Chapter 1
Mary
A Hundred Days Earlier . Before Blood, Before Him.
“Uuuuun-break my heaaaart—”
Crack.
That’s not a vocal run. That’s my voice giving out mid-sob as I slam the mic button on Jasper’s karaoke machine like I’m headlining Coachella. In hell.
The mic cuts off with a whine. I pause, winded, cheeks streaked with wine and regret.
I’m barefoot, in a crumbling green face mask that smells vaguely like eucalyptus. My hair is piled on top of my head like a sad cinnamon bun, and I’m wearing Jasper’s old, worn-out hoodie—the oversized one that says “Daddy Issues & Discount Sushi” in rhinestones. No pants. No shame. One sock.
This is not how my twenties were supposed to end.
I take another sip from the wine bottle I’ve been cradling like a newborn. I don’t know what vintage it is, but it tastes like soft fruit and bad decisions. Definitely from Jasper’s “investor stash.”
I eye the karaoke machine again.
Jasper. My one ride-or-die since the seventh grade.
We met when a group of popular girls made fun of my knockoff sneakers, and he stepped in wearing glitter-covered Crocs and said, “You bitches wouldn’t know style if it sat on your face.
” Instant bond. Instant best friends. We’ve been trauma-bonded ever since.
Over the years, Jasper became, well, Jasper.
A successful fashion designer who makes actual money dressing other people with names like “Nico” and “Phoenix” and “Lady Something.” I, on the other hand, became a personal banking associate who gets called “sweetie” by men named Gary who still write checks.
He owns the full setup. Machine, wireless mics, LED lights, and a speaker big enough to summon the cops.
The whole system lives here, in his real, adult-owned apartment two buildings down from my glorified shoebox rental.
My apartment has a “hall” that’s really just a three-foot space between the toilet and my bed. I pee with eye contact to my fridge.
Jasper, on the other hand, has taste. Style. A velvet couch that doesn’t make your butt stick to it in summer. A fridge with actual food. And this machine. The one I desperately need tonight because—
Evan. My boyfriend of six years dumped me. Over text. With a ring emoji.
Who does that? What kind of psychopath drops a ring after saying:
Evan: I’m sorry, Mare. I know exactly what you want. I don’t want it with you. I tried to. That should count for something. Please don’t make this messy. ??
I stared at that message for a full five minutes, rereading the emoji like it might start to make sense if I tilted my head.
A ring, Evan? Really?
I texted back, something like “Can we please talk? In person?” because I didn’t believe it.
Not fully. Not after six years of late-night grocery runs and half-assembled IKEA furniture and knowing the exact sound he makes when he yawns.
I wasn’t asking for a second chance. I just wanted him to say it to my face.
But he didn’t.
Message: Delivered. Not Read.
Then it turned gray.
Has he seriously blocked me?
No. He wouldn’t. He’s not that cruel. He’s… he’s not the most romantic person, sure. I bought my own Valentine’s Day gift three years in a row. He never met my grandma. He forgot my birthday once and blamed it on daylight saving time.
But still.
I thought we were okay. Not perfect, but stable. I thought we were building something. Or at least… surviving together. Isn’t that what love looks like after Year Five?
Apparently not.
Apparently, it ends with a text and a ring emoji he probably thought was clever.
I tip the bottle straight into my mouth. No glass. No dignity. Just three gulps of warm merlot and the sharp burn of fury settling behind my ribs.
I don’t care. I’m not sad. I’m mad.
I hope his phone explodes. Preferably while it’s still in his hand.
Anyway, Jasper is in Milan for two months. Something about a runway show, a celebrity client, and a man named Stefano who wears turtlenecks and calls him “baby” in Italian. I stopped listening after he promised I could use his place if I ever had a meltdown.
Which I’m currently doing. With style.
The key? Still hidden exactly where he showed me back in high school, the day he made me swear to be his emergency plant-waterer, emotional support human, and occasional alibi.
Jasper’s lived in ten different places since then, but no matter the zip code, he always hides a spare the same way—taped behind the intercom panel under a sticker that says “FBI Surveillance Van #47.”
I texted him first. I swear I did. I just… didn’t wait for a reply before letting myself in.
I needed the karaoke. And the wine. And the echoey silence of a place that wasn’t mine, where my sadness didn’t have a return address.
The Bluetooth speaker kicks into the next track, and my brain doesn’t stop it in time.
“And I… will always love youuuuuu—”
I belt the first line with all the emotional finesse of a raccoon falling into a trash can. My voice cracks. My heart does too.
I spin dramatically in the center of the living room, blanket billowing behind me like some tragic, drunk superhero.
