7. Angel
The blue light of my phone screen is the first thing I see when I blink my eyes open.
My head throbs with the dull, rhythmic ache of a crying hangover, and my throat feels like I’ve swallowed a handful of dry gravel.
I’m still in the black dress, the silk wrinkled and smelling of the club’s synthetic vanilla and my own salt.
I swipe the notifications with trembling fingers, expecting nothing but club group chats or a worried text from Shade.
Instead, there it is. A formal header. An international domain.
Subject: UCAS Track – Update on your application to London Metropolitan University
I sit up so fast the room spins. My heart, which I thought had turned to lead last night, gives a frantic, painful stutter. I click the link, my breath hitching as the portal loads.
Congratulations! We are pleased to offer you a place on the BA (Hons) Journalism program...
A laugh that sounds more like a sob escapes my lips.
Journalism. I don’t know the first thing about reporting.
I don’t know how to write a lead or hunt for a scoop.
I wanted to bake bread and kiss my husband in the doorway of a farmhouse.
I wanted a life that was quiet and small and centered around a man who made me feel like the sun.
But that girl died in a private room in a BDSM club last night.
I hit the ‘Accept’ button without a second thought. My finger doesn’t even shake. It’s the easiest decision I’ve ever made because the alternative is staying here and slowly suffocating in the shadow of a man who can’t stand my touch.
I move through Grace’s guest room like a ghost.
I strip off the ruined silk dress, leaving it in a heap on the floor—a black stain on the rug—and pull on a pair of her spare leggings and an oversized hoodie.
I wash the smeared mascara from my face until my skin is raw and pink.
I look younger without the makeup. More vulnerable. I hate it.
Grace is still asleep on the sofa, a blanket half-fallen off her. I don’t wake her. I just scribbled a note—I’m doing it. Don’t tell Shade.—and slip out the door.
The cab ride to the outskirts of the city is long and quiet.
The urban sprawl slowly gives way to rolling hills and patches of deep, ancient forest.
This is the part of the world I love most.
As we turn down the long, winding gravel driveway of my parents’ farmhouse, the ache in my chest intensifies.
The house is beautiful. It’s a sprawling, white-timbered sanctuary that my father bought when it was still just the two of us.
I’ve spent years envisioning my own life in a place like this.
I wanted a garden like the one Kasia started—bursting with peonies and heirloom tomatoes.
I wanted the chickens clucking in the yard, the ones we got the year she officially moved in and turned our house into a home.
I wanted to grow my own roots in this soil. Now, I’m here to rip them out.
I pay the driver and walk up the porch steps. The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. I don’t knock; I just push the door open.
“Dad? Kasia?”
The house is quiet, but not empty. I walk toward the kitchen and stop in the doorway.
My dad is standing by the counter, looking slightly disheveled.
His shirt is tucked in lopsidedly, and as I look closer, I notice his fly is still half-open.
Kasia is leaning against the refrigerator, her face flushed a deep, pretty pink, her hair a chaotic mess of ginger waves.
They both jump when they see me.
“Angel!” Dad exclaims, his voice an octave higher than usual. “What are you doing here this early? I was just... uh, heading to the clubhouse.”
I look from his open zipper to Kasia’s swollen lips and I feel a flare of something bitter and envious.
They’ve been together for years, through trauma and club wars and the stress of raising us, and they still look at each other like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
They have the kind of love I thought I was promised.
“Gross, guys,” I mumble, looking away. “Seriously. Get a room. Or at least close your pants, Dad.”
Doc coughs, looking down and quickly fixing his fly, his face turning a shade of red that matches Kasia’s. He rolls his eyes, but there’s a smirk playing on his lips. “Don’t get smart with me, kid. It’s my house. What brings you by? I thought you were staying at the clubhouse until move-in day.”
I take a deep breath. This is the moment. The lie is already sitting on my tongue, smooth and practiced.
“I’m not going to State,” I say.
The humor leaves Dad’s face instantly. He narrows his eyes. “What do you mean you’re not going?”
“I got another offer,” I say, pulling my phone out and showing him the email.
