Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Two days later, I receive a response from human resources. The email is short and to the point: a courier will deliver the contract to the hotel lobby at ten o’clock.
Shifters are old-fashioned about certain things; they don’t trust electronic systems with top-level security documentation. Everything important is hand-delivered, with no exceptions.
When it’s time to leave my room, I hesitate.
My hand lingers on the handle, muscles locked in a silent standoff with my confidence. It takes a monumental effort—mentally muttering and persuading myself—before I force the door open, step out, and join real life.
By the time I reach the tail end of breakfast, I’ve already lost most of my appetite.
The industrial toast maker is my first challenge. After a half-hearted battle—during which I seriously consider hitting the damn thing with my shoe—I settle for two slices, one burnt to a crisp and the other basically warm bread.
I smear them with strawberry jam, stuff the oddly textured slices into my mouth, and wash them down with two cups of bitter coffee. It does not help much.
At least I’ve killed some time.
With ten minutes left before the courier is due to arrive, I drift into the small lounge area and sink into a sofa facing the main doors. I set my laptop beside me and cross my arms, trying not to feel like a weirdo sitting here without a phone.
To my left, a wide column stretches to the ceiling, decorated with a tall fake palm in a pot that’s seen better days. To my right, three vending machines hum mechanically, adding to the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clatter of a suitcase being dragged across the tiled floor.
I should have brought my phone.
But no—it’s turned off, buried at the bottom of one of the plastic bags I shoved into the wardrobe. The past few days have been technical torture, with the nasty little voice in my head urging me to pick up the phone to check the missed and blocked calls.
I feel like an addict going cold turkey. It’s not drugs, magic, or blood. It’s a relationship.
Every memory has Paul at its centre, and that frightens me. Who am I without him? Our relationship didn’t set the world on fire, but I thought we fit. I’ve spent so many years shrinking myself, compromising for the sake of ‘us.’ Maybe I compromised too much.
I made us work.
It’s hard to let that go, harder still to shake the overwhelming sense of failure. I failed to see what was happening. I failed to protect myself.
When did he change? When did he decide I wasn’t enough?
And how could Dove do this to me?
The questions loop endlessly in my head, making me feel sick. If there were a pill to forget, I’d take it in a heartbeat.
Maybe it wasn’t just him. Perhaps it was the monotony of life—a day-in, day-out cycle of being a good worker and a good wife. Get up, make breakfast, go to work, come home, cook dinner, and spend quiet evenings together. It’s what I thought he wanted. It’s what I thought we both wanted.
Now, I hate the person I became.
I used to be a rebel who swore she’d never bow to anyone. My younger self would be appalled at this version of me. And yet here I am, looking back and wondering when I stopped fighting.
I grew up in a world where girls were told to be seen and not heard, where smiling through harassment was expected, and where a woman’s right to her body was never her own.
I learned to be polite, to say thank you, to please everyone but myself.
To never rock the boat.
Even now, I admire women who speak their minds without fear. But that’s not who I am. I’m always frightened of saying the wrong thing. I don’t want to come across as mean or cruel.
I don’t want to be alone.
I still want someone to love me, to be my person—someone who stands in the front row of my life, cheering me on, celebrating my triumphs, and catching me when I fall. I’ve spent so long cheering for others, but no one ever cheers for me.
Paul was never that person, was he?
I want to be angry and hate him, but he is not a monster, and he could have been worse. Even though he betrayed me, I still see the kind, funny man I married. I can’t regret the twenty-eight years we shared, even if they led here. But I can never go back.
I’m not ready to call in a solicitor. I want to bury my head in the sand for a little while longer and let Paul suffer.
If I can sort out this new life first, build something stable before dealing with the wreckage of the old one, that would be perfect. It’s not like the problem’s going anywhere, but I will face it when I’m stronger—on my terms.
The only way forward is through, and I will get there.
Slowly, piece by piece, I will rebuild myself. I will start by being kinder to me. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that my cheerleader, my person, and my witness to this life is me —not anyone else.
I still can hardly believe I might be working on the other side of the border.
The shifters are a world unto themselves. Their leader, the Alpha Prime—what a name—rules his shifters with a grip tighter than steel. One wrong move, one significant mistake, and you are dead. Justice, if you can call it that, is brutal and absolute in the shifter world.
The thought briefly distracts me, as it always does. Alpha Prime. Every time I hear it, my inner child whispers “ Optimus Prime .” The Transformers fan in me won’t let it go. Of course, the Alpha Prime isn’t a giant robot fighting for freedom and humanity. He is the ruthless leader of an entire people, with the authority to decide life or death with a single word.
Shrouded in secrecy and speculation, knowledge about shifters has always been limited to a need-to-know basis. The shifter world shares only what it must. I remember learning in school that only alphas—the leaders—retain full control when they are in their animal form. Maybe that’s why shifters enforce such strict security measures and maintain two impenetrable borders.
The idea of losing control and waking up with human skin between your teeth sends a shiver down my spine. I wrinkle my nose in revulsion. Nobody wants to channel their inner Hannibal Lecter.
