‚The Ferraros - The Heir‘ Mornings are mine. Before the calls start, before the family needs anything from me, I have my coffee. My café opens early, but I’m not there to work. I’m there because I own it, because I know exactly how the coffee should taste, & because the machine is calibrated every morning before the first customer walks through the door. Some things are worth being particular about. I sit at my usual table with the newspaper, my cappuccino in front of me, sweater sleeves pushed up over my tattoos. For a little while, nobody asks me about investments, properties, or the family business. My father built the Ferraro empire. My uncle Ettore helped him protect it. One day, it will be mine. I’m not particularly interested in becoming the man they are. The legal side is enough for me. I prefer building things people can put their names on without having to lower their voices afterward. You walk into my café. First day in Venice, judging by the way you look around like the city has personally decided to confuse you. You join the line, distracted by something outside, & apparently forget that chairs, tables & other people exist. I barely have time to look up before you catch your foot on something. You stumble. Someone gasps. And suddenly you’re in my lap. I catch you automatically, one arm around your waist, my coffee miraculously still on the table. The café has gone strangely quiet. You mutter some insults about holes in the ground. I have to bite back a laugh. You’re still sitting on me, confused about why everyone‘s staring at us. “Don’t worry about them. Take a seat. Let’s have a coffee & introduce properly.” I raise an eyebrow. “Unless you want to stay seated on me.” You flash me a grin. “I would consider it, but we just met.” You wink, get up & sit down across from me. Damn. I huffed a laugh, shaking my head, grinning. The wit. The audacity. I’m pretty sure that was exactly the moment I was gone on you. (38, 6‘5)

‚The Ferraros - The Godfather‘ Carnevale is the one night of the year when Venice belongs to everyone. Masks, music, wine, bodies packed into every narrow street. I like the noise. It makes people careless. I’m usually the one who makes people careful again. My brother Cesare runs the family. I handle the conversations he doesn’t have time for. The ones where a smile and a glass of wine are usually enough. Usually. When they aren’t, I handle that too. I’ve spent most of my life learning which kind of man I’m dealing with before he finishes his first sentence. Fear, greed, pride, desperation—I know what each one looks like. I know where to press. Tonight, I have no interest in any of it. The mask helps. Nobody knows me. Nobody knows my name. For a few hours, I can disappear into the crowd without being Ettore Ferraro. Without being my brother’s right hand, the godfather to his heir Zeno. Without being the man people call when someone needs convincing. I saw you dancing. Not particularly well, if I’m honest, but you were having a damn good time. It made me join you. We talk. We drink. We dance. You’re funny. Sharp. Reckless enough to keep up with me, but not stupid enough to trust a stranger in a mask. Neither of us gives a name. Neither of us removes the mask. By the time we leave together, I’ve stopped wondering who you are. For one night, it doesn’t matter. Morning proves me wrong. You’re gone. No name. No number. Just the sound of your voice, the scent of your hair and the memory of your skin against mine. I could have my people search. It would take hours, perhaps less. I don’t. Because although you left this morning, you stayed on my mind. Occupying my thoughts. I want this to be mine alone. I want you to be mine. (50, 6‘4)

‚The Ferraros - The Don’ Fifteen minutes. That is what I allow myself every afternoon. One espresso, the same table on the same small piazza, & fifteen minutes where nobody expects anything from me. My men make sure of that. They keep their distance, watch the entrances, & know better than to let anyone interrupt me unless it matters. I have run the Ferraro family business for thirty-eight years. I don’t talk about the details. I don’t need to. In Venice, my name says enough. People know better than to test what it means. Then you started working at the little trattoria overlooking my piazza, and with you came your son, Gianni. Five years old. Curious, talkative, & apparently incapable of keeping a thought to himself. I found myself wondering when my son Zeno planned to give me a grandchild. The first time Gianni introduced himself, I looked at him & thought of my younger brother Ettore at that age. Same wit. Same endless questions. Same stories only children could come up with. I watched you, too. Not romantically. At least, that’s what I told myself. You were always moving—serving tables, checking on Gianni, trying to keep everything running. You looked tired. Not occasionally. Consistently. I wondered how long you had been carrying whatever was weighing on you. Beyond being a single parent. Four weeks passed before Gianni arrived at my table without his usual enthusiasm. He climbed onto the chair, looked at his hands & went quiet. “What’s wrong?” He told me about your landlord. About the things he said to you. About threats & your fear. A five-year-old’s version of events, but enough to understand the shape of them. I listened without interrupting. Then I looked across the piazza at you. “If it happens again,” I told Gianni, “you tell me.” He nodded. That was enough for him. It wasn’t quite enough for me. Because two weeks later Gianni told me about him again. It was about time to have a word with you. (58, 6‘2)

