Till Death Makes Her Mine

1. Greer

GREER

Sarah Chen leans against my desk, her coffee cup leaving a faint ring on the corner of my quarterly report. She doesn't notice. I don't care.

"So you're saying the algorithm predicted the market shift three weeks out?" She tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear, eyes bright with genuine interest. "That's incredible, Greer."

"Not predicted. Suggested a probable trajectory based on consumer sentiment analysis." I push the report closer so she can see the graphs. "There's a difference between correlation and causation."

"You're such a nerd." She says it like it's charming. Maybe it is. Her smile reaches her eyes, the kind of warmth that should make my chest feel lighter.

It doesn't.

Not after my sister's ex kidnapped me nine months ago and my best friend—future brother-in-law now—killed him for it.

Nine months ago, I woke up in Hayes's guest room with twelve stitches in my temple and the taste of blood still coating my teeth.

Nine months since Dylan held me in that chair and described—in explicit, graphic detail—every single thing he'd done to my sister.

The drugs. The sex. The control. How he'd break her down until she was nothing but need and fear.

I'd fought back. Earned myself a concussion and broken ribs for the effort because Dylan couldn't take me in a fair fight, so he'd used brass knuckles and a crowbar instead.

By the time Hayes and Lilah arrived, I was unconscious.

When I woke up, Dylan's body was gone. I was at Hayes's all cleaned up. Like nothing had happened except for the stitches across my temple and the way Hayes looked at me—not with pity, but with a quiet understanding that some things are better left unspoken.

I never asked what happened to Dylan's corpse.

I was grateful he was dead.

That gratitude sits in my chest like a stone, smooth and heavy, something I can't quite swallow and can't quite spit out. It twisted something in me, made ordinary life feel flat and colorless. Made everything before that night seem naive.

I haven't told anyone. Not Lilah, who still flinches when doors slam too loud. Not Hayes, who watches me sometimes like he's waiting for me to crack.

Certainly not Sarah, who's still smiling at me like I'm the same Greer Martin who walked into this office years ago.

"Earth to Greer." Sarah waves her hand in front of my face, playful. "You zoned out on me."

"Sorry." I force myself back to the present, to the fluorescent lights and the distant hum of the copy machine. "Long week."

"It's only Wednesday."

"That's how you know it's been long."

She laughs, the sound light and easy. "You need to get out more. Do something fun."

"I have fun."

"Reading marketing journals doesn't count."

"What about fantasy novels?"

"Better, but still tragically lame." She shifts her weight, hip cocking slightly. The movement is unconscious, natural. "When was the last time you actually went out? Like, out-out?"

I consider lying. "Define out-out."

"Greer."

"I go to the gym."

"At five in the morning. That doesn't count." She sets her coffee down, fingers drumming against the ceramic. "You should come to the art gallery thing next weekend. The museum's doing a modern installation exhibit. Very pretentious, lots of wine, you'd hate it."

The invitation hangs between us, casual but weighted. This is the moment. This is where I'm supposed to say yes, suggest dinner after, let this flirtation become something more concrete.

Sarah is cute. Smart. Normal. She doesn't know about mafia cleanup crews or how efficiently a body can disappear. She's never seen anyone beaten unconscious, never had to piece together the truth from bloodstains and silence.

She's exactly what I should want.

"Yeah," I hear myself say. "That sounds?—"

"Martin!" Jake's voice cuts through the moment like a knife. He and Trevor barrel around the corner, all energy and poorly contained excitement. Jake nearly knocks into Sarah's abandoned coffee cup. "There you are."

Sarah straightens immediately, the shift from relaxed to professional so quick I almost miss it. "Hey, guys."

"Sarah." Trevor nods at her, but his attention is already on me. "We need to borrow your boy here."

"He's not my anything," Sarah says lightly, but there's a flush creeping up her neck. She steps back from my desk, putting space between us. "I should get back anyway. Those reports won't analyze themselves."

"Wait—" I start, but she's already moving, coffee cup retrieved, professional smile back in place.

"Let me know about the gallery." She says it over her shoulder, friendly but distant. The moment's gone, packed away like we hadn't just been edging toward something.

I bite back the disappointment, swallow it down where it can join all the other things I don't say.

Jake drops into Sarah's abandoned spot on my desk with zero grace. "Dude, were we interrupting something?"

"No."

"Liar." Trevor leans against the cubicle wall, grinning. "You were totally about to ask her out."

