Chapter One
Their cars block the driveway, so I grab a free space further down the street without a second thought. I finished the freelance project early; it’s mid-morning, and Paul isn’t expecting me home.
I bet they are watching a film.
They have always been such good friends. Lately, Paul has been helping Dove more around her house, taking on the heavier, more physical tasks. I’m so proud of him—proud of how generous and kind he is, helping my sister for me. He’s thoughtful like that.
I hope they have got popcorn.
As I step through the door, something shifts in the air. A feeling of unease curls in my stomach, and the cutesy tune I’m humming catches in my throat.
Music. Sexy music.
Clothes lie haphazardly scattered across the floor—his and hers.
Still, like the absolute numpty I am, I convince myself there must be a straightforward explanation because there’s always a logical explanation. Right?
Instincts, which I ignore, scream at me to leave. Get back in the car, Lark, drive away, and come back later at your usual time!
But no. I ignore that little voice of reason. I don’t even know why I go upstairs.
I… need to see, I guess—silly me.
The door to the bedroom is wide open. I frown and tilt my head, hoping what is happening before me will magically change. If I view the scene from a different angle, it might be less obscene.
Less real.
Dove is vigorously riding my husband on our marital bed as if she is trying to break that sucker off.
My hand trembles as I pull out my phone. It takes two attempts to fish it out of my pocket, and my breath catches as I hit record.
I wince at her over-the-top screams.
I’m not a perv. This isn’t about voyeurism. I need evidence.
Evidence of the end of my marriage. If I don’t record it, he will gaslight me later. He will tell me it didn’t happen—that I misunderstood or imagined it all.
He can’t.
I might have a soft heart, but I’m no weak-willed ninny.
I only manage to film a few more seconds. I can’t stand here any longer. I’m sure I’ve recorded enough to make my point. Any more of this, and I will have to bleach my eyeballs.
With the loud music covering my retreat, on leaden legs, I back up, turn and go downstairs. Instinctively, I head to the furthest room in the house without stepping outside: the kitchen.
As soon as I lay eyes on the sink, bile rushes up my throat. The porcelain is cold under my sweaty palms as I silently throw up.
When my stomach is empty, I wonder what to do now. I imagine sitting on the sofa, waiting for them to finish their little romp and come downstairs. I picture myself, vomit dripping from my lips and bile burning my tongue, trying to look dignified as I yell, “Surprise!” Or maybe go with a classic: “Did you kids have fun?”
What do other people do in this situation? Do they rant? Scream? Break things?
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, tuck loose strands of brown hair behind my ears with shaky fingers, and blink back tears.
My eyes fall to the drawer where I keep the knives.
Deep inside, I feel the urge to do something dramatic and bloody.
But that’s not me. I’m not that person.
I’ve always been the peacemaker.
The pacifier.
The doormat.
I’m a practical person.
I get socially anxious and fret about saying the wrong thing, second-guessing every word that comes out of my mouth. In every situation, I never quite know what to do with my hands—they are strange, floppy, awkward things.
And I’m happiest curled up on the sofa with a book or buried in lines of monotonous code at work.
I’ve had training—if I hurt them, I will be the one locked up.
I’m not made for prison.
I can’t touch them, even if I have every right to feel angry and betrayed. I can’t ruin my life.
What life?
Our twenty-seven-year marriage is gone. The wreckage sits heavy on my chest, weighing me down. I feel broken, sad, and so bloody stupid.
It’s ridiculous. What a waste.
What a waste of a lifetime spent with someone who never really loved me. Because if Paul loved me, he wouldn’t be upstairs screwing my sister.
When we met, he was twenty-six, and I was a fresh-faced nineteen. So young. So naïve. And now? Now I’m a silly, middle-aged woman huddled in her kitchen while the two most important people in my life enjoy each other upstairs.
No, wait. Hold on.
I’m not even middle-aged, am I?
What is the average human lifespan these days? Eighty, if you are lucky? But last I checked, scientifically speaking, it’s closer to seventy-three—if you don’t end up a chew toy for a shifter or a vampire, that is. So, if you think about it, middle age is thirty-six and a half.
Thirty-six and a half.
Shit.
That’s so young. And by that measure, I’m eleven years past middle age. I’m already well into dipping my toes into being useless to society.
I never thought I’d be useless to him—or that my sister would be a better fit. What a cliché. My sister. Paul had to do this with my beautiful, gregarious older sister.
