6. Angel
The neon lights of the city blur into long, jagged streaks of gold and red as the taxi speeds away from Onyx.
I’m huddled in the backseat, my arms wrapped so tightly around my middle I can feel the gold chains of my dress biting into my skin.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel the unyielding, frozen stone of his lips against mine.
And then, I hear the sound. The violent, guttural sound of his body rejecting me.
By the time I reach Grace’s apartment, I’m not just crying; I’m coming apart. The silence of her elevator is a vacuum, sucking the air out of my lungs until the doors slide open and I practically collapse into her living room.
“Angel! Oh my god, talk to me!” Grace is right there, dropping to the floor as she catches me.
We end up on her velvet sofa, the expensive fabric getting soaked with my tears. I’m curled into a ball, my head in her lap, sobbing with a ferocity that makes my ribs ache. My chest feels like it’s been hollowed out with a rusted spoon.
“He... he just...” I choke on a sob, my voice cracking so hard it hurts. “And then he just threw up, Grace! He literally went to the bathroom and threw up because I kissed him!”
Grace’s hands freeze in my hair. I can feel her body go rigid with horror. “Wait—what? Angel, no. Maybe he was just... maybe the drink was bad? Or the adrenaline from the fight? He almost killed that guy, his body could have just gone into shock.”
“No,” I wail, shaking my head against her knees. “It wasn’t the fight. It was me. He looked at me like I was a monster. Like the very touch of my mouth on his was the most disgusting thing he’d ever experienced. He didn’t just push me off, Grace. He fled from me.”
“Angel, honey, Ghost loves you. Not like that, maybe, but he cares about you. There has to be a reason. Maybe he’s just so deep in his uncle role that the psychological crossover made him sick? It’s a thing! It’s called cognitive dissonance!”
I sit up abruptly, wiping my face with the back of my hand, smearing expensive mascara across my cheeks.
I look at her with eyes that feel like they’ve been rubbed with sand.
“Stop. Just stop trying to find a psychological loophole. I’ve spent ten years building a pedestal for a man who finds my existence nauseating. I’ve been a fool. A pathetic, delusional little girl playing house in a clubhouse full of killers.”
I stand up, my legs shaking. The black silk dress feels like a shroud now. I reach back and start clawing at the clasp of the gold chains, desperate to get it off.
“Where are you going?” Grace asks, standing up with me, her eyes wide with worry.
“I’m leaving,” I say, my voice suddenly flat.
The hysterics are gone, replaced by a cold, numbing clarity.
“I can’t go back there, Grace. I can’t walk into that clubhouse tomorrow and see him in the kitchen. I sure as fuck can’t live in a house where the walls are sweating with the memory of him retching because I touched him.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Grace says, stepping in front of me. “You’re hurt and you’re spiraling. Just sleep here tonight. Tomorrow we’ll talk to Kasia or Addie—”
“No!” I shout, the word echoing off the walls of her apartment. “No one can know. If my dad finds out Ghost threw up because I kissed him, he’ll think Ghost is being noble. He’ll pat him on the back for protecting me. And I will die. I will actually, physically drop dead from the shame of it.”
I start pacing the length of her living room, my mind racing. The Broken Halos aren’t a global brotherhood, but their women... their women are a map of the world.
“I need to leave the country,” I mutter, more to myself than her.
“Jesus fucking Christ Angel. Do you even hear yourself? Sleep it off.”
“I’ll find somewhere,” I say, a manic energy taking over.
“Think about it. Lex and Addie are Romanian—they have family there. Caro is Danish. Kasia is Polish. Gloriana is Mexican and Camila is Colombian. Between all the old ladies, I have a network. I’ll tell them I want a gap year. I’ll tell them I want to find myself before college. They’ll help me.”
“You are officially insane,” Grace declares, throwing her hands up. “You’re supposed to start college in three days, Angel! Your brother moved your boxes into your room at the clubhouse. You can’t just vanish into the Polish countryside because a boy didn’t kiss you back!”
“It wasn’t just a kiss!” I scream. “It was my entire life! Everything I thought I was, everything I planned to be, was tied to him. I wanted to be a wife, Grace. I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. I wanted to be the heart of his home. Do you know how stupid that feels now?
To realize I’ve spent my entire adolescence preparing for a role that the lead actor doesn’t want me for?”
I stumble over to her desk and flip open her laptop. My fingers are flying, fueled by a desperate need to put an ocean between me and the smell of that bathroom in Onyx.
“What are you doing?” Grace asks, hovering over my shoulder.
“College,” I mutter. “If I don’t go to school Dad’ll hunt me down. But if I’m in school... if I’m actually studying... he’ll let me stay. He wants me to have a traditional career anyway.”
I type with a vengeance: Late admissions UK universities.
“UK?” Grace squeaks. “That’s across the Atlantic!”
“Exactly. It’s far enough that Ghost can’t accidentally bump into me at the gas station.”
I scroll through the search results. Most deadlines passed months ago, but there’s a thing called ‘Clearing’ and late admission programs for international students. I don’t care about the prestige. I don’t care about the weather. I just need a destination.
“Here,” I point at the screen. “London Metropolitan. University of Westminster. Some random program in Manchester. They’re still taking international applications for the fall semester starting next week.”
“You don’t even know what the majors are!”
“I don’t care!” I snap. I start clicking, my personal information saved in the browser’s auto-fill from my previous applications. I pull up my personal statement—the one Addie helped me write about growing up in a diverse community—and I start hitting Submit.
Business Management. Art History. Sociology. I don’t read the descriptions. I just fill in the boxes. I was homeschooled, but I’m a good student.
“I’ll tell Dad I had a change of heart. I’ll tell him I want to see the world. I’ll tell him I’m inspired by Addie’s research or Lex’s business. He’ll be so proud he won’t even question why I’m leaving on a Wednesday night flight.”
I hit the final Submit button on a program in London. The confirmation screen glowed white in the dark room, reflecting in my tear-stained eyes.
“Done,” I whisper.
Grace looks at me, her face pale, her expression a mix of pity and genuine fear. “Angel, look at yourself. You’re wearing a ripped dress, you’re covered in smeared makeup, and you just applied to live in a different time zone because a man threw up. This is the definition of a mental breakdown.”
“Maybe it is,” I say, finally closing the laptop. I stand up and look at her, my chin trembling but my eyes cold. “I don’t even care. I just need to be somewhere that’s not here.”
I walk toward her guest room, the gold chains on my back clinking like a funeral bell.
“I’m going to sleep for four hours. Then I’m going to go home and tell Dad I’m leaving.”
“He’s going to come looking for you,” Grace says quietly.
I pause at the door, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping my throat. “No, he won’t. He’ll be relieved. He finally got the child out of his house.”
I shut the door, leaving Grace standing in the middle of her beautiful apartment. As I lay down on the bed, still in that silk dress, I realize the “Submissive” tag is still pinned to my chest.
I rip it off and throw it across the room.