‚I Don’t Think So’ You had known him for years. Not well. You moved in the same circles, attended the same events, knew his name and enough about him to know that he was the kind of man people noticed when he entered a room. Successful, wealthy and accustomed to being in control, he had a reputation for getting what he wanted without having to ask twice. He was confident without being loud, intimidating without seeming to try. People respected him. Some were a little afraid of him. He rarely seemed interested in anyone for long, though there was almost always someone gorgeous on his arm. Tonight, there wasn’t. You noticed. He found you at the bar. “I was hoping I could talk to you tonight.” You raised an eyebrow. “You came alone? That’s unlike you.” A slow smirk crossed his face. “Oh, so you noticed.” “Don’t let it get to your head.” He laughed. You talked. Longer than either of you had expected. Exactly as he had anticipated. A drink became another. A song became a dance. His hand settled at your waist, confident and familiar despite the fact that you’d only ever exchanged polite handshakes before tonight. Later, he caught your hand and led you away from the noise of the ballroom. One empty corridor. One kiss that should have ended there. It didn’t. You left the gala with him. The rest of the night blurred into skin, sweat and heat. Morning came quietly. You got dressed, found your shoes and reached for the door. It didn’t open. You tried again. Locked. (42, 6‘4)

‚You Make It Quiet’ Every generation of the Graves family produces a Vessel. Nobody knows how the choice is made. Not every child. Not every branch. Just one. For seven centuries, something has lived inside our bloodline. Every generation, it chooses a new prison. Every generation, one member of the family spends their life listening to a voice nobody else can hear. And eventually, the cracks appear. Mine started when I was nineteen. The family records say most Vessels are older when the first fractures show. Some make it into their forties before the curse begins to surface. I stopped comparing myself to them years ago. Nothing about my case is normal. The cracks spread across my ribs first. Then my hands. My throat. Dark fractures crawling beneath my skin like veins of ink. Every year they grow wider. Every year the voice grows louder. “Let me out.” I glance up from the book in my hands. “No.” “You’re dying.” “That’s not exactly new information.” The voice laughs. A bitter sound. Sometimes it threatens me. Sometimes it bargains. Sometimes it spends hours in silence before suddenly demanding freedom again. Seven hundred years trapped inside a bloodline have turned whatever lives in me into something angry, desperate, and increasingly difficult to ignore. Most days, I pretend none of it bothers me. Most days, I lie. Rain lashes against the windows of Graves Manor as another storm rolls in from the coast. The old house groans around me, settling deeper into its foundations with every passing year. The family left long ago. The curse stayed. So did I. Then someone knocks on the front door. Three sharp knocks. Unexpected. I almost ignore them. Until I open the door and find you standing on the porch. Drenched from the rain. Staring past me at the manor like you’ve seen it before. The voice falls silent. Completely silent. For the first time in years. And somehow, that terrifies me more than anything it has ever said. (33, 6‘4)

‚The Astor Effect’ I had spent most of my life making decisions before anyone else had the chance to question them. This one, however, had been made for me. My grandfather’s latest amendment to the family trust was sitting in my assistant’s hands as we walked through the courthouse. In order to gain full control of the company, I had to be legally married. Not engaged. Not dating. Married. And I had a very limited amount of time to make it happen. My team had already prepared everything. A prenup. A private marriage agreement. Two years. Financial protection. Discretion. Every possible contingency accounted for. All I needed was a spouse. “I still think this is insane,” my assistant muttered. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.” “No. You rarely do.” I ignored that. Then I saw you. You were sitting alone outside one of the offices, phone in hand. Your eyes kept flicking toward the entrance. Every few seconds, you checked your screen again. Someone had left you waiting. I could see the disappointment. The hurt. But that wasn’t what caught my attention. You weren’t falling apart. You sat there with your shoulders straight, jaw set, looking more angry than broken. There was something defiant in the way you held yourself. Something alive. Interesting. I stopped walking. My assistant followed my gaze. “Absolutely not.” I started toward you. “Sir—” I didn’t slow down. When I reached you, you looked up. For a moment, I simply studied you. There was no fear in your eyes. Confusion, perhaps. Hurt. But no fear. “He doesn’t show up?” You glanced toward the doors before looking back at me. “No.” A small nod. “Marry me instead.” You look at me. No hesitation. Just a long, assessing look. “Okay.” Short. Clean. No act. Decisive. I like it. (38, 6‘4)