At ten o’clock on the dot, the automatic glass doors glide open with a soft hiss, letting in a burst of damp air. My eyes flick up out of habit, and for a split second, I assume he is just another guest. But no—he’s unlike anyone I’ve ever seen, let alone a courier.
He looks absolutely lethal.
Standing over six feet tall, he is dressed in a flawlessly tailored deep navy suit with a matching tie that probably costs more than my car. The glimpse of a crisp white shirt beneath only emphasises the broad width of his shoulders. His build is a classic inverted triangle—muscular and imposing—suggesting he is no stranger to physical training. His close-cropped dark hair, military sharp, and clean-shaven face do little to soften his features.
If anything, they highlight the hard lines of his jaw, high cheekbones, and the seriousness etched into his expression as he scans the lobby.
Only then, with the angle of his face, do I notice the faint, otherworldly glow of his eyes as they catch the light.
He is a shifter.
I’ve never understood why shifter’s eyes glow like that. They call it ‘beast shine,’ which is both apt and rude. It’s as if someone switched on their high beams. I’ve always wondered if they can turn it off—glowing eyes don’t exactly scream stealth. Maybe it’s different when they are in animal form.
It’s been years since I last saw a shifter in person—not since childhood. Conference calls don’t count. Most hotel guests seem unfazed, except for a pair of girls nearby who stop dead, their mouths hanging open as they gawk at him like he has walked off the cover of a billionaire romance novel. Maybe it’s because we’re near the sector border and shifters are less of a novelty here. Or perhaps he simply has that effect on people.
I shake my head, forcing my gaze away. None of this is my business. He’s not breaking any rules, and the Human Sector does not mind the occasional shifter passing through—as long as they stay in human form.
Only the Shifter Ministry enforces the really restrictive laws.
Despite myself, I steal another glance at the man. Yeah, he is breathtakingly handsome—ridiculously so. His features are sharp and symmetrical, a perfection that does not seem real, like something out of Greek mythology. His strong nose and firm, unsmiling mouth give him a severity that demands attention. He’s the sort of man you can’t help but notice, whether you want to or not.
Stop it, Lark.
I huff, suppressing an absurd, creeping guilt of a married woman who’s just cheated on her husband in thought. There’s no reason to feel bad—I know that. It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. But when was the last time I looked at a man like this?
No, ogled a man.
Not that I’d touch this younger, handsome shifter with a ten-foot barge pole. Honestly, I’d be impressed if I ever went near another man again, given the state of my love life.
For a fleeting second, I imagine what being with someone like him would even look like. A tiny, cartoonish version of him appears in my head, all polished charm and perfect teeth. He winks and grins at me. “Hey, baby.”
I snort at the absurdity of it. Almost immediately, I picture a horde of gorgeous women stampeding over me to get to him, as if I don’t even exist. With a mental flick, I send the little figment flying out of my head.
Straight into the male danger zone.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. A pretty, unattainable man in a beautiful suit isn’t one of them. You would need raging, uncontrollable hormones to even think about touching that one.
Not that the gorgeous shifter would give me a second glance. I look down at my sleeves, adjusting them unnecessarily. I’m not ugly—objectively, I’m attractive. But let’s be real it’s been years since I dressed for anything resembling seduction.
I wouldn’t even know where to start.
I like my clothes comfortable, and my so-called beauty routine involves a quick slap of sunscreen, a dab of moisturiser, and battling the occasional rogue chin hair. If I’m honest, more than the occasional. Let’s say I’ve become quite adept with wax strips.
I can’t help it—I give him one last surreptitious look-over and to my absolute horror, the hottie shifter finishes scanning the lobby and… stalks towards me.
Well, isn’t this interesting?
I shake my head in disbelief. Is this guy seriously the courier? Really? Because of course a Ministry courier would look like James Bond.
Is this my life now?
I wouldn’t be in this situation if the Paul-and-Dove disaster hadn’t happened. Meeting shifters and working with them will be part of my snazzy new government job—if I get it. I’d better get used to this sort of thing fast.
As he closes the distance between us, an odd, instinctive urge sweeps over me to hunch forward and protect my middle. It’s primal and annoying, as though he is projecting alpha vibes at me from twenty feet away.
Nope. Not happening.
Feeling a tad reckless, I drop my arms, press my spine into the sofa, and lift my chin. I’m forty-seven years old. I’ve survived worse than one intimidating shifter.
I make direct eye contact and hold it.
His eyes—icy blue with a dark navy ring, sharp and arresting, reminiscent of a husky’s—widen slightly. Blink, and I’d have missed it. A single sweep of his long lashes erases his surprise, leaving behind a cool, impassive stare.
I don’t drop my gaze. His alpha vibes can get lost.
The part of me that would have shied away? That submissive part broke three days ago, and what remains lies somewhere in the hallway, scattered outside my bedroom door with the last scraps of my dignity. I’ve got nothing left to fear.
No fear. No joy. No hope…
Just rage.
A burning, unrelenting rage.