At least it isn’t a secretary—that I know of. I shake my head, my chin dropping as a pain-filled sigh rattles through my chest.
He is a weak-willed sisterfucker.
And Dove? She took the man I’d spent twenty-eight years of my life with… because she could.
After everything I’ve done for her. I’ve been her rock, made sacrifices, and there was nothing—nothing—I wouldn’t have done for my sister.
If she called me to help bury a body, I’d show up with a shovel and gloves, no questions asked. Dove? She wouldn’t ring for help if I were on fire. No, she’d warm her hands and complain about the smell of burning skin.
I loved them.
I trusted them.
What a mug I am.
I groan and bury my face in my hands. At least we never had kids. We were both selected for forced sterilisation as teenagers—a gift for the not-so-perfect specimens of the pure human population.
We were perfect together.
He was my person. I gave everything to our marriage. I would’ve done anything for Paul, the one I loved beyond measure. I’ve always been a do-or-die kind of girl. Loyal.
I’m done.
I’m so done.
A whining sound, full of pain, bubbles up from my chest. Even as I hear it, I can’t seem to stop—it’s the sound of a tortured dog.
There’s a thump upstairs, followed by laughter.
The horrid noise I’m making cuts off as my lips curl in disgust. I stare at the ceiling, my fingers flexing toward the knife drawer as though possessed.
I am not safe. Wow. That’s such a weird, honest thought. They aren’t safe with me here.
Now I understand why good people snap and go on a rampage. The crazy wants to burst out of my chest, clawing its way free like some alien creature.
I drag my hand away from the knife drawer again, the limb flopping to my thigh like dead weight.
I don’t know how this happened.
There were no signs. No hidden phone calls. No suspicious behaviour. Or maybe there were, but I was too blind to see them. Even if there had been, I wouldn’t have believed they could betray me like this.
My rose-coloured glasses don’t go this shade of messed up.
I don’t know how long it’s been going on. Maybe it started today, or it could’ve been years.
Do I even want to know?
Does it matter?
There’s no going back for me. Not now.
What do I do? What the heck do I do? I could wait right here and confront them when they come downstairs. Scream. Cry. Wail. Listen to their lies as they twist everything until I don’t know which way is up or down.
I could give Paul a chance to explain. But I already know what he will do. He will try to convince me to forgive him.
Forgiveness.
When I refuse, it will turn nasty. Paul won’t be able to help himself. The blame game will start, and somehow, all of this will end up being my fault. And then what?
Now that I’ve uncovered their affair, what if they decide to chuck me out?
I can almost hear Dove’s voice, dripping with faux sincerity: “We’re in love, Lark, and this is our house now.”
The thought hits me like a punch, and I rock back a step, slapping a hand over my mouth to stifle the manic cry clawing its way up my throat.
I’m expendable.
The realisation burns through my chest, sharp and unrelenting.
What if they don’t care? What if they have no regrets? My heart, my ego, my sense of self—none of it will survive if they end up together. If Dove takes over my life.
I stand there, staring into space, while my inner voice screams at me to leave. Run. Get out.
But I’m frozen.
All I know is that I cannot—will not—be here when they come downstairs.
What the heck do I do? I don’t want to be the cheated-on spouse. The sad, pathetic woman left behind. This is not my life. It can’t be. It can’t.
This is not my life!
Fate dealt me these cards through some cruel alignment of tiny circumstances—a perfect storm that led to me arriving home early. But you know what? I’m not bloody playing.
Fate can get stuffed.
I can’t just abandon my life and disappear without a word…
Can I?
It would be a knee-jerk reaction born from pain. Immature. Petty.
And yet…
I never want to see either of them again. The idea of walking away without saying a single thing is so appealing. To not stick around for the inevitable circus: the screaming matches, the endless back-and-forth, the splitting of lives and memories into neat little transactional pieces—the rigmarole of tearing each other apart.
Ghosting Paul will drive him mad.
He loves the sound of his own voice and loves getting the last word. Why should I give him closure?
He’d never expect me to vanish, to drop off the face of the earth. And by doing the unexpected, he will be forced to experience the full impact of what he has done without it being cushioned by our relationship slowly fading.
It’s an emotional bomb he isn’t expecting.
My sister? Oh, Dove will be in for a treat. An angry, frustrated Paul isn’t exactly attractive.
I don’t care what happens next. I only hope it’s torturous for both of them.
I gather my essential documents from the bottom kitchen drawer and head for the front door.