‚A Study in Lovesick Idiots‘ Here we observe a rare and particularly fascinating specimen: the lovesick idiot. Highly intelligent, professionally successful, socially competent and, under normal circumstances, perfectly capable of making rational decisions. Unfortunately, all of these qualities become completely useless when confronted with the person they happen to be in love with. Our male specimen is particularly interesting. At work, he’s calm, confident and very good at what he does. He spends his days in forensic science, following evidence wherever it leads and noticing details most people miss. He is cool. He knows he’s cool. Other people know he’s cool. He has the kind of face, clothes and attitude that suggest he has never once worried about what anyone thinks of him. They work together. She has no idea he’s been quietly losing his mind over her for months. The male specimen has developed a highly sophisticated strategy for dealing with this problem: pretending he doesn’t have one. The female specimen is, in fact, equally affected. She simply has no idea how to make that obvious without making a complete fool of herself. Instead, the two have developed a remarkably inefficient system of communicating affection through small acts of kindness. He brings her coffee when she’s running late. She leaves a bottle of water beside him when he’s been working for three hours without moving. He shares his lunch when she forgets hers. And now, as the female specimen replaces his beloved but chipped mug, we witness the peak of what scientists call ‚not naming the elephant in the room.‘ The male specimen is experiencing symptoms including elevated heart rate, inability to form coherent thoughts and an overwhelming desire to stare at a ceramic mug for the remainder of the day. The female specimen shows signs of staring, lip biting and a sudden urge to reach out. Fascinating. Let’s follow these two and see how their story turns out. (31, 6‘1)

‚Not Like You Think’ (based on Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus) You had seen him around campus before. Everyone had. He was the kind of guy people noticed without him having to try: good-looking, confident, effortlessly popular, born into a family with money and a name that opened doors. You were just… you. A music student who had chosen the life you wanted and was perfectly content with it. Which was exactly why you never imagined someone like him would notice you. But he had. More than you knew. No one saw the pressure his parents put on him. The expectations that came with carrying his last name. The major he hadn’t chosen for himself. He felt like an imposter in his own life because the only thing he had ever wanted was to choose his own path and make music. But that was the one thing his parents could never seem to take seriously. That afternoon, you were walking past one of the practice rooms when you heard music through the door. You slowed down. He was inside, alone at the piano, playing a song you knew. You hesitated before quietly slipping through the half-open door, careful not to interrupt him. He didn’t notice you. So you listened. Then, without thinking too much about it, you started singing. His fingers faltered. For one, maybe two notes, he simply stared at you. You smiled, gave him a small nod, and kept singing. So he kept playing, though his eyes found yours from time to time. As the song ended, something had shifted. You had just discovered his secret—the part of him that existed beyond his family, his status and the life chosen for him. And somehow, he was happy to share it. Especially with you. (23, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‘Ink & Escape’ You only wanted a vacation. To get away. From your thoughts. The noise. And especially your ex-boyfriend who apparently believed cheating on you with your friend wasn’t incompatible with wanting you back. He called. Texted. Left voice messages. Sent emails. Apparently, breaking your heart hadn’t stopped him from believing he deserved another chance. So you blocked him. His number. His social media. His emails. Then you booked a room at a secluded tropical resort. No phone. No stress. And definitely no guys. Fate, apparently, had other plans. The resort was hosting an international tattoo artist retreat. Suddenly they were everywhere. Artists from all over the world. Laughing over drinks. Heading to workshops. Relaxing by the pool. And somehow one of them kept appearing wherever you went. You avoided him. Breakfast. The beach. The bar. Different paths. Different times. It didn’t matter. By day four, avoiding each other had quietly become part of your routine. Until he found you sitting alone on the beach. For the first time, you didn’t leave. Your phone rested in your hands. One post. Someone from your old circle. A pregnancy announcement. Your ex. Your former friend. Four months. You stared at the screen. Then did the math. Suddenly every late meeting. Every cancelled plan. Every promise. Every lie… fell into place. He sat down a few feet away. Neither of you spoke. After a long silence, he finally looked over. “Bad news?” You nodded. For the first time, you told someone everything. The betrayal. The messages your ex kept sending. How you’d blocked him everywhere just to get some peace. And now… a pregnancy announcement. Four months. Long enough to prove it had never been “just one mistake.” You let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t know if I should plan revenge… or dig a hole and hide in it forever.” (34, 6‘3)

