Chapter 2 #2
My throat tightens, a hot, painful lump forming as I slip the silky dress down over my flushed skin and zip it up. It’s actually a pretty dress—surprisingly flattering for a bridesmaid gown—but I’m too overwhelmed to care.
“I heard about your job,” he says after a beat.
Of course he did. He’s not just a fixer.
He’s the fixer. The one people call when the stakes are too high, the mess too dirty, the fallout too dangerous.
He doesn’t just clean things up—he rewrites the narrative.
He trades in secrets, spins lies into legends, and buries the truth so deep it forgets how to breathe.
If there’s a scandal brewing, he’s already neutralized it.
If someone thinks they can hide from him, they’ve already been seen.
Keeping tabs on me is easy.
I don’t answer. What the hell am I supposed to say that he doesn’t already know? That I spent ten years building something only to get pushed out? That I’ve burned through my savings trying to pretend like everything’s fine? That in three weeks, I’ll have nothing?
That I need help?
That I need him?
No. I won’t give him that.
My hands tremble as I tug on the zipper—I need to get out of this dress and out of this store—but it’s stuck.
He sighs, the sound low, knowing.
“Gemma,” he says, voice smooth as honey, “you don’t have to do this alone.”
My stomach tightens.
That’s the worst part. The way he says it—so gentle, so understanding—like I made some kind of mistake by leaving and that I should have stayed so he could take care of me.
I force my voice steady. “I’m handling it.”
“You’re surviving it,” Alder corrects, a shadow of amusement in his tone. “That’s not the same thing.”
I grit my teeth, yanking the zipper again, but it won’t budge.
Damn it.
“I’m Jason’s best man,” he continues. “We’re going to run into each other again.”
Frustrated, I shove the curtain aside and step out, chin high even though my confidence is slipping through my fingers.
“Alder, just—” I exhale sharply. “Just get whatever you came here for and go. I’m sure we can manage to avoid each other for a day.”
I tug at the zipper again, harder this time.
Nothing.
His eyes flick to the struggle, laughter tugging at his lips. “Need help?”
“No.”
It’s a full sentence. A hard stop. But Alder never listens.
He closes the gap between us, moving with that quiet confidence that once hooked me and might still. His hands brush mine like I was never in control to begin with.
My body goes still. The air between us turns thick, heat coiling between my skin and his fingertips. Alder finds the zipper and slides it down in one slow, measured movement, his fingers grazing my spine just enough to set off sparks.
“You don’t have to do everything the hard way, you know.”
I hate that he makes it sound so simple.
His hands fall away, but his presence stays, heavy in the air, filling up every space I don’t want him to.
“You’re free,” he murmurs.
I don’t thank him.
He didn’t do this to be kind. He did this to remind me how easy things could be if I just let him back in.
I retreat into the dressing room. The curtain falls between us, but it’s not enough. I can still feel him.
I get back into my clothes and take one final look at the singed golden-brown ends of my ponytail before grabbing my purse and the dress and stepping out of the room.
Alder is still there, watching, waiting, and I hope he’ll stay rooted in place in his polished shoes and his suit so perfectly pressed it hurts.
I try to slip past, but he moves at the last second.
Before I can react, his hand is on my arm.
His grip is firm but careful, his thumb pressing against my wrist in a touch that feels like possession disguised as restraint.
“Gemma.” My name is a warning, a promise, an order he knows I’ll obey.
Heat ripples through me, slow and unwanted.
I pull away from his grasp because if I don’t, I’ll stay. “I’m only here for the wedding,” I say, but the words taste like a lie.
I push forward, and I’m almost at the door when the shop manager’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“Don’t miss the cake pull!”
I freeze. Slowly, I glance back at her. “Cake pull?”
“Oh, yes.” She nods, her dark gaze piercing from beneath spidery lashes.
“It’s a wedding tradition. Each ribbon in the cake leads to a charm…
and a future.” Her attention flicks to Alder, then back to me while her fingers brush the silver pendant at her neck.
“Be sure not to miss it. The charm is magickal and always guides you to what’s meant to be. ”
I want to scoff, to say something dismissive and sarcastic. I don’t believe in fate, in magick, in charms and party tricks that claim to know my future.
But her words settle into my bones like a spell.
Even though I don’t believe in magick, I do believe in Alder’s hold over me, in the way he stands there, undeterred, knowing absolutely everything. Knowing I’m a breath away from giving in.
And I hate that, somehow, it does feels like fate.
The shop is suddenly too small, too white and pastel and full of magickal dreams I want no part of.
I catch Alder’s eye again, and he shifts, moving like he’s going to come after me, going to push, going to say whatever it is he thinks will break me down.
And I know, if he speaks—if I let him speak—I won’t be strong enough to resist.
So I do the only thing I can. The same thing I did six months ago.
I run.