Torn Between Realms (Awaken the Stars #1)

Chapter 1

Cece

There goes my next paycheck.

I let out a slow breath as I toss this month’s student loan bill into the kitchen junk drawer, the same drawer that used to hold nothing but takeout menus and pens that stopped working about two signatures ago.

Now it’s overflowing with reminders that adulthood doesn’t pause.

It doesn’t even slow down. I’d always known the cost of a higher education.

I’d signed every loan form and read every warning.

What I hadn’t done was prepare myself for how it would feel.

The dull, repetitive ache of those bills showing up month after month.

Sharp. Unforgiving. And deeply unromantic.

Still, I wouldn’t undo any of it. Six years ago, I got the letter.

I was accepted into a competitive genetics doctoral program in New York City.

What followed were years spent in the laboratory, complete with long nights at the bench and a borderline dangerous relationship with caffeine.

But now I have the doctorate. And as of six months ago, I have the job.

The only catch?

After I make rent and pay my student loans, I have just enough money left to trade microwave noodles for store-brand pasta and jarred marinara.

I sigh. But this is life. And it doesn’t come with easy fixes.

Just bills, burnout, and the occasional overpriced latte that I absolutely can’t afford but sometimes buy anyway.

I lean back against the kitchen counter, letting the silence settle around me. The only sound in my apartment is the low hum of the refrigerator, a familiar loneliness. Just as I drop today’s credit card bill onto the growing pile, my phone buzzes sharply against the counter, breaking the quiet.

“You didn’t RSVP yet, Cece. Are you not coming?

” Kate’s voice comes through the speaker.

Steady, clear, and unmistakably pointed.

Her version of gentle always carries just enough edge to make you listen.

She doesn’t need to say anything more. I hear it between the lines: I love you, but if you flake, I’m showing up at your apartment and, heels be damned, dragging you out myself.

She’s referring to her birthday dinner. “Twenty-seven and fabulous,” she’s labeled it.

I hadn’t gotten a chance to respond to the invitation yet, but it’s not that I don’t want to go.

Kate Benedict is one of the few constants in my life.

She is one of the few people who has seen me through every version of myself—scraped up, burned out, wide-eyed, and exhausted—and still didn’t walk away.

She isn’t just a friend. She’s the friend. My person.

“Kate, how am I supposed to know you posted about the dinner already?” I let out a weary laugh and sink deeper into the couch, my eyes lingering on a takeout menu I know I can’t afford tonight.

“I haven’t even looked at my email or socials today.

You know I’m a yes. We’ve talked about this multiple times, might I add. ”

And we had. Not just once. At least three separate conversations about her birthday dinner in the past two weeks. But who’s counting?

On the other end of the line, Kate sighs like I’ve forgotten her actual birthday. “But you are coming, though, right?” Her voice is soft but edged. “I’m serious, Chloe Caldwell. No last-minute ‘I have to work late’ bailouts. You have to be there.”

Uh oh. She pulled out my full government name.

She only calls me Chloe—let alone Chloe Caldwell—when she lovingly means business.

Most people close to me call me Cece. A shortcut born from both my first and last names, though a little absurd.

The name has always sounded more like a spoiled Manhattan poodle with a signature bow and a curated skincare routine than an actual adult woman navigating the world.

Still, it stuck. Now when Kate abandons “Cece,” I brace myself.

“Of course I’m coming,” I say, sitting up a little straighter. “I wouldn’t miss it.” And I mean it. Kate is the closest thing I have to a sister. Even if I have to drag myself to her birthday dinner after a 10-hour day of combing through research data, I’ll show up.

“Perfect!” she chirps, instantly upbeat again. I can practically hear her twirling around her kitchen. “Okay, I’ll let you get back to whatever it is you do on Sunday nights.” A pause. “Wait—what do you do on Sunday nights, anyway?”

I roll my eyes, stretching out across the couch, arms above my head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might offer a better answer than I have. “You mean besides restoring my will to live after another week under fluorescent lighting?” I reply, keeping my tone light.

“Mmm, I’m hoping it involves someone tall, handsome, and emotionally available?” she teases.

I snort. Not likely. Whatever my Sunday routine involves, it definitely doesn’t include scrolling through dating profiles filled with men who boast about their success as crypto traders or claim to be entrepreneurs while still living with their parents.