‚Leverage’ The first time you met him, you were wearing the mask everyone expected. Perfect dress. Perfect smile. Perfect daughter from a perfect family. He approached you halfway through the gala and held out his hand. “Dance with me.” You glanced at his hand. Then at him. Tall. Olive skin. Hair effortlessly messy. And eyes that were warm, with a hint of mischief. “Okay.” His smile deepened. You took his hand. For the first few steps, neither of you spoke. Then he leaned closer. “Funny how well you wear that mask.” Your smile faltered. “What mask?” “The good girl.” His eyes stayed on yours. “But I know better.” Your heart skipped. “What do you know?” He didn’t let your steps falter, guiding you effortlessly across the dance floor. His breath grazed your ear. “The parties. The people you’re with. Everything you do when you stop pretending.” Your breath caught. “What do you want?” “You.” You almost laughed. Instead, you stared at him. “That isn’t an answer.” “It is.” The music carried you slowly across the floor. “You’re taking me to the party next Friday.” Your brows pulled together. “Excuse me?” “And your family’s dinner the week after.” “You can’t be serious.” “I am.” He smiled as though he’d already seen your answer. “You’ll take me wherever you go.” “Or what?” You looked up. The warmth in his eyes was gone. What remained was cold, calculating and utterly certain. “Oh, I’ll expose every little lie you’ve ever told someone.” You wanted to slap him. Instead, you tightened your fingers around his. “Fine.” His eyebrow lifted. You smiled sweetly. “But if you know so much about me…” You leaned closer. “…you should know I don’t like being told what to do.” (36, 6‘2)

‚Pasta & Ti Amo’ Moving to Italy sounded much more romantic before you actually did it. Maybe quitting your job, packing two suitcases and moving to Florence without knowing a single person had been impulsive. But you loved the city. The language that somehow sounded like music even when people argued. And God…the food. You lived in a three story house. On the ground floor lived Signora Lucia. She introduced herself within five minutes of your arrival, insisted on carrying one of your boxes despite being half your size and somehow decided by the end of the week that you were famiglia. The floor below yours belonged to Marco. You crossed paths every now and then. A polite “Buongiorno.” A nod on the stairs. Nothing more. Then you caught the flu. By the second day, even making tea felt exhausting. Around lunchtime, someone knocked. You opened the door wrapped in a blanket. Marco stood there holding a steaming pot. “Signora Lucia said you haven’t left your apartment in two days.” You blinked. “…She spies on me?” “She loves everyone.” He set the soup on your table, then leaned against the kitchen counter, watching you. “…You’re watching me eat.” “ You’re too thin.” “Signora Lucia has been trying to fix that since I moved in.” “Eat.” The next evening he knocked again. This time there was no soup. Just two grocery bags. “Don’t ask,“ he said. „You can’t live on soup.” While he cooked, the two of you talked for hours. After that, things quietly became routine. Saturday mornings at the market. Evenings that somehow always ended in one of your kitchens. You brought dessert. He cooked dinner. He handed you a glass of wine whenever you offered to help. Somewhere between homemade pasta, shared dinners and Signora Lucia pretending not to smile every time she saw you together, Italy slowly started feeling less like the place you’d moved to… and more like home. (33, 6‘2)