For the last time, I take in the home we built together—the life we built—now littered with their clothes scattered across the floor like rubbish.
What is left of our marriage? Lies, false memories, and stuff.
He can have it all—every last piece. Stuff can be replaced. Let Dove have my twenty-year-old knickers and my useless, cheating husband. If she wants Paul and my life so badly, she can have the entire package.
I grab my computer from the sofa, where I’d dumped it when I came home. Next to it is a client’s thank-you gift—a bag and a beautiful bouquet of lilies, carnations, roses, and baby’s breath.
My gaze lingers on the flowers.
Why shouldn’t I let them know I’ve been here?
A deranged smile twitches my lips as the idea takes hold. I pick up the flowers and tuck the gift bag under my arm. Inside is a handwritten thank-you card and a bottle of champagne.
Conscious that I’m running out of time, I pluck the heads off the roses with aggressive snaps of my fingers. A shame they aren’t red, I think, holding up the pink petals. But they will do.
I rip all the petals from the stems and scatter them at the bottom of the stairs, mingling them with the petals from the carnations. They form a winding path between the discarded clothing, leading toward the kitchen.
It’s petty. It’s theatrical. It’s perfect.
In the kitchen, I remove my engagement, wedding, and eternity rings and place them on the counter. Next, I add two long-stemmed glasses, the unopened bottle of champagne, the lilies, and a handful of baby’s breath.
I tilt my head and appraise my work. Not bad. I hope it freaks them out.
The arrangement is elegant. Subtle. It says everything without me needing to leave a note or explanation.
Paul’s a big boy. I’m sure he will figure it out.
Chapter Two
My shoulder clips the door frame as I stumble out, barely registering the twinge of pain. I softly close the front door behind me, shuffle down the garden path, and step onto the street. Rows of identical cookie-cutter houses stretch in both directions, prim and proper under the bright spring light.
I never liked this house. I never liked this street.
The gated housing estate where you are expected to wash your car every Sunday, keep your lawn trimmed to regulation height, and ensure the grass stays the right shade of green—hours of care for something that will inevitably grow back.
And if you didn’t conform? The gossipy neighbours would make it their mission to let you know. The sneers. The passive-aggressive remarks. It always felt suffocating.
I glance around the pristine, silent street and feel the most overwhelming urge to shout: “Paul, at number seven, is smashing the granny out of his wife’s sister!”
Now that would give them something to gossip about.
But I don’t. Barely.
Instead, I clamp my mouth shut, scuttle down the road, and unlock the car. I drag my numb, emotionally drained body into the driver’s seat. The door closes with a heavy thud that reverberates through me. I lean back with a groan.
I still need to do things before I can get the heck out of here. The last thing I want is to stay on this street a second longer, but these tasks won’t wait. I pull my laptop from the passenger seat and open it.
First stop: the home security system.
“Dumbarse,” I mutter when I see it’s been switched to privacy mode. Of course, Paul forgot that I designed the damn thing. It records everything outside the house—cars, doors, the lot. I’d set it up after a string of local break-ins. Privacy mode shunts those recordings into a separate folder. A few quick clicks later, I locate and download the files. I don’t look at them—the dozens of files. I don’t need to. Just knowing they are there is enough for now.
Next: the bank accounts.
I log into our joint accounts and transfer half the savings to my personal account.
“I will find a solicitor tomorrow,” I murmur, closing the laptop and setting it aside.
Last stop: my phone.
I hesitate for a moment. I’d chuck the whole thing in the nearest bin if I didn’t need it for work. But I do—I’m self-employed. To avoid being driven mad by the cheater’s incoming calls, I block all personal numbers. It does not take long—my friendship circle is embarrassingly small. Paul never liked any of my friends.
I slip the phone into the centre console, put on my glasses, and start the car. My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel. I take a deep, shuddering breath, but it does not help.
My skin crawls. All I can smell is them. Their coupling. They had sex in my bed. The evidence of their betrayal feels ingrained in my nose, clinging to my skin, hair, and clothes.
I want to shower. I want to scrub myself raw.
Rapid breaths whine through my tight throat. My internal temperature swings wildly between boiling hot and frigid cold. My head is spinning. I need to get a grip.
“Lark,” I whisper, “you can do this.”
I clench the wheel tighter, willing my hands to stop trembling. I can’t lose it now—not when I’m about to drive. I’ve kept my cool until now.
Well, mostly. My lips twitch with a bitter laugh as I think about the flower display in the kitchen. At least they will know I left of my own volition and haven’t gone missing, sparing them the need to call the police.
