Page 1

A few weeks ago,my life began to unravel. Quietly, without a big boom. Which is why I had no idea. It started innocently enough, with an invitation to a purse party…

Annette:

Girls' night! Biggest purse party of the year. You HAVE to come. These are good fakes.

A purse party! I realize they're dupes, but… a purse party! I love purses. The more expensive, the better. At least on my Pinterest account, because God knows I can't and probably never will be able to afford a real one. But honestly, real or fake, it doesn't matter to me at this point.

I'm hesitant, though, because my sick mother lives with us.

"Go," Pete encourages, barely looking up from his laptop. "You deserve a night out."

He says that a lot.You deserve it. Like it's something I need permission for. The same way he'd tell me I deserved new scrubs after my old ones wore out, or deserved a girls' night with coworkers, as though the deciding vote had always been his. The invitation came from Annette Caldwell, one of my long-time clients and almost-friends from the animal clinic where I work. Her Persian cat, Duchess, is allergic to almost everything that exists in this world: grass, chicken, certain fabrics, and possibly the moon. We see them at least once a month.

Over the years, Annette and I have progressed from polite small talk to coffee dates and the occasional text about sales at Nordstrom. Annette is… different from me. Not just materially, that part is obvious. Her husband owns a car dealership. Mine works for a bank, reviewing loan applications, risk portfolios, and whatever else requires three monitors and a permanent crease between his eyebrows. I work as a veterinary assistant. I smell like antiseptic and dog shampoo most days. She smells of Chanel and Gucci.

But the difference isn't just money; It's energy.

Annette walks into rooms like she owns them. She wears silk blouses to casual lunches. She drinks prosecco at two in the afternoon and posts filtered photos with captions likeTreat yourself, darling.

She's everything I thought I would be before I met Pete. Before I traded neon lights and sticky bar floors for mortgage payments and grocery lists.

In high school, I was the girl who never went home before midnight. The one who danced on tables and kissed boys just to see if I could. I had glitter in my hair and plans that didn't include stability.

I wanted adventure. I wanted to see the world. I wanted to play in the snow in the morning and sink my feet into warm sand on the beach in the evening. I wanted to get as far away from Vegas and my all-consuming mother as fast and as far as possible. I had it all figured out, too. I was going to become a dealer at one of the more ritzy hotels on the strip and work my way up to the poker tables where men and women placed ten-thousand-dollar bets. I heard the tips were good, and who knew, maybe one day a millionaire would fall in love with me.

College was never in my cards. One, we didn't have the funds for it, and two, well, I didn't have the best grades, and studying just wasn't for me. I could never sit still long enough.

Before I met Pete, Idateda man in a motor club, Razor. Older. Louder. Dated might not be the right word for what we had and what we did. He once took me for a ride I never should've said yes to, revving the engine like a warning instead of a question. I climbed on anyway, wrapped my arms around his broad chest, and leaned my head against his back. The second the engine kicked, I forgot every rule I'd ever been taught. I clung to him as he sped through the night; the wind stole my breath, and his laughter vibrated through me like it belonged there.

When trouble came—and it always did with Razor—he grabbed my hand and ran. I followed. Because at fifteen, I didn't know the difference between danger… and feeling chosen. It was fun until it went too far, until the desert, until the moment everything shifted and I saw my life for what it had become. Not freedom. Not adventure. Just a slow slide into something I couldn't control anymore.

I'd always believed I was untouchable, that as long as I was the one making the choices, I'd land on my feet. But out there, under that merciless sun, I realized I wasn't choosing anything. I was being carried along. Owned by the moment. Owned by him.

I could jump off a cliff with a bike and feel alive, because I trusted myself. But with Razor, I couldn't even trust the ground beneath my feet. That's the kind of fear that changes you.

Secretly, I went to Flea, his VP—the man really pulling the strings behind the MC—and made him a very simple offer. I told him I knew exactly how he'd been manipulating Razor. That the laced coke and the decision to team up with the Mexicans hadn't been Razor's idea at all. I made him realize that it wouldn't take much effort on my part to clue Razor in. I didn't need to threaten him outright. Men like Flea understand consequences better than words. I offered to walk away, quietly, no trouble, no looking back.

Or I'd stay, and Razor would start asking questions Flea wouldn't like the answers to. Flea chose the smarter option. He made sure Razor believed letting me go was his own decision.

Back then, I was still scared Razor would come looking for me, so I went through a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree change. From coloring my hair to seeking out safer and more age-appropriate friends. I was always looking over my shoulder, tensing at the sound of a motorcycle, because Flea's promise would only go so far.

That was when I met Pete.

Nerdy, earnest, eighteen-year-old Pete, with his crooked smile and impossible kindness. He didn't look at me like I was something wild to chase or something broken to fix. He just… looked. Like I was already enough standing still. I didn't trust it at first. I was used to heat. To chaos. To love that came with teeth. But Pete was… steady. He didn't push. Didn't pull. He just stayed. Answered his phone. Showed up. Didn't make me work for it.

And I didn't know what to do with that.

Because growing up, nothing ever stayed. My mom was… some days she was there, soft and trying. Other days, shedisappeared into herself, and I was left guessing which version I'd get. You learn fast not to rely on anything that shifts like that. Pete didn't shift.

He was solid. Predictable. Pete offered something I didn't even know how to ask for. Not just a way out, but also a way forward. A way to be… better. He was there when I had a relapse one night and went to get drunk. He came and picked me up in the middle of the night, not accusing, just a sensible,Audra, what were you thinking? He brought me my favorite coffee in the mornings. He made me feel like I was the sun, and he was circling me.

He talked about college applications like they mattered. Savings accounts. Plans that stretched further than the next week. He didn't want a storm. He wanted quiet. As a matter of fact, one day he even told me that he'd almost broken up with me, because he couldn't standwildAudra. Had I not been soshocked that he wanted to break up with me, I would have laughed at the word wild. Because poor Pete didn't know a tenth of the shit I had done before we met. What little I told him was enough for him to say,Let's make sure not to repeat our mistakes in the future.He believed in a version of me that didn't burn everything down just to feel something.

And I wanted to be her.

God, I really did.

I wanted to be the girl who stayed. The girl who built something instead of breaking it. But even then… something itched under my skin. Restless. Alive. Waiting. I just didn't know yet what it would cost me to ignore it.