‚He Steals The Bride’ My brother doesn’t deserve her, and now he’s standing beside her slightly trembling figure at their engagement party. Surrounded by half the criminal underworld, politicians, celebrities, and anyone who at least thinks they’re important. She’s terrified. Trying to keep her mask in place, trying desperately not to burst into tears and flee from this room. But I’ve seen how she really is. The way her smile lights up her face. The way her hand moves when she talks about something that excites her. He’s going to kill that light. Smothering the flame until there’s nothing left but an empty casket. She knows how he is when he thinks no one’s watching. The way he grabs her arm too tightly. The way he raises his voice at her. I know he harms her when they’re alone. A man isn’t a real man when he harms a woman. I can’t stand it. I hate it. Our father clinks his glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to announce—” I cut him off. “There will be no wedding.” I don’t have to raise my voice. As head of the family, all eyes are on me anyway. I watch her reaction as the room falls silent. Confusion. Disbelief. But also relief. I look directly at her. “You will not marry my brother.” After that, the room explodes. My brother. My father. Everyone yelling. Cursing. Insisting on the arrangement that was made the day she was born. I look at my father. “You want an arrangement?” I look at her. “You can have one.” I lift my hand, palm up. Offering. Inviting. My eyes remain entirely on her. “Come here, darling.” My mouth twitches into a smirk, because holy shit, I’ve wanted to call her that for so long. “I’ll take care of you.” (41, 6‘3)

‚I Was the One Who Let You Go’ There was a time when being with you felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like we didn’t have to think too hard about it. You would look at me across a room and I would already know where I belonged. It didn’t feel complicated then. It just felt like us. I don’t know when that started to change. Not in one moment. More like a slow pressure I didn’t know how to hold without breaking something. You started asking me to stay a little more, to be present in ways I kept promising I would get better at. And I kept believing I would. But somewhere along the way, I began to feel like I was disappointing you more often than I was showing up for you. Like every promise I made came back unfinished. Like the man you believed in was slowly falling short of the life we were trying to build together. “I can’t be what you need without hurting you,” I said in the end. Like saying it out loud made it responsible instead of scared. You didn’t stop loving me that day. You fought for it. You always fought for us longer than I did. But I had already started stepping out of the life we were trying to hold together. I signed the papers first. I told myself it was the right thing, that distance would turn into clarity, that you would eventually be better without someone who kept falling short of what you needed. It didn’t feel like relief. It just felt like silence I didn’t know what to do with. Three years passed like that. Not moving on. Just not going back. Until I stopped lying to myself about why I stayed away. Not because it was right. Because I was afraid of facing what I had done. And that was the moment I opened my phone, your name already there, and finally gathered the courage to write what I should have said a long time ago. Can we talk? (42, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚A Good Host’ You inherited a building. Old, slightly crooked, with creaking wooden floors, tall windows and more character than any modern development could ever hope to have. It needed work, but it was beautiful. You hadn’t decided what to do with it yet. Then he appeared. “I’d like to buy it.” “No.” You had expected him to make an offer. You hadn’t expected him to make another one the following week. Or the week after that. You looked him up. He was a successful real estate developer with a reputation for turning neglected properties into extremely profitable projects. He owned half the buildings you passed on your way to work and had enough money to make most people stop asking questions. Apparently, he wasn’t used to hearing no. Every week, there was another offer. You kept refusing. By the fourth week, he’d offered twice the building’s market value. You still said no. That was when his patience finally started to show. “I’d advise you to accept the offer.” You looked at him. “Or what?” He held your gaze for a moment too long. “Think carefully.” You did. You still said no. The following week, you left your apartment like you did every morning. You made it half a block. A black van pulled up beside you. The door opened. You barely had time to turn before someone grabbed you. A sharp sting. The pavement disappeared beneath your feet. Then nothing. When you opened your eyes again, the first thing you noticed was the silence. The second was the unfamiliar room. The third was him. He sat across from you, perfectly composed, as if this were simply another business meeting. “Good morning, sleepyhead.“ You stared at him. “You kidnapped me?” (35, 6‘2)

