Chapter 2
SHANNEN
I stare down at the black-and-white plane ticket in my hand, the corner creased from where I’ve been gripping it way too tight.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
Nothing good’s waiting for me at the end of it.
Fuck it. I’m not weak anymore. I can handle this.
My thoughts drift to the feline mask tucked carefully into my bag.
Sleek. Elegant. Predatory.
Lianna helped me pick it out, and she fucking nailed it.
She said it made me look like velvet wrapped in thorns—something soft and meant to be touched, even if it hurt.
She offered to come with me and even tossed a bottle of whiskey and a box of condoms into my bag, like this was some twisted girls’ getaway, but this isn’t something I can share with her.
Going back to Indiana isn’t about catching up with old friends or making peace with my past. It’s actually the complete opposite. It’s about stepping into the fire, not out of it.
A small part of me is terrified of losing the woman I’ve fought to become, and if I break, I want to break alone. I don’t want anyone’s eyes on me, and I don’t want sympathy or anyone trying to stitch me back together. If it happens, it’s my mess to clean up.
I swung by the office this morning for one last check-in with Betty, my assistant and the only person on earth who can wrangle my chaos into something that almost looks like order.
We’re drowning in back-to-back jobs, completely swamped, but with the team I’ve built, I could probably disappear for months, and everything would keep running.
But I don’t because I love being in the thick of it all.
I love what I’ve built, and I try like hell to treat my employees like family instead of numbers because I know exactly what it feels like to be just a face in the crowd, desperate for someone to notice.
The people I work closest with lit up when I walked them through the new projects, and I hope they felt like they truly mattered because they do.
Xavier practically glowed when I handed him the Morrison account, this massive rebrand where they want us to completely reimagine their identity from the ground up.
There’s something so addictive about watching people realize they’re capable of more than they thought.
I’d been that person once—hungry and overlooked, waiting for someone to see what I could do. Now I get to be the someone who sees it in others.
I’ve arrived at the airport way too early, and I’m pacing like a caged animal and driving myself out of my mind.
There’s only so many times you can obsessively check your phone, refresh the same apps, and stare at the departure board before you have to face the fact that the only thing waiting for you is a fucking flight delay.
It’s hell on earth .
Some kid’s having a complete meltdown two gates over, shrieking like he’s being murdered while his parents just ignore it.
The PA system keeps crackling with some asshole’s voice, announcing delays and gate changes like he's not ruining someone’s life, and the constant echo of footsteps and dragging luggage is grinding down what little patience I have left.
I swear to god, if one more person breathes too close, I’ll lose it.
Rip-my-own-skin-off kind of lose it.
Everything is too much.
The fluorescent lights are too bright, and the air is too sterile.
The whole place reeks of burnt coffee and floor polish, which is making me nauseous.
My skin feels too tight, like it doesn’t fit right.
My chest is heavy, as if my lungs have forgotten how to work properly, and with every passing second, the weight of where I’m going settles deeper in my bones.
I haven’t even boarded yet, and it already feels like I’m being pulled back into something I barely survived the first time.
I collapse into a hard plastic chair, which was clearly designed by someone who hates people.
My spine is stiff, every muscle in my body wound tight, and my jaw is clenched so hard I’m surprised my teeth haven’t shattered into dust. I jam my headphones into my ears, and the second Placebo starts to play, the world blurs into something bearable.
I’ve finally put a wall between me and everything else. The crying kid. The screech of luggage wheels. The lights drilling into my skull.It all dissolves, and for just a moment, the world isn’t so loud.
When my mind finally stops racing, I drag my sketchbook from my bag, my hands shaking more than I fucking want them to. I tell myself it’s just the stress, but the truth is, I’m rattled to my core, and I don’t know how to steady myself. Not yet.
I flip open the book to the page I’ve been obsessing over since I received that invitation.
Phoenix wings.
Yeah, I know. Call me fucked up. I don’t care. I can’t stop drawing them. I can’t stop seeing Phoenix Cassidy etched into the backs of my eyelids like a scar that refuses to fade.
He’s there when I blink, when I sleep, even when I fucking breathe, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t scrub him out.
The wings dominate the page, wild and monstrous, with flames bleeding from the top like they’ve torn through hell and come out hungry.
Because that’s what I’m going to do to him.
I’m going to burn that beautiful, lying fucker to the ground.
The darkness inside me is practically purring, stretching like a cat in the sunlight.
I’ve spent years trying to tame her and convince myself that being the bigger person was worth something.
But she’s hungry now, and her thirst for his destruction is stronger than any desire I’ve ever had for peace.
I know holding onto all this hate and hurt isn’t healthy, but I can’t let it go.If I can make him feel even a fraction of the pain he left in me, crack that perfect mask and see even one genuine flicker of regret in his eyes… then I win.
I’ve got another hour to kill before I have to board the plane, and God help me, I’m nowhere close to being okay. I’m not ready. But I keep reminding myself that I’m returning as Shannen Mitchell.
Shannen Clarke died the day I kissed the boy I loved and learned what it felt like to lose everything that mattered in one brutal, soul-crushing moment, and she’s never coming back.
I drag the charcoal across the page again and again, pressing harder each time. My strokes are rough, and my edges are jagged. I don’t care though. I’m not drawing to make something pretty. I’m drawing to exorcise whatever the hell is sitting in my chest.
