Bad Girl (F*ck Fated Mates #1)

Chapter 1

Nika

The code on the black screen was starting to blur into one. I pulled off my glasses and rubbed my eyes, forgetting about the mascara until it was too late.

I checked my reflection in the darkened monitor.

Panda eyes. Brilliant.

“Nika, can you do a drinks run for the team?”

Andy. Of course it was Andy.

I didn’t sigh. I’d trained myself out of sighing at work the same way I’d trained myself out of a lot of things—eye rolls, sharp answers, the tone of voice my mother called that mouth of yours.

Three years of careful editing and I’d gotten very good at presenting a version of myself that caused the least amount of friction.

It was exhausting, if I was honest. Which I rarely was. Not here.

“Sure,” I said, and stood up.

I did my rounds. Graham wanted coffee, two sugars, oat milk because he’d announced he was going dairy-free three weeks ago and needed everyone to witness it.

Andy wanted green tea, which he never actually drank and always left to go cold on his desk.

Francis looked up when I got to her and just said the usual, please in the quiet way she had, and something about it made me feel briefly, stupidly grateful. Like being seen without being watched.

Carla didn’t wait for me to reach her.

“Nika.” Her voice carried the full length of the office. “Grab me an apple. Pink Lady only. The green ones give me acid.”

I didn’t answer. I just walked faster.

The kitchen was the best part of the building at this hour.

Empty. Quiet in a way that actually meant something—not the performative quiet of people pretending to work, but real stillness.

The overhead lights were on their evening setting, softer than the daytime glare, and for a moment I just stood in it and let myself decompress.

Three years.

I hit the button for hot water and swapped the cups out as they filled up, looking at nothing in particular.

I’d had a plan when I started at Kilcullen Tech.

An actual, written-down, embarrassingly earnest plan.

I was going to come in, prove myself, build a reputation as someone who delivered.

I knew what the step above that looked like too.

I’d mapped it out in a notes app I still hadn’t deleted, which said more about me than I liked to admit.

Instead I’d spent three years being useful in the way that furniture is useful. Present. Functional. Easy to overlook.

Passed from team to team. Project to project.

Always the person who caught other people’s mistakes and rarely the person who got credit for it.

Testing systems for clients who would never know my name, cleaning up bug reports that project managers skimmed and senior developers argued with on principle.

I’d taken on more. I’d stayed late. I’d covered gaps and said yes and smiled through the distinct brand of tedium that came with being competent but invisible.

Not that taking on more responsibilities got me a promotion. Apparently, that only worked if you stuck your nose in between senior management’s arse cheeks.

Ergh.

I didn’t want to do that to Daniel or Claire.

Hmm. Daniel would definitely have a hairy—

“Are you going to be long?”

I didn’t answer.

A pause. Then, quieter, clearly not meant to carry but carrying anyway as they walked away.

“God, she’s so anti-social.”

“A bit weird.”

“Makes good tea though.”

I loaded the tray.

The fruit bowl sat at the end of the counter, neat and well-stocked because Kilcullen Tech prided itself on employee wellness—which meant fresh fruit and an EAP helpline number on the back of the bathroom door and not much else.

One perfect Pink Lady apple. Right on top. Like it had been waiting.

I picked it up, gave it a thorough rub against my armpit a few times, and set it neatly on the tray.

There you go, Carla, munch on that Pink Lady.

I carried everything back with a perfectly level expression.

??

??

??

Gone were the days Finley used to wait for me after work so we could go home together. Two years of living together and the romance was well and truly dead. We’d been drifting for a while—I knew that. Most days he felt less like a boyfriend and more like a dependent I hadn’t officially adopted.

It started long before him, if I was honest.

My mum. I loved her to bits, but when she worked, I was the one looking after my younger sister. Cooking, cleaning, doing more than my fair share before I was old enough to know I could push back. I became a carer before I became anything else, and the habit never really left me.

Twenty-eight years old and I still couldn’t say no.

Reliable girlfriend. Reliable friend. Reliable colleague, sister, daughter. The only boundary I’d ever successfully held was around lending money—because I’d learned that lesson the hard way. You never got it back and the friendship just got worse.

With Finley I hadn’t even managed that much. Somewhere along the way I’d started covering most of the utilities and groceries while he covered half the rent and called it even. His laundry got done. His meals got cooked. He had a very comfortable life and I was the infrastructure holding it up.

I climbed the last step and walked down the corridor to our apartment door.

I didn’t pause to listen the way I sometimes did. I just stuck my key in and turned.

Inside, the lights were all off except for the lamp in the living room. Its soft glow reached into the hallway, just enough to see by. Just enough to see the footprints Finley had tracked across the pale wooden floor.

I stared at them for a moment.

How difficult was it to take your shoes off at the door?

I hung my bag and jacket on the hooks, slipped my own shoes onto the rubber mat, and told myself it wasn’t worth the conversation.

“Hi, I’m home.”

“Hey.” His voice came from the living room, unbothered. “Got Chinese. Left you some on the counter.”

I was about to thank him. I almost did.

“Next time let me know when you’re working late. Food was expensive. Left the bill on the counter—just transfer me your half.”

I stood in the hallway for a moment.

“I’m not really hungry,” I said. “You can have it tomorrow.”

Cutting off my nose to spite my face, because I was absolutely famished.

His leftovers would be the dregs anyway. And he’d still include the delivery fee.

I stood in the kitchen doorway and looked at the takeaway containers on the counter and thought, not for the first time, that I’d probably be better off with a pet rat.

At least a rat wouldn’t expect me to split the bill.