the nausea start?
Have I been eating regularly?
Any history of fainting?
