Fortune (Towerfall #3)

Chapter 1

One

DECLAN: If I were there right now, I’d start with your thighs. Spread them wide. Pin your knees. My mouth full of you.

ME: Mmm, big promises for a man who’s never actually seen what he’s working with.

DECLAN: I’ve seen enough.

DECLAN: Especially after the photos you sent last night.

ME: Speaking of pictures…

DECLAN: You want more?

ME: Maybe

DECLAN: All you have to do is ask.

ME: Will you send more pictures?

DECLAN: Nicer

ME: Please

DECLAN: Almost…

ME: Can I have more please, Mr. Thorne?

DECLAN: I can’t wait to hear you beg for more when I’m finally touching you.

ME: Bold of you to assume I’ll be the one begging.

ME: Maybe you like being told what to do.

DECLAN: You’ll find out soon enough.

ME: In person? And ruin the fantasy by making this real?

ME: Sounds dangerous… But maybe worth it.

The cab lurches over a pothole, jostling me sideways against the cracked vinyl seat. Outside, Manhattan blurs past in jerky bursts—corner bodegas, scaffolding, a guy in a Cookie Monster suit lighting a cigarette. Horns blare. Someone shouts.

In real life, I do not feel like a sexy, snarky, choose-your-own-adventure heroine.

But I want to. I want to be the version of myself I’ve carefully curated for Declan Thorne over the past three months—witty, witchy, confident.

The woman who sends artfully posed nudes and talks about tantric sex practices like she doesn’t routinely cry in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s.

DECLAN: Maybe?

DECLAN: I’ll fuck that maybe right out of your mouth.

I chew the inside of my cheek and drum the fingers of my free hand on my knee.

There’s no real harm in being a little more myself.

It’s not like we’re actually getting together in person.

I’m safe from that as long as Declan is off living his jet-set businessman life, collecting stamps in his passport, and, I’m assuming, women in every time zone. He has no time for anything real.

Neither do I.

So I type it out. A little truth slipped inside the game.

ME: If you keep talking like that, I’m not sure I’ll want whatever’s happening between us to just be a fantasy.

DELIVERED.

SEEN.

I stare down at Flutter, the dating app open on my phone with the soft pink logo and the borderline-insulting algorithm that seems convinced my soulmate is either a man-bun-sporting yogi who calls his mom “goddess,” or a crypto bro in Austin who owns a neon sign that says HODL.

I hold my breath as Declan types out a reply. We’re not exactly in the habit of baring our souls. If what I said can count as vulnerability. It does to me. Then again, I’m not sure I’ve been vulnerable enough with anyone to really know.

The three dots disappear. No message arrives.

DECLAN THORNE: OFFLINE

“Oh.” I swallow through the dryness that coats my tongue like sand.

That’s fine. Totally fine. I’m cool. Very chill. A glacier sliding around in the back of a sticky cab. I exude can’t be bothered, and nonchalance basically drips out of my pores.

But what I sent plays on a loop in my head. A cringy, borderline desperate loop I wish I could unsend.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I fumble it, swiping too fast, heart kicking in my chest. The logo for my work email flashes across my screen, and I grimace. Six new messages from my boss. On a Saturday.

When I started working in publishing, I wanted it to be my calling.

I thought I’d be championing the voices of fierce, fearless women, shaping the culture of the literary world one award-winning manuscript at a time while simultaneously ushering in a new era of inclusive storytelling.

Instead, it’s been ten years, and I’m still an editorial assistant who proofs jacket copy, tracks deadlines I have no power to enforce, and spends most of the day pinging people on Teams.

So, basically, not my calling.

But that’s okay, because I’ve also started an online brand.

It’s like if Goop and a witchy Pinterest board procreated.

Only instead of moonstone vibrators and $100 collagen gummies, I recommend grocery store incense and DIY lavender bath soaks people can actually afford.

The vibe is accessible mysticism with a hit of meme energy.

Maybe my calling is helping other women to have the same thing my brand of spiritualism has given me—protection.

A little padding between me and the rest of the world.

A pocket ritual to pull out in a bathroom stall when a first date tanks.

A sentence to fall back on when thoughts run dry.

A metaphorical or literal candle to light when the darkness starts to press in.