"I wasn't?—"

"You were. It was painful to watch, actually. You've been circling that conversation for weeks now."

Have I? Maybe. Sarah and I have always had an easy rapport, the kind of workplace flirtation that never quite tips into actual interest. Except lately I've been thinking maybe it should. Maybe I need something normal, something that doesn't involve the weight of secrets and violence.

Maybe I'm just lonely.

"What do you want?" I lean back in my chair, giving up the pretense. "I have the Morrison presentation to finish."

"Morrison can wait." Jake waves this away like Morrison isn't a six-figure account. "It's Friday night, man. You're coming out with us."

"I'm not?—"

"Not asking." Trevor cuts me off. "We're telling. You've been a hermit for months. It's weird."

"I'm not a hermit. I see people."

"Your sister and her fiancé don't count."

They barely count anyway. Hayes and Lilah live next door—Hayes insisted on it after everything happened, wanted me close enough for safety—but I only see them maybe once a week now.

They're building their life, and I'm... here.

Working late. Eating takeout alone. Trying to figure out how to feel normal again.

Trying to ignore the fact that normal doesn't fit anymore.

"I have plans," I lie.

"No you don't." Jake is infuriatingly confident about this. "You're going to go home, order Thai food, and read one of those nerdy books Hayes keeps recommending."

He's not wrong. Hayes and I have an ongoing fantasy novel exchange that Lilah finds hilarious. Currently I'm supposed to be reading the third book in some series about dragon riders, but I haven't been able to focus on it.

Can't focus on much of anything lately.

"Come on, Greer." Trevor's voice gentles slightly, like he can sense my hesitation. "When was the last time you did something spontaneous? Something fun?"

Nine months ago. When I got kidnapped and beaten and learned exactly what kind of man my future brother-in-law really is. That was spontaneous. Not particularly fun.

"Where are you even going?"

"This spot just outside the city." Jake pulls out his phone, shows me some vague location pin. "Trust me, it's incredible. Best kept secret in Jersey."

"A bar in Jersey. You're really selling it."

"Not just a bar. The place. Everyone goes. You meet people, have drinks, let loose." Jake pockets his phone, standing up. "We're not taking no for an answer. You need this."

"I need to finish the Morrison?—"

"Morrison can wait until Monday. You're ahead on everything anyway." Trevor straightens, already moving toward his own desk like it's settled. "We're leaving at eight. Meet us at the front entrance."

"I didn't agree to?—"

"Eight o'clock, Martin. Don't make us come drag you out of your house."

They're already walking away, Jake calling something about dress code over his shoulder that I don't catch. I watch them disappear around the corner, their laughter fading into the office ambient noise.

My desk feels quieter without them. Without Sarah's coffee cup ring and her easy smile and the possibility of something uncomplicated.

I turn back to my computer, pull up the Morrison presentation, try to care about market penetration strategies and consumer engagement metrics.

The numbers blur together.

My phone sits face-down next to my keyboard. I could text Hayes, tell him I'm going out. But that would require explaining where, and with whom, and why. Would require admitting that I'm lonely enough to go to some random Jersey bar with work acquaintances just to feel like I'm doing something.

Would require acknowledging that I haven't felt right since that night, since Dylan's words burrowed into my brain and made a home there.

She begged so pretty. Your little sister. Did you know she could beg like that?

I close my eyes. Open them. The Morrison presentation is still there, still waiting.

Eight o'clock.

I have four hours to finish this work and talk myself out of going.

Four hours to decide if I want to keep pretending everything is fine, or if I want to try—just once—to do something that isn't sitting alone in my too-quiet house, thinking about things I can't change.

The stitches in my temple are long gone. The scar remains, a thin line I can feel when I run my hand through my hair. Physical proof that some things leave marks even after they heal.

I pull up my calendar. Friday night. Blank.

Pathetically, completely blank.

"Fuck it," I mutter to my empty cubicle, and get back to work.

Eight o'clock finds me standing outside the office building, hands shoved in my jacket pockets, questioning every decision that led me here.

Jake and Trevor pull up in Trevor's beat-up Honda, music blasting through rolled-down windows despite the October chill. Jake waves from the passenger seat like we're heading to fucking prom.

"Knew you'd show!" He calls as I approach the car.

"I'm regretting it already."

"That's the spirit." Trevor leans across to unlock the back door. "Get in, Martin. We're burning moonlight."