A Wing To Break (Ruin’s End #1)

Prologue

Alittle red notification bubble pops up like a tiny digital middle finger.

Great. Another interruption. Because raising a ten-year-old, managing two businesses, and shacking up with someone who’s common-law eligible but still not husband material isn't a handful already.

Social notification. Not even a text. Just the algorithm, mocking me from the void.

My furniture restoration business is finally launching. Thorne Revival. I’ve graduated from garage hoarding and online-only sales into a bona fide workshop with a legitimate store front. Everything is moving in the right direction… even if it’s slow.

I refresh the page, wired for response and starving for that tiny spike of validation.

Two thousand followers.

It’s not viral, but my marketing brain soothes the anxiety rising in my throat by reminding me it’s respectable for a niche business.

I fire off a joke to my best friend, Demi.

[Sable]: Omg. 2K followers. Clearly, I’m crushing it. Where’s my six-figure home decor deal??

Demi responds instantly.

[Demi]: HELLO BIG SHOT!!! Ride that algorithm, you filthy capitalist queen!

My comeback dies at my fingertips as a new follower notification flashes across the screen.

A dog account.

Huh.

Normally, I wouldn’t give it a second thought, but something makes me pause.

The profile pic shows two scruffy terriers, the kind my Aunt Mel always posts about on her Facebook account in nauseating frequency.

For a second, I think maybe she’s finally figured out Instagram and migrated over to the more “trendy” platform.

Nope. Random person.

Still, the account name seems weirdly familiar. I click on it, check the following list, and that’s when the first needle-prick of unease hits.

The account is linked to another in the About Me section. I tap on the human profile picture linked to these dogs, blowing it up to a size these aging eyes can actually handle.

And there she is.

Blonde. Fit. Slightly more muscular than I usually find attractive on a woman, but hey, I can appreciate a solid bicep. She has that effortless athletic hotness that suggests she wakes up at dawn to lift weights for fun in a matching sports bra and coochy-suffocating spandex.

I can relate. That used to be my whole personality (RIP)…

five hobbies ago. Hell, it’s how Andrew and I met.

But running two businesses, I’ve turned from a water-hauling wellness warrior to a caffeine-fueled machine.

I eye and swipe my sweating, extra-large iced coffee and take a long, satisfying sip.

My gaze lingers on the girl’s photos. Studying, not savoring.

Comparing, not craving. Attraction, for me, has never been about gender.

However, I’ve found the male organ plays a crucial role in the experience—for me at least. There was that whole exploratory phase in college, of course.

Tequila shots and impromptu make-out sessions with friends during parties.

Less about self-discovery and more about the room spinning and someone daring me to kiss Jessica—again.

Still, I can’t pretend this woman is not objectively hot.

And, apparently… she's obsessed with my page.

Interesting…

My fingers hover over my screen as I put the pieces together in real-time.

She lifts weights at the gym that my long-term boyfriend Andrew’s a member of. (Weird, but fine?)

She follows my business page. (Potential client?)

She has a second, more private account… and that account is also watching my stories. (Um??)

There’s a third account—also hers—lurking on every single post.

Three accounts? This isn’t normal interest. There are no I love vintage furniture vibes I’m picking up from any of her posts. Just ass shots of her squatting more than I weigh and selfies taken at all the wrong angles for her square jawline.

This is dedicated surveillance. Single white female shit.

Then I see it. Another gym selfie, but this time she’s placing a kiss on aforementioned long-term boyfriend’s smug fucking cheek.

And suddenly… the habitually late… always-distracted… non-committal father to my child feels way more suspicious.

The picture confirms the link.

A creeping, sick thought blooms—

That son of a bitch is cheating on me.

And I’m being stalked… by a fucking dog account.

I should be heartbroken. Devastated. Enraged. But all I feel is this hot pulse of irritation curling low in my gut. Like my body’s too tired for heartbreak and too smart for denial.

I’ve just opened my own brick-and-mortar—something real, something mine—and now this is what I get?

Of course it is. So perfectly, pathetically him.

It explains everything. The distance. The weird excuses. The sudden need for privacy while I’ve been bleeding myself dry trying to build something that actually matters.

The weasel’s been acting sketchy for months.

I should’ve known. And maybe that’s what pisses me off the most.

Objectively, I’m intelligent. I put myself through college. I run two businesses—successfully. I’ve carried the bulk of our household expenses for years, which… depending on your definition of “mutual contribution,” could make a strong case against my intelligence.

I digress.

Meanwhile, Andrew’s latest excuse for his faltering funding efforts is still that elusive deal. The one that’s been “almost final” for nine months. He talks about it like it’s a weather system he can’t quite predict. Unfortunate, inevitable, totally out of his control.

But he does graciously offer to “pitch in more,” as if paying his own damn bills is some kind of charitable act.

On top of being the lead accountant of this dysfunctional union, I’ve packed every school lunch, folded every piece of clothing in our house, and mastered the delicate art of hiding vegetables in meals without raising suspicion.

I know how to unclog a drain, file taxes, and schedule back-to-back meetings without breaking stride.

I sign every permission slip, check every math assignment, double-check the reading logs, and somehow remember to send in the damn Kleenex box during cold season.

I have done everything right.

And still, after over a decade of shared bills, shared bed sheets, and a shared Google calendar, the man I lived with decided the grass looked greener in someone else’s delusional little field.

A woman so self-assured she didn’t even think to ask upfront about his current relationship status before launching a full-blown surveillance mission on me, like I’m the threat in this equation.

The woman buying the groceries. Signing the field trip forms. Managing a life while he chases whatever spark he thinks is missing.

To be fair, he’s a solid father. We’ve managed to parent Bash with minimal drama—which, in this situation, is borderline miraculous. But outside of co-parenting logistics, things between us have been circling the drain for a while. Quietly. Consistently.

And now the universe slapped a bow on that slow collapse in the form of a blonde, stalker-y gym rat with too many Instagram accounts and the emotional maturity of a protein bar.

I exhale, rolling my eyes and looking toward the ceiling for the last shred of patience I can muster.

My fingers tighten around my phone. I should stop. Close the app. Walk away. Maybe throw the digital terrorist against the wall.

… Yeah, that doesn't happen.

Instead, I tap the woman’s profile again. And with shaking hands, I dive into the rabbit hole headfirst.