This is what healing looks like. I read that somewhere. You have to feel your grief. You have to let it sing.
Whitney fades. I collapse onto the couch like a wounded Victorian widow and pick up my phone. No new messages from Evan.
Of course not.
Just a memory from Facebook: “Six years ago today. You and Evan at Coney Island.” He’s kissing my cheek. I’m smiling like a fool.
I close the app. Immediately regret checking it.
I sniff, mutter something unholy, and reach for the half-empty wine bottle—
Then freeze.
The front door opens.
Keys jingle. Hinge creaks.
I sit up, slowly. Blinking. Surely Jasper wouldn’t—? Wait. No. He’s in Milan. He posted an Instagram story three hours ago with a shirtless man feeding him grapes.
So, who—?
A man walks in.
Tall. Dark brown-haired. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a black coat, and that expression people have when they find a raccoon in their kitchen.
We make eye contact.
He is not Jasper.
He is not anyone I know. And he is… terrifying.
Not in a chainsaw way. More like the kind of terrifying that wears thousand-dollar coats and has cheekbones sharp enough to file your taxes. The kind of terrifying that looks like he doesn’t lose arguments. Or sleep.
He pauses in the doorway, eyes flicking from the karaoke machine to the blanket fort I built with throw pillows and shame.
“What,” he says, in a voice that sounds like smoke and Russian winters, “are you doing in my apartment?”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because this… This is not how I imagined meeting a hot, terrifying man.
Not in a hoodie that says Daddy Issues. Not in one sock. Not with Whitney Houston mid-chorus behind me. And definitely not sitting cross-legged on his couch, cradling his wine like I bought it myself.
“Hi,” I manage to squeak. “I thought this… was my best friend’s apartment.”
My voice sounds like it took a wrong turn on the way out of my throat. Slurred. Fragile. A little bit possessed.
The man doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just… stares. Like he’s trying to decide whether to call the cops or an exorcist.
I realize, belatedly, that I’m still clutching the wine bottle like it’s an emotional support object. The cork’s gone. My mascara is probably halfway down my cheeks. And the green face mask? Still there. Cracked in weird places. Flaking onto the couch. I look like a drunk swamp witch.
And I’m not wearing pants.
Just the hoodie. One pizza-slice sock. And probably a flash of neon underwear if I shift the wrong way.
Fantastic.
“This… this isn’t Jasper’s… place?” I ask again, even though he already answered.
He watches me in silence for a beat too long. Like he’s recalculating something.
“I lease it,” he says finally, voice clipped. “And you’re not supposed to be here.”
I nod, like that helps.
There’s a pause. A long one. The kind that fills the room with embarrassment and judgment.
And then, because my brain is a chaos factory with no off switch, I ask:
“Wait. Wait… are you Jasper’s… boyfriend?”
His eyes narrow just a fraction, and something flickers in his expression. Something sharp and nearly amused.
Almost like a smirk is threatening to exist.
But it dies before it gets to his mouth.
“No,” he says. And I swear to God, it’s the deepest voice I’ve ever heard. Like gravel wrapped in silk. Like he once commanded an army and didn’t raise his voice to do it.
I burp.
“Oh. Cool.” And I hiccup. “You, uh… You don’t happen to have a backup bottle of this, do you?” I wave the half-empty wine at him like an olive branch. Or a cry for help.
It sloshes. So does my dignity.
I wave a hand. Regret it instantly. The wine bottle wobbles like it’s seconds from projectile drama.
He doesn’t react. Just watches. Still as stone. Except for the eyes.
Green.
Not soft green. Not minty or mossy or whatever the hell poetry people say.
These are sharp. Vivid. The kind of green you’d find in dangerous places. Like venom, or warning labels.
He lifts a brow. “You are drunk. You should go now.”
I blink at him. Slowly. Even in my wine-marinated brain, I can tell he’s nothing like Evan.
Evan had soft eyes and a passive-aggressive way of saying “I’m just not ready” after six years of sharing a Netflix password.
This man?
He looks like he’s never been not ready in his life.
He’s taller than tall. Built like something mythological and designed to win wars. Black coat draped casually over one shoulder. Black dress shirt. Sharp jawline. Cold, green eyes that look like they’ve seen too much and cared too little.
His hair is dark, slightly mussed, and unfairly cinematic. He looks like he belongs in a European heist film. Or on a list of people the CIA officially denies knowing.
And here I am.
Comparing him to Evan.
While grieving Evan.
I’m the problem. It’s me.
“Yes… I should probably go,” I say, lifting my chin.