I post daily rituals, handpicked playlists, lunar cycle alignment affirmations, and the occasional Reel where I soft cry/launch a new income stream. But the brand isn’t exactly making me money or even reaching the people I want to help.

It could have something to do with the fact that I change up my online persona more than I change my sheets, which means my audience (all 749 of them) is never quite sure who I am.

That’s the thing, though. Even in my thirties, I’m not really sure who I am.

I just keep hoping that one of these days I’ll post the right message and channel the right energy and everything will fall into place.

I’ll go viral, my savings account will contain more than twenty dollars, and I’ll finally know: that’s my calling.

That’s the rest of my life, ready and waiting for me.

I just have to keep throwing different personality traits at the universe’s proverbial wall to see what sticks.

All while being quietly terrified that nothing ever will.

Right now, I’m in my “positive thinking,” “manifest your life,” and “totally unbothered” era.

Or at least, I’m trying to be. On the outside, anyway.

Inside, none of it’s really clicking. Although, I could be onto something.

Maybe attempting to be this kind of woman long enough will help me become her.

Or maybe it’ll just be another version of me that doesn’t stick. I guess we’ll see.

But, hey, at least Dating App Amanda is thriving. She’s glossy and mysterious and knows her angles. Real-Life Amanda is…between therapists and a bit of a mess.

Regardless, I’m doing the work to find myself.

I’m gearing up with rituals to make my day predictable when my emotions aren’t.

I have the vision boards. The affirmations.

The moon rituals and manifestation sound baths.

I’m drinking green things and speaking kind words to my full-moon-charged water bottle.

I even did a spell to cleanse my inbox last week.

Not that it helped, considering the six weekend emails.

The point is—the universe eventually has to listen.

Right?

I step out of the cab with my purse, my phone, and a green juice in a compostable bottle that’s approximately two seconds away from melting in my palm.

The paper straw has already given up on life.

It’s bending in on itself like it, too, has a mound of student loans and a podcast idea it never launched.

Skin shimmering with highlighter, Hepburn-style corset dress flowing like I just drifted out of a LaceMade ad, I am the picture of calm.

That Goop-meets-witchy-woman Pinterest board come to life.

Inside, though, I’m running on three hours of sleep, two oat milk lattes, and one deeply personal vendetta against the upstairs neighbor who decided 3:12 a.m. was the perfect time to lift weights while blasting Skrillex.

Look, I’m not saying the universe hates me. I’m just saying, if Mercury’s only in retrograde a few times a year, then I must be making up the rest. Maybe I’m the problem.

It doesn’t help that my best friend, Gemma, just returned from a two-week wedding/impromptu sabbatical in South Carolina looking like the after photo in a skincare ad.

Her hair is shinier, her aura is brighter, her skin is the kind of dewy that twenty-year-old influencers talk about.

And, oh yeah, her drop-dead-gorgeous boyfriend is a billionaire.

“Speak of the devil,” I mutter under my breath as I glide past a gaggle of said influencers snapping photos and staging slow-motion twirls outside the venue.

Gemma’s billionaire boyfriend is loitering just inside the brightly lit, wide-open entrance to the stone-front Midtown high-rise, checking his watch like he’s waiting for someone.

He sees me the moment I see him. His face lights up, smile wide and lopsided as he bounds toward me like a golden retriever.

“Amanda!” Alder wraps me in a hug like we’re old friends. I stiffen on instinct, the soles of my strappy high heels hovering above the red-carpeted sidewalk as he literally lifts me off my feet. “Gemma has said so much about you. I feel as though we’ve already met. In another world, perhaps.”

“Alder.” I grind out his name like it tastes bad and bare my teeth instead of smile. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, he’ll never know since my face is smashed against the shoulder of his tailored suit.

As much as I want our first in-person meeting to be all unicorns and rainbows, I can’t ignore how much of an ass he’s been to Gemma.

She’s my best friend. Has been since the publishing company’s corporate retreat a decade ago when we both got lost during a team-building hike and trauma-bonded over blisters, granola bars, and a shared hatred of the friends-to-lovers trope.

She’s basically family. And family means I smile through gritted teeth and swallow my objections to their on-again-off-again soap-opera-drama of a relationship. For now.

He sets me down gently, hands steadying me like I might float away. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulls out a small, delicately wrapped bundle—brown parchment paper tied with a silk ribbon the color of French marigolds.