“Sure does,” I say, my voice too high to be believable. But Kate doesn’t press. She never does. That isn’t the point. The point is the nudge. And I feel it.

It’s not that I’ve given up on dating. I’ve just .

. . hit pause. Between the emotional fallout of my last relationship forever ago and the reality of a job that consumes most of my energy, putting myself out there again feels less like the pursuit of love and more like applying for an unpaid internship.

Shifting the conversation back to her party, I promise I’ll arrive at her birthday dinner early. And before she can launch into an impromptu wardrobe consult for the evening, I end the call with a smile.

I can once again feel the end-of-weekend tension settling in, so I pull on my sneakers and step outside into the quiet of Sunday evening.

The city feels slower somehow, as if the whole thing is holding its breath before Monday returns.

I pop in my earbuds, queue up a playlist that always makes me feel something, and start running.

There’s no plan or destination. Tonight, it’s enough just to move.

Monday mornings always hit like a cold splash of water to the face, no matter how much I prepare for them or how early I go to bed on Sunday.

And somehow, the weekend always disappears in the blink of an eye.

I like my job. I do. But now I understand why older people call it “the grind.” I never really understood their complaints until now.

It isn’t soul-crushing or anything—just a constant rhythm you can’t quite dance to.

As I pull up to the security checkpoint outside SciCell Pharmaceuticals, I wave my badge at the scanner and ease into the lot. Six months in, and I still catch myself marveling at the place, like I somehow snuck in through the side door of adulthood and no one’s noticed yet.

The campus is sprawling and sleek, boasting steel, glass, and we take our funding very seriously energy.

I park in the third level of the garage, toss my bag over my shoulder, and begin the short walk to what the company refers to as “The Towers.” They’re two intertwined buildings designed to mimic the shape of a DNA helix.

Because why not, right?

The central elevators run through a glass column between the buildings, offering a panoramic view of the entire campus as you ride up.

Inside, every white-tea-scented hallway is its own mini art gallery.

Floor-to-ceiling windows line one side, while the other is covered in oversized, colorful renderings of molecules, bacteria, and viruses.

Stepping off the elevator feels like walking into a curated wing of the Museum of Modern Art.

I exit on the eighth floor, still in awe from the ride up, and find myself immediately greeted by a familiar voice.

“Morning, Cece.”

Daniel Melbourne’s voice reaches me before I see him. Low, smooth, and calm in a way that makes people pause mid-thought. He steps out of the break room, coffee in hand, eyes sweeping the space like his thoughts are already three steps ahead of the rest of us.

“We’ve got a 10:00 a.m. meeting about that new collaboration Corinne flagged last week,” he says, his gaze settling on me. “Can you sit in?”

I meet his eyes and smile. “Of course. Happy to join the meeting,” I say, keeping my voice even and professional. Or at least trying to.

He’s impressively composed and focused, every line of him polished without trying too hard.

Tall, athletic, always dressed in that effortless business-casual that looks like it belongs in a trendy ad instead of inside a pharmaceutical office.

Dark hair, dark eyes, and a quiet intensity that can’t help but be noticed.

His presence isn’t loud, but it carries.

And I notice. Of course I do. I’m not dead.

But dating at work? That’s a rom-com setup with a horror-movie ending. So I stay in my lane.

He offers an easy smile and continues down the hallway like he hasn’t just subtly turned the air electric.

Daniel Melbourne leads our partnerships division.

He’s the face of the company in rooms filled with stakeholders I don’t get to mingle with.

Our paths rarely cross. For me, it’s spreadsheets, timelines, and the delicate choreography of making sure everything—and everyone—moves exactly when needed.

But I like it. The rhythm. The steady sense of order in a world that never slows down.

People always seem impressed when I tell them what I do.

I usually let them believe I’m some sort of behind-the-scenes prodigy.

No one needs to know how many late nights I spent memorizing buzzwords and dissecting job descriptions just to survive the interview.

Still, I made it. And this meeting? It matters. Corinne, my manager, invited me to sit in. It’s the first time I’ll be in the room for a real strategy session. A chance to show I can handle more than just trial logistics. Maybe even something bigger.