Chapter 1 #4
“Okay,” I whisper, squeezing my phone until my knuckles go white, “what the actual fuck am I supposed to do?”
Gemma’s lips form a tight O, eyebrows raised like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. “The dating app god wants to meet.”
“I hate how psychic you are.”
She lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “It’s part of my charm.”
I pick up my previously ignored champagne flute and down the entire thing. Bubbles burn a trail down my chest, fire with a floral finish, and I nearly cough it back up.
“Tonight,” I sputter. “At a club he told me last week that he co-owns. Because apparently the universe didn’t think this situation was destabilizing enough.”
Half of me hopes he cancels.
The other half would be crushed if he did.
Gemma leans casually against the cocktail table. “So go.”
“I can’t just go,” I hiss, arms flailing. “I’ve only seen his face on a screen and talked to him through an app. What if none of it’s real?”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I wince. The irony that I’ve spent the last half hour defending the very real, extremely valid, definitely-not-a-catfish existence of Declan Thorne like I was his personal publicist is not lost on me.
Gemma’s smile is amused, a little smug. “Or what if he’s emotionally available and no longer wants to hide in your DMs?”
Without thinking, I unglue my hand from my juice bottle reach inside my purse. “Let’s see what the universe has to say, shall we?”
“You don’t need to outsource your decision-making to the universe. You are capable of figuring out what to do on your own.”
“I know that.” But I’m already elbow deep in my purse, rifling through its contents like a witchy Mary Poppins. “I’m just looking for, you know, clarity—”
“Zero risk.”
We both say it at the same time.
“Potato, potahto,” I chirp and pull out my Break Glass in Case of Emotional Instability kit: travel-sized tarot deck, affirmation flashcards, a bottle of rosemary and lavender room cleanser, and a rose quartz stone the size of a chicken nugget are just the highlights.
Gemma eyes the cards warily. “You better be careful with those.”
“This night can’t get any worse.”
She inhales deeply through her nose, and that feeling washes over me again. Like she knows something. Like she knows—
“Gemma!” Alder weaves through the crowd beside us, straightening his tux as he flashes a grin that could fund a small country. “So sorry to interrupt,” he says smoothly. “There are a few donors I’d love for you to meet before the auction starts.”
Gemma’s gaze flicks from him to the cards spread on the table. “Don’t even think about touching those until I’m back,” she warns, giving my arm a pointed squeeze. “Promise?”
“Promise, weirdo.”
She narrows her eyes, unconvinced. “I’m serious, Amanda.”
“Okay, okay, I won’t.” I kiss her cheek. “Now go be Ms. Billionaire.”
Alder takes her hand in his, and moments later they’re lost inside the glittering crowd.
As soon as they disappear, I let out a slow breath and glance down at the cards. My fingers twitch toward the deck despite her warning. They’re just harmless cards. More habit than actual belief. One of those little buffers I use to keep the mess hidden.
“I just need a sign,” I murmur. “A tiny push in the right direction. And I am not doing this to outsource my decision-making.”
A woman draped in silver satin glides past, pearls swinging at her throat, and shoots me a look like it’s abnormal for well-adjusted people do tarot readings in the middle of fancy charity galas to prove they’re on the right path.
I give her my brightest smile, snag another champagne flute as a waiter drifts by, and down half the glass in a single gulp before turning back to the cards.
“Okay, universe,” I exhale and whisper to the cards. “Could this thing with Declan Thorne be real, or is this just another fantasy I’ve gotten too attached to?”
I flutter my fingers over the tarot deck, eyes half closed, waiting for the tiny tug that’s supposed to mean intuition but probably just means my brain likes patterns. When it finds me, I draw.
The Wheel of Fortune.
I stare down at it, unimpressed. “Wow. Shocking.” I roll my eyes. “This is the fifth time I’ve drawn this card this week.”
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 instead gets 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.”