Smudge. Shade. Sketch. Repeat.
When the pain in my wrist finally overpowers the need to keep going, I drop the pencil and set my sketchbook on the empty seat beside me—my not-so-subtle way of warding off anyone who might think about sitting next to me.
I reach into my bag for a water bottle and let myself just sit.
Music fills my ears, and my eyes follow the endless parade of strangers drifting past. So many people are living lives I’ll never know about, and just for a second, I wonder if anyone else here is catching a flight to set fire to the life they swore they’d never return to.
Probably not. People like that don’t usually book round-trip tickets.
They end up in handcuffs or headlines, not sitting at Gate 25 with hate in their hearts and a mask tucked in their bag.
A short while later, my flight gets called.
I move quickly, grabbing my things and weaving through the crowd, heading straight for the VIP lounge—the kind of luxury that used to intimidate the hell out of me.
When they finally call first-class boarding, I step onto the plane and settle into my seat, and for the first time all day, something tight in my chest finally loosens.
I’m obviously flying up front, because if I’m heading into the devil's playground, I’m doing it with legroom and decent alcohol. Up here, it’s different. The air is clean. The lighting is soft. The seat actually reclines. No one’s elbow is in my ribs, and no one’s perfume is choking me out.
This is what money buys you—privacy, silence, and comfort. Here, I can finally stretch out, close my eyes, and pretend for a few hours, at least, that everything is under control.
Two hours later, we touch down. I wait what feels like an eternity for the car I booked to show up, my patience wearing thinner with every minute that ticks by while I stand here like an idiot at the curb.
By the time the black sedan finally rolls up, I’m about two seconds away from saying “Fuck it,” and walking.
I slide into the back seat, the leather cold against my thighs, and finally, I can breathe.
“West Springs Hotel,” I say, my voice calm, though the coil in my gut tightens. “I know I noted it in the booking, but just in case?—”
“I was told, miss,” the driver rumbles from the front, barely glancing at me.
“Right.” I clear my throat, trying to ignore how everything inside me is screaming to turn around and get back on the next flight out. “I haven’t been back here in a long time. Is it far?”
“About fifteen minutes on a good day,” he says, easing away from the curb.
“Thanks.”
I lean back, watching the city blur past the window, my eyes scanning the streets like I might randomly catch a glimpse of someone I used to know.
But it won’t be my parents.
Both of them overdosed a few years ago—probably slumped over that same stained couch or curled up on the kitchen floor, chasing one last high in a place that breathed nightmares and stank of piss.
They were dead before I could even decide whether or not I wanted to forgive them. Before I could stand in front of them and force them to hear what they did to me.
I didn’t forgive them then, and I still don’t now. Some things are unforgivable, and a childhood spent dodging needles is one of them.
Good fucking riddance.
“Are you here on vacation?” the driver asks, and honestly, small talk with a stranger is the last thing I need right now .
“Kinda,” I mutter, unlocking my phone without looking up, hoping he’ll take the hint. “School reunion.”
“You don’t sound that excited about it.” He chuckles, and for a second, guilt pricks at me for wishing he’d stop talking to me.
“Kids in school were mean,” I say flatly, my eyes still on my screen. “I doubt adulthood’s made them any better.”
That shuts him up, thank God. The last thing I need is to start pulling at that thread and unraveling in the back of a stranger's car.
Silence settles over us, and we pull up to the hotel a few minutes later.
The driver steps out, grabs my bags, and places them carefully on the curb.
Before I can move, a hotel porter jogs over to claim them.
The driver slides back behind the wheel, and I slip a fifty over the console.
“Here, thanks,” I murmur, and he reaches back to take the bill from my hand.
“Thank you. I hope your reunion goes well.”
“Yeah,” I say, pushing the door open. “Me too.”
I step out, trailing the man with my bags, and before I know it, I’m back in luxury, throwing myself onto the obscenely expensive penthouse bed.
I’m not sorry for the money I’m burning.
The last time I was in this town, my mom was shooting up in a filthy trailer while I scrounged for food that didn’t have mold growing on it.
So yeah, I’ll take the overpriced linens.
Room service and a long, scalding bubble bath later, I’m wrapped in the softest white robe while some trashy reality TV show buzzes in the background, but I’m not watching it. My mind’s somewhere else entirely.
Get out of my head, Phoenix.
I wander to my bags, reaching in for my sketchbook—searching, but not finding.
Panic burns through my chest, and I tear through my luggage like a woman possessed, clothes flying everywhere, while toiletries scatter across the floor. My hands shake as I check every pocket, every compartment, and every fucking zipper.
Nothing.
It’s gone.
That sketchbook was years of my life, thoughts I couldn’t speak, and pain I couldn’t voice. Love, grief, fury— him .
Every brutal, bleeding line. Gone.
I want to scream, cry, vomit… Maybe do all three at once and never stop.
Shit. Shit. Fucking fuck. Fuck.
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on cold marble. Did I leave it at the airport? On the plane? Jesus, some stranger could be flipping through my soul right now, seeing things never meant for anyone else’s eyes.
I stare at the TV, letting the screech of some overpaid reality-show brat fill the silence like static in my head. My knees drag across the floor as I crawl toward the minibar and reach for the champagne. I drink until my limbs go numb and the burn in my throat dulls the scream caught behind it.