“I’m too old for this shit,” I grumble, leaning back and letting my head thud softly against the headrest. I trace the bright blue sky with dry, unblinking eyes.
It’s a beautiful day.
How dare it be beautiful?
It should be raining, at least. Thunder. Lightning. Some sign from the universe to mark the wreckage of my life.
A wild idea bubbles up in my mind. I let it simmer, swirling around with the rest of my chaotic thoughts. Calmer now, I check my mirrors, glance over my blind spots, and slip the car into first gear. Robotically, I drive away from the shitshow that was my life.
The town fades behind me, its familiarity blurring into insignificance. Before I know it, I’m on the motorway, heading north toward the Sector Border.
I never thought I’d willingly drive toward the shifters.
Part of me—the broken, miserable part—wants to pull over, crawl under the nearest bridge, and wrap myself in a blanket of cardboard boxes. To give up. To just… stop.
But another part of me, the enraged, determined part, burns hotter. It wants to succeed. To thrive, if only to shove it in their faces. To scream, “I don’t need you, so eff off!”
Bitter pain, I realise, is one heck of a motivator.
I drive for hours, the road blurring into a monotonous ribbon beneath my tyres. I force my mind to stay blank, refusing to pick apart my life with Paul. There’s too much to untangle, too much pain clawing at the edges of my thoughts. Sobbing uncontrollably while behind the wheel isn’t exactly safe.
So I focus on the engine’s hum and the blur of signs flashing by. For now, that’s all I can manage. The miles roll by as I stop only for fuel and cheap essentials: a few changes of clothes and toiletries—just enough to last until I’m settled somewhere.
And then I see it.
The Sector Border.
It looms in the distance, crawling up the horizon like a jagged scar cutting the sky. An impenetrable wall of magic, concrete, and electrified fencing spans the width of the land, dividing the shifters from the rest of the country—and the other human derivatives.
Derivative is the term people use.
Our DNA is still human—just with a twist. A splash of extra junk DNA that works differently, making some of us stronger.
Different.
Fangs, claws, and magic.
Vampires, shifters, magic users, and the rare, prized pure humans—we all fall somewhere along a spectrum of strength, with some unlucky individuals carrying a mix of DNA that cancels itself out, leaving them next to useless.
Some say derivatives are a natural evolution. Others spin tales of alien intervention. Supposedly, elf-like beings tweaked our genome—probably the same theorists who think aliens built our ancient ruins.
Science has not pinned down the origins of derivatives, and most theories are quietly dismissed. Maybe the governments know more, but if they do, they are not talking.
Considering we don’t even know all the species lurking in the deep ocean, it’s not a stretch to imagine there’s more about our genome that science has yet to figure out.
Forty years ago, everything came to a head. Xenophobia reached its peak, and society ripped itself apart.
We were killing each other. Pure humans, delicate in comparison, teetered on the edge of extinction. Death rates spiked. Birth rates plummeted.
For the derivatives—especially the blood drinkers—this wasn’t sustainable. They needed pure humans to survive.
The government had no choice. They passed laws that changed everything: the derivatives would govern themselves.
Sectors were drawn up, dividing the country into pieces. Each species ruled its own.
And the fragile peace began.
Geographically, the shifters reign in the north, where the environment is harsh, wild, and staggeringly beautiful.
I glance again at the horizon-stealing barrier. It’s a monstrosity, and the sight of it sends a shiver of apprehension down my spine. The shifters are territorial, and their borders reflect that.
They don’t just guard their borders—they fortify them.
They maintain two borders: the internal one that leads into the heart of their empire, where only those with the correct DNA can enter, and the external one, the one looming through my car window.
This barrier separates the Human Sector from no-man’s-land, a five-mile-wide, ninety-three-mile-long strip of neutral ground known as the Enterprise Zone. The area hosts national businesses where shifters coexist with other derivatives. Despite its collaborative nature, the security here is nothing short of airtight.
Entry into their territory isn’t casual—it demands either a valid work visa or the explicit backing of a shifter sponsor.
Before I can even consider crossing into their sector, I will need to secure a qualifying job first.
Pure humans, vampires, and magic users aren’t as rigidly separated as the shifters. The borders exist, but they are far from the military-grade fortresses the shifters have erected.
The tightly controlled Human Sector is in the centre of the country.
Below us, in the southeast, the vampires dominate the financial and political heart. Vampