Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The car inches forward, and I groan under my breath. Getting through the sector border is like running a gauntlet, and now I feel… strange. My gut twists, the pain intensifying until it feels as though I’m being pressed into the back seat.
No, not just pressed— squeezed . The magic wrapped around the border feels like it’s trying to force every atom of my body through the leather upholstery and into the boot.
A whimper escapes me before I clamp my lips shut, determined to endure. What is a little more pain? After all, I’ve been drowning in psychological anguish these past few days; physical pain is just another layer of punishment.
Up ahead, the air shimmers like a mirage, and the oppressive pressure vanishes as the car crosses through. I slump back, panting with relief, and wipe the sweat from my face with my jumper sleeve. My muscles ache as if I’ve just run a marathon.
I’m not sure what I was expecting—perhaps a grand archway or some glowing magical door—but instead, we’re in a tunnel. A proper tunnel. Bright lights flicker overhead as we glide along, the smooth passage seeming endless, though it’s probably only forty metres. Just as I start to relax, another shimmer of magic appears.
Oh, marvellous.
The second wave of magic hits like a sandstorm, raking across every nerve. It’s not as bad as the first, but I still tense, gritting my teeth as we emerge into a shocking brightness.
I throw an arm across my eyes, blinking furiously as they sting and water. I have no idea how the shifters are coping with their enhanced eyesight, but the driver does not miss a beat.
It takes a few seconds of rapid blinking before I can squint at my surroundings.
It’s… not what I imagined—perhaps open plains? A lion perched on a rock or a pack of wolves running wild. Instead, it’s a perfectly maintained road winding through long grass, alive with wildflowers. It’s so beautiful and pristine that I blink again, half wondering if I’m hallucinating.
So much for animalistic stereotypes.
The roads back in the Human Sector are riddled with potholes deep enough to swallow a person. But here? This tarmac is smoother than my relationship with Paul ever was.
The only hint of wildness lies in the untamed verges flanking the road, where daisies, poppies, dandelions, and other flowers I can’t name sway in the breeze.
After about forty minutes, the landscape shifts. The road bends left, and I catch my first glimpse of the Enterprise Zone.
It’s… stunning.
If someone had dropped me here blindfolded, I’d have sworn we were in one of the Vampire Sector’s fanciest boroughs.
Ornate eighteenth-century buildings blend seamlessly with sleek, modern designs, all surrounded by a sea of green. Trees line the streets, their canopies casting cool, dappled shade across broad, immaculate pedestrian walkways. Shrubs in bloom and thoughtfully placed benches dot the area.
Winding paths thread through wildflower meadows, linking hidden picnic spots and peaceful seating nooks.
The entire place feels like a vast, living park.
Cyclists whizz past along dedicated lanes, their bright helmets just a blur. A fleeting thought interrupts my admiration; I can’t remember the last time I rode a bike. This idyllic setting, under a bright blue sky, might feel less enchanting when the inevitable rain arrives, so I will definitely need a decent waterproof coat.
I scan the area for shifted animals but see none. Perhaps there are designated spaces for that. It makes sense if control is an issue. I feel a twinge of guilt for my earlier assumptions. The shifters seem far more organised than I expected—better even than the vampires, which is saying something.
“You’re living in Zone Two,” the driver says, breaking my reverie. His voice is calm, yet there’s unmistakable pride beneath it. “It’s the most secure area. The Ministry’s technological centre is coming up on the right.”
He gestures to a massive oval glass structure with sleek, modern lines and dark reflective panels. It looks like it belongs on the cover of an architecture magazine. I swallow hard. Shit. I’m entirely out of my depth. That’s where I will be working? Me, in a place like that? It makes my old office look like a leaky garden shed.
We pass more buildings, including what the driver points out as the shopping centre. “They also handle online deliveries,” he adds as he signals and slows down.
Ahead, nestled behind a copse of trees, stands the Ironworks.
It’s even more extravagant in person than in the brochure. Golden-hued bricks shimmer in the sunlight, offset by grand windows that mirror the surrounding greenery.
The car comes to a stop beside a gravel path. My door opens, and before I fully register it, the blond bodyguard hands me my bags and a set of keys. Now that he is free of me, his grin is cheerful, almost smug.
“Good luck,” he says, his tone dripping with amusement, making me feel like I’ve stepped into The Hunger Games .
Wonderful. I force a polite smile. “Thank you both for your help.”
The driver nods. The door slams shut, and the car pulls away, leaving me alone on the path.
I turn to face my new home, my heart thumping with nerves and anticipation. The Ironworks towers before me, more luxurious than I’d ever imagined.
This is it—the start of my new life.
Adjusting my grip on the plastic bags, I take my first step toward the building.
In my cheap outfit, I feel awkwardly out of place—underdressed and entirely out of my depth.
The chequered flooring in the entrance lobby immediately draws my eye—probably original, its elegant design lending an old-world charm to the space. There’s a grand, formal atmosphere here, more reminiscent of an old bank than an industrial building.
The ceiling is breathtaking. A dark-blue masterpiece with intricate detailing, crowned by a massive chandelier that looks like it belongs in a stately home. Plush sofas are scattered around, each paired with a small side table.
“Mrs Emerson, welcome to the Greenholm Ironworks.”
I let out a startled squeak as a suited shifter appears beside me, flashing a friendly smile. My heart pounds; I clutch the plastic bags a little tighter, resisting the impulse to smack him with one. “Thank you,” I manage to say.
The man is shorter than I expected for a shifter—probably just under six feet tall—with short, dark hair and a boyish face that does not quite match his tailored suit. Yet his presence is confident, even authoritative. “You’re on our executive third floor, apartment three-zero-seven. It’s a fully furnished one- bedroom with a wraparound glass balcony overlooking the river. The Enterprise Zone rule book has been placed in your living room for your convenience and safety. Please take time to familiarise yourself with it.”
A rule book. Fantastic.
“Do you need help with your bags?” His gaze flicks to the flimsy plastic in my hands, and the corners of his mouth twitch as though he is stifling a laugh.
I offer a half-smile and shrug, lifting the bags slightly. “I’m fine, thanks.”
He frowns momentarily, as though I’ve broken some unspoken code, then recovers with a brisk nod. “We don’t have a curfew, but we strongly advise humans against staying out after dusk.”
“I understand.” Not so different from the Human Sector, I suppose.
“We have vampire residents, and though hunting is strictly prohibited, accidents can happen. Rest assured, incidents are dealt with swiftly and carry severe penalties for the vampires involved. Still, a night-time stroll could be misconstrued as… an invitation.” He gives me a knowing look. “To mitigate risk, we offer a complimentary human escort service for travelling after dark.”
A human escort service? Like dog-walking for people? “Okay,” I say, trying not to laugh. “Thank you.”
He gestures towards the lift. “You will need this.” He waves a metallic-grey card, handing it to me. “It functions like a hotel key card and will grant access to the building, the lift, and your apartment. If you require assistance, simply press zero on your apartment phone or use the intercom to reach security. We are staffed around the clock to ensure your safety.”
I nod, feeling like I’ve just received a safety briefing for Jurassic Park . “Thank you, um…”
“Matthew,” he offers, flashing another friendly smile. “Roger’s on this evening, and Ray takes the early-morning shift.”
“Thank you, Matthew. That’s really helpful.”
“Of course, Mrs Emerson.” He escorts me to the lift and scans the card. As the doors slide open with a soft hiss, he hands it back to me. “Have a lovely afternoon.”
“I will. You too.” I step into the lift, giving him a small wave as the doors close.
The executive floor feels like another world. Its plush carpet muffles my steps, each footfall leaving a faint imprint. I count the doors until I reach 307. Juggling my bags and the key card, I fumble with the lock, dropping the bags in my haste. With a sigh, I nudge them across the threshold with my foot before stepping inside.
The heavy door swings shut behind me with a solid click. I set down the last bag and place the keys and card in a sleek bowl on a nearby console table.
The apartment is beautiful.
To my left is the kitchen, sleek black cabinets and a granite worktop with silvery veins running through it. Overhead, a lantern-style skylight floods the area with natural light.
I kick off my trainers, wiggling my toes inside my panda-print socks. The warm wooden floor is an unexpected delight. Exposed beams stretch overhead—an homage to the building’s industrial roots. I wander through the space, past the kitchen and bedroom, into the living room.
Floor-to-ceiling black-framed windows make the space feel vast. Sunlight pours in, illuminating modern furnishings. A pair of double doors leads to the wraparound balcony overlooking the river.
This is far more luxurious than I ever anticipated. I trail my fingers over the leather sofa, marvelling at its softness. My gaze drifts to the coffee table, where the dreaded rule book lies, perfectly centred. I will deal with that later.
The bedroom continues the sophisticated theme, though here the wooden floors are replaced by plush, dark-grey carpet. Another set of glass doors opens onto the balcony.
The bed—a massive king-size—remains swathed in plastic, with fresh bedding and towels folded neatly beside it.
Everything is pristine, unused.
A walk-in wardrobe—or dressing room—awaits, and the bathroom is equally indulgent with massive grey tiles, a separate shower, and a freestanding copper bath.
I carry a chair out onto the balcony, sink into it with a weary sigh, and close my eyes. The breeze tousles my hair, tugging at my clothes, its chill biting through my socks. Somewhere beneath me, the river gurgles by, and in the distance I hear children laughing.
Now that I’m here, I expected to feel relief. Instead, I’m oddly out of sorts.
I thought putting distance—and a massive shifter border—between myself and my old life would bring closure. Instead, I’m left with the hollow realisation. I wasn’t running from the wreck of my marriage.
I was running from myself.