“I applied to a program in the UK months ago—Journalism. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think I’d get in. It was a long shot, and I was waitlisted after the first round of admissions. But a spot just opened up. Late admission. I checked my email this morning and... I want to go, Dad.
I want to go to London.”
Kasia moves toward me, her eyes soft and searching. She’s always been able to read me better than anyone. “London, Angel? That’s so far away. Why journalism? You’ve never mentioned wanting that.”
I shrug, trying to look casual. “I thought it would be fun. Exciting. I’ve spent my whole life in this town, surrounded by the club. I love it, but... maybe I need to see something else. Addie has her research, Lex has her business. I want to find my own thing.
Something that isn’t just being Doc’s daughter.”
I see the flicker of hesitation in my dad’s eyes. He loves the club—it’s his life—but he’s never wanted us to be trapped by it. He’s spent years trying to ensure Shade and I had lives that didn’t require a leather vest to feel safe.
“The UK is a long way for me to ride if you get into trouble,” he mutters, but I can see him softening. He looks at Kasia, and she gives him a tiny, knowing nod. She knows I’m running from something, even if she doesn’t know what it is.
“It’s a great opportunity, Damon,” Kasia says quietly. “She’s smart. She can handle it.”
Dad sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Journalism, huh? You’re going to be the next big thing on the news?”
“Maybe,” I lie, the word tasting like ash. “I just want to try.”
“Fine,” he says, stepping forward and pulling me into a one-armed hug. “If this is what you want, Angel, I won’t stop you. I always wanted you to have the world. I just didn’t think you’d take it so literally.”
“Thank you, Dad.” I squeeze him back, burying my face in his shoulder for a second.
“When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow,” I say, pulling away. “The semester starts in a few days. I have to go now if I want to find a place to stay and get settled.”
“Tomorrow?” Dad’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s... that’s fast. We need to have a party. I’ll call the guys, tell them to fire up the grill at the clubhouse tonight. A proper send-off for my Princess.”
“No!” The word comes out too sharp, too desperate.
I see my dad’s eyes narrow, his suspicion flaring.
I quickly force a smile. “No, Dad. Please. I’m... I’m feeling really restless. I haven’t slept well, and I have so much packing to do. I just want a quiet night here with you and Kasia and Shade. I don’t want the noise and the drinking and the... the clubhouse.”
I can’t go there. I can’t see the looks on the brothers’ faces. And I definitely can’t see Ghost.
“You’ve always been a clubhouse girl, Angel,” Dad says slowly, his gaze measuring me. “You’ve been happy there since you were a toddler. Now you don’t even want to say goodbye to the guys? To Bear? To Ghost?”
My heart stops at the mention of his name. I feel the phantom sensation of his unyielding lips again, the sound of him retching in the bathroom.
“I’ll text them,” I say, my voice tight. “I just... I’m ready for the adventure, Dad. I’m in a different headspace. If I go there, I’ll get emotional and I’ll change my mind. I just need to go.”
Dad looks like he wants to argue, like he wants to peel back the layers of my skin and see the wound I’m hiding. But Kasia places a hand on his arm, silently telling him to let it go.
“Alright,” he says reluctantly. “No party. But I’m driving you to the airport tomorrow. No cabs.”
“Deal.”
I spend the rest of the morning on my phone. I buy a one-way ticket to Heathrow. I text Grace: I’m leaving tomorrow. Dad said yes. Don’t tell a soul until my plane is in the air.
I spend the afternoon in my childhood bedroom, packing my life into two suitcases. I leave behind the sundresses I bought thinking Ghost would like them. I leave behind the jewelry he gave me for my birthdays. I only take the essentials.
As the sun begins to set over the farmhouse, I look out the window at the garden. In a few days, I’ll be in a city of millions, surrounded by gray stone and strangers who don’t know my name or my father’s reputation.
I check my phone one last time before dinner. No calls. No texts from him.
He doesn’t know I’m leaving. He probably wouldn’t even care.
I take a deep breath and zip the final suitcase shut. The pinky-promise is dead. The farmhouse dream is gone.
London is calling, and for the first time in my life, I’m going to be a ghost of my own making.