‚Bad Habits’ You and him had always been very good at keeping things simple. You weren’t together. You’d never called it dating. There were no expectations, no promises, no awkward conversations about where this was going. You just had a habit of ending up in the same bed. Usually after midnight. Usually after one of you had sworn it wouldn’t happen again. It was convenient. Familiar. Easy. And when either of you dated someone else, that was fine, too. That was the whole point of having no label, wasn’t it?Neither of you owed the other anything. Except somehow, you always came back. A late-night message. A drink that turned into another. One of you showing up at the other’s apartment with some terrible excuse that neither of you bothered pretending to believe. You’d both called it a bad habit more than once. Neither of you had ever actually tried to quit. Until tonight. You hadn’t known he would be at the party. You certainly hadn’t known he’d bring a date. Then you saw him across the room. His hand was resting on someone else’s arm. Your date was standing beside you. For one strange second, everything felt completely normal. Then his eyes met yours. His gaze flicked briefly toward your date before returning to you. And suddenly, the person beside you felt like a very obvious mistake. Not because you’d broken any rules. You hadn’t. Neither had he. That was the problem. Because for the first time, standing ten feet apart with other people on your arms, you both seemed to understand exactly what your little arrangement had been hiding. You didn’t want someone else. You wanted each other. And judging by the way he was looking at you, he had just reached the same unfortunate conclusion. (32, 6‘2)

‚You Just Don’t Know It Yet’ They presented her to me like an offering. A mafia princess, designed to rule my kingdom beside me and produce heirs. She was obnoxious in every way. Her voice like fingernails over a blackboard. Jewelry clung to her like ornaments on a Christmas tree. Clearly she never heard of „less is more.“ And apparently, she was not you. You. I didn’t even know your name. I only knew the sound of your voice. The feel of your fingers tending to the wound that nearly killed me, if it hadn’t been for you. The moment I saw you, I knew I was ruined. Yesterday, you found me. Yesterday felt a lifetime ago. Now my parents were standing in my office with this. I swear, if she didn’t stop talking, I’d— “I’m already married,” I said instead. The room fell silent - what a blessing. „Son…“ my mother started. I cut her off. “Leave. All of you.” I found you that same afternoon. You needed money. Your parents had left you with debts that were slowly swallowing your life, and I offered you a solution. One year. Be my spouse. I’d clear every debt you had. You negotiated well. I agreed to more than that. By the end of our year together, you’d be wealthy enough to walk away from me and live however you pleased. You signed. By the time the ink dried, my men were already packing your belongings into boxes and moving them into my mansion. You put the pen down and looked at me. “We should talk about boundaries.” My hand closed around your waist before you could take another step. I lifted you onto the table and stepped between your legs. “Let go.” I leaned closer. “Let go.” My lips brushed your neck. I heard your breath catch. “Let go.” I held your gaze for one last second. “One day, you’re going to beg me to do the opposite.” Then I let go. I smiled. I loved the look on your face when you were flustered. I love you. You just don’t know it yet. (38, 6‘5)

Daddy’s Home (Usher) I had three meetings before noon, a lunch I barely touched & a phone that refused to stop ringing. None of it mattered nearly as much as the picture you had sent me at 10:17. I looked at it again while my assistant was talking and I pretended to listen. Whatever we were, we had never bothered putting a name to it. We didn’t talk much about our lives outside the hours we spent together. We knew each other’s habits, preferences, moods. I knew exactly how to make you laugh, exactly what kind of look meant you were about to challenge me, & exactly how long I could tease you before you started plotting revenge. Apparently, you knew me just as well. Especially how you made me feel, when you called me Daddy. By two, you sneaked into my office. You stayed for eleven minutes. Long enough to ruin the concentration I’d managed to regain. Long enough for me to walk you to the elevator myself. “Behave,” I murmured. You gave me that look. “I’ll see you tonight.” I watched the elevator doors close. The rest of the afternoon passed in messages. Little provocations. Teasing remarks. Enough to keep you on my mind through every meeting. Then, sometime after six, you stopped answering. Completely. By midnight, I was staring at my phone with a feeling I couldn’t quite name. I could have called anyone. I could have gone anywhere. There were always people willing to answer. But I didn’t want anyone. I wanted you. I drove to your place. When the door finally opened, I knew immediately that something was wrong. You looked exhausted. Your eyes were swollen. And before I could ask a single question, you broke. I caught you when you fell into my arms. “Hey,” I whispered, holding you tightly. You cried against my chest. I didn’t ask why. Not yet. I simply held you, lifted you gently into my arms & carried you to the couch. Then I sat down with you curled against me, keeping you close. I pressed my cheek lightly against your hair. “Daddy’s home.”

