Twice just this morning. Once after I lit my candle and chanted badass feminist affirmations over my first latte and again after I ugly cried into my dying fiddle-leaf fig while listening to a Divine Feminine Realness playlist. At this point, it’s less of a sign and more of a stalker.
“Come on, universe,” I groan. “Mix it up. Give me literally anything else. A burning bush. A pigeon with a scroll. Skywriting. Surprise me.”
I frown down at it and absentmindedly twist the stem of the champagne flute. “So we meet again,” I mutter. “Let’s see, you’re all about cycles, change, fate, divine timing. Plenty of that cosmic self-help jargon.” I wave a hand in the air, shooing away the potential gravity of pulling the same card so many times in a row. “Basically, a move from one phase of life to the next. Groundbreaking.”
I finish the rest of my champagne in one gulp, warmth spreading through my chest and down my legs. “A girl comes to you for answers,” I say to the card, “and insteadgets psycho-spiritual babble. Typical.” I sigh. “Maybe this isn’t working for me anymore. Maybe I should order one of those crystal pendulums I keep seeing in those targeted ads…”
A server floats past, and I snag a small silver dish of truffle-dusted popcorn, popping a few kernels into my mouth as I scan the ballroom for Gemma or Alder, but they’ve both vanished.
“Where are you, Gemma?” Anxiety buzzes under my skin, itchy and bright, and I worry my lower lip between my teeth.
I glance back down at the card, the golden wheel at the center glinting in the overhead lighting.
This is what I wanted, right? A message. A sign from the universe. The modern-day version of a carrier pigeon. If Gemma texted me the same thing five times in a row, I’d listen. But I know her. I trust her. She’s real. These are cardboard coping mechanisms. And, yes, maybe I do use them to pass the blame if I do make a wrong move.
But real relationships come with expectations. With timelines and vulnerabilities and the terrifying possibility that someone might see the parts of me I’ve gotten really good at hiding. The ones I can’t filter or edit or rebrand.
I could meet Declan—the dark-eyed, grammar-fluent fantasy I’ve carefully kept behind the safety of a screen. Or I can end it now. Pull the plug. Laugh off my last message and retreat into the comfort of sexts and emojis and low-stakes make-believe.
The Wheel of Fortune catches the light again, winking up at me.
I slide the card back into the deck and down the rest of my ashwagandha-infused lawn sludge in one grim, defiant gulp.
“Well…” I mutter, wiping the corners of my mouth with a cocktail napkin. “Fuck it.”
Two
Ember’s logo is etched in copper above a sleek, black facade—a wand engulfed in flame, twisting upward like a question mark made of fire. The wand is subtle, almost hidden unless you know what you’re looking for. Which feels like a metaphor. For what, I don’t know yet. But it feels important and ominous in a cursed-object kind of way.
I weave through the crowd, people pressed together in clusters, dancing, drinking. Music pulses low. The lighting is soft but strategic, red glows from the shadowed corners like flames, and a gold wash fills the space, making everyone look a little glossier, a little more like a dream.
I’m trying to hold myself together. Trying to channel Dating App Amanda—the mysterious, effortlessly flirty version of me who sends eggplant and water emojis and strategically plans double texts.
But in reality, I’m a vibrating mess in strappy stilettos and a dress that seemed like a brilliant idea when I wasgoing to a fundraiser and not moments away from meeting the man who has an express pass to my nervous system.
Declan casually leans against the back bar—a gleaming stretch of black stone veined with copper that glints under the dim glow of low-hanging sconces. Behind him, a wall of backlit liquor bottles rises like an altar. He holds a crystal tumbler in one hand, the other tucked lazily into his pocket.
Holy shit. He’s real.
I mean, Iknewthat. But seeing him in the flesh, watching his body take up space like this… I guess I didn’t fully believe someone likethatwas actually DMing someone likeme.
He doesn’t move when he sees me. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. He just watches.
I draw in a breath. It catches halfway.
His profile said six foot three, but seeing him now, he’s somehow…bigger. Taller than expected. Broader too. Dressed in a sleek black suit, every line tailored to make the most of his impossibly muscular build. And his stillness—that coiled, tightly reined-in quiet—is magnetic in a way that feels like a challenge. A dare cloaked in wool and shadow.
His molten gaze glides over me like he’s already unwrapped me and is deciding which part he wants to taste first. He lifts the tumbler to his lips and takes a long pull, his throat working, his jaw flexing ever so slightly. Without breaking eye contact, he drags his thumb across his full bottom lip.
All I can think about is how I want that thumb dragging across me. My lips, my throat, chest, stomach, lower.
My nipples harden. My ovaries sigh. And my vagina lights up like a chakra that’s just been unblocked.
This whole meeting-in-person thing is going to be a lot more complicated than I thought.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Flirting through a screen I have down. But being near this man—breathing the same air, watching his mouth move, seeing the way he looks at me like I’m the next thing on his to-do list—is something else entirely.
All at once, I’m devastatingly aware of every inch of my body. Every beat of my heart. Every shallow breath.