I try to stand. Immediately regret it.
The blanket tangled around me slips off one shoulder, my bare leg catches on the coffee table, and I do this awkward crab-waddle thing to regain balance. Smooth. Elegant. Just like I rehearsed.
He watches me like I’m a mildly interesting crime scene.
This is fine. Everything’s fine.
He still hasn’t said anything. Still just standing there like some terrifying statue carved by lust and murder.
I wobble, exhale a hiccup, and try again. “I’m not usually like this.”
His brow twitches.
“Okay. That’s a lie. I mean, I am like this. I do cry when I drink. But only when I drink this much. And only when I get dumped.”
I stagger toward the couch, still clinging to the wine bottle like it’s my emotional flotation device. He doesn’t move to stop me. Doesn’t move at all.
He’s just… watching.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, plopping onto the edge of the cushion. “God. I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. You’re… Holy shit, you’re really hot, by the way.”
I laugh. A little too loud. It echoes off his very expensive-looking countertops.
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t blink.
Which only encourages me, obviously.
“No, like… rude hot. The kind of hot that ruins lives. You have CIA bone structure. That’s not fair.”
I wave a hand at him vaguely. “I bet you know how to disarm a bomb. Or build one. You’ve got that look. I’ve never seen cheekbones like that outside of a limited series on HBO.”
He’s still quiet. Which means I keep going. Because clearly, that’s the responsible choice.
“I work at a bank,” I announce suddenly, like this is a TED Talk. “Not, like, a fancy bank. It’s Brightside National. I’m a personal banking associate, which is just corporate for ‘person who apologizes for overdraft fees.’ I wear a name tag.”
I pause.
“My name is Mary.”
Even I wince at that.
“Mary,” I repeat, making a face. “Like some kind of old potato. It’s a tired name, isn’t it? I’m bored with it. I’ve been Mary for almost thirty years, and I’m honestly sick of it. I should be something dramatic. Like… Vesper. Or Blaze.”
A giggle escapes my throat, and I lean back too far, barely catching myself on the armrest.
“God. I’m so boring,” I sigh. “My job’s boring. My life’s boring. You ever just wake up one day and realize everything you’ve been waiting for is never gonna happen? Like… I thought he was gonna propose.”
The room shifts slightly. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or the sudden weight in my chest.
“I waited for six years. You know what I got? A text message. And a ring emoji. Like it was a joke.”
My throat tightens. I swallow more wine. I should stop. I don’t.
“And the sex wasn’t even good,” I say, immediately horrified by myself. “Why did I stay that long if the sex wasn’t good? He made this sound when he was about to come. Like a squirrel. Or a cartoon sneeze.”
I cackle. Full-on witch cackle. Because now that I’ve said it out loud, I can’t un-hear it either. Evan the Ejaculating Chipmunk. Jesus Christ.
“And I had to pretend!” I continue, hands flailing. “Like full performance. Oscar-worthy moaning. I was a damn one-woman porn studio.”
I wave my wine glass around. “Six years of fake orgasms. You know what that does to a person? My old apartment probably needs an exorcism from all the lies I told in that bedroom.”
I clutch my chest, suddenly breathless with laughter. But then the laughter dies, fast and heavy.
“Do you know,” I say, blinking at the ceiling like it personally wronged me, “I’ve never actually had one? A real one?”
I gesture vaguely between my legs. “Like, the Big O? Zero stars. Would not recommend. The man couldn’t find my clit if it came with a Google Maps link and flashing neon lights.”
My voice cracks. “And I just… let that be my life. For years. Because he told me I was lucky to have someone like him. Like I was some kind of underperforming employee who should be grateful for minimum wage sex.”
I trail off.
Then freeze.
My eyes slowly shift back to the man standing across from me.
Still silent. Still staring. His eyes fixed on me with that unreadable expression.
Like he’s trying to figure out if I’m drunk, clinically unstable, or some kind of live art installation.
My hand slaps over my mouth too late.
“Oh, my God. I’m sorry. That was… That was a lot. I should not be saying that.”
He still says nothing.
“I think I’m drunk,” I whisper. Then louder: “I’m definitely drunk. Like… three-bottles-of-wine drunk. And I think my spleen is swimming.”
The couch dips a little beneath me. I blink hard. His face is starting to blur at the edges, like a dream you only half-remember.
“I shouldn’t be here,” I murmur, eyes sliding closed. “But I really, really didn’t want to be alone.”
The last thing I see before everything goes black is his silhouette in the doorway.
Unmoving. Silent. Watching me like a puzzle he doesn’t know what to do with.
And then—
Darkness.