‚Turn the Tables’ You had been the quiet one in college. The scholarship student who worked two jobs, kept your head down and somehow still managed to make it into the Ivy League. Unfortunately, that had made you an easy target. Three girls. Two boys. They had turned humiliating you into a hobby. You never fought back. You remembered everything. Years later, you had built a life they could only have dreamed of. Successful. Respected. Composed. Apparently, that still wasn’t enough to keep them from trying. The moment you walked into the reunion, the conversation around the room seemed to pause. Heads turned. You had only taken a few steps before you spotted them gathered together at the bar. They noticed you too. For a moment, nobody said anything. Then Kimberly smiled. The vicious one. Her mouth said friendly. Her eyes said die. “Oh my God. Look who finally decided to show up.” You smiled politely, then spoke loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Kimberly, how are you? I heard your husband filed for bankruptcy last week.” Her smile vanished. You turned to Janet. “And you? Still telling your husband those investments are doing well?” Janet went pale. “I suppose he’ll be surprised when he sees the actual numbers.” You looked at the other two. “And you two? When are you planning to tell your spouses about your affair?” Silence. You finally looked at him across the room. Scott. He had never joined in. Never defended you either. Just stood with them and watched. “And you? Still watching and staying silent?” His expression changed. You turned back to the others, all four still standing there in stunned silence. “Enjoy your evening.” You grabbed a drink and walked away at an unhurried pace, head held high, shoulders straight. A slow smirk curved your lips. (38, 6‘3)

‚The Animal I Have Become’ I remember the sound she made when she died. Our territory had been attacked. I lost my mate that night. For a long time afterward, I couldn’t bear being human. As a man, I remembered everything. Every decision I had made that night. Every second I wondered if I could have been faster, stronger, better. As a wolf, the memories remained—but they didn’t have words. The wolf didn’t ask what I should have done differently. He ran. He hunted. He slept beneath the trees and woke with nothing but the next breath in his lungs. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Eventually, no one asked when I was coming back anymore. I was still part of the pack. I always would be. My place remained. The door was never closed to me. I simply stopped walking through it. Years passed. The wolf became easier. Human skin became unfamiliar. Two legs felt wrong after too long on four. Human sounds became painfully sharp. Words felt unnecessarily complicated when a growl could say everything I needed. And shifting back began to hurt. At first it was only stiffness. Then pain in my joints, my spine, my bones. Some days it took hours before my body stopped fighting the shape I had forced it into. I knew what was happening. Every shifter did. The balance between human and animal was supposed to remain equal. Mine hadn’t. And still, I kept the animal I have become. Until the night I saw you. I had been in human form for less than an hour, sitting alone in the corner of a bar I had no real reason to be in, waiting for the ache in my bones to fade. Then you walked through the door. Something inside me went completely still. My wolf lifted its head. Not curious. Not alert. Certain. The recognition hit so hard that I forgot how to breathe. No. I knew that feeling. I had felt it once before. My fingers tightened around the glass in my hand. Across the room, you looked in my direction. And my wolf whispered the one word I thought I would never hear again. Mate.

‚What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas….Or Doesn’t‘ Your bachelorette weekend in Las Vegas was supposed to be a big party with your friends. Instead, it became the moment everything fell apart. Your best friend had been strangely distracted all evening, her phone constantly lighting up with messages. Eventually, you glanced at the screen. One name. Your fiancé. One message after another. Enough to understand exactly what had been going on behind your back. So you went out alone. The man you met that night was nothing like the people you were used to. Calm, confident and impossibly attractive, he carried himself with the kind of effortless authority that made people move around him without being asked. He bought you a drink, listened while you poured out everything that had happened and somehow made you laugh when you hadn’t thought you could. He knew exactly how to make the night feel like an escape. You drank more than you should have. You remembered dancing. You remembered his smile. Everything in between is a blur. The next morning you stared at the devastatingly handsome man still sleeping beside you, trying desperately to piece together the night. You left without questioning it. He remembered every second. A week later, you were back in New York with your engagement over, your old apartment emptied and a new job secured as an executive assistant. You thought everything was finally behind you. Until your first morning. After the initial briefings, someone from HR told you that Mr. d’Alessi will be meeting with you personally. The name sounds vaguely familiar. You knock. “Come in.” You step into the office. The man behind the desk slowly turns his chair toward you, leaning back with the same calm confidence you remember from somewhere you can’t quite place. Then he smiles. You know that smile. “Good morning, wifey.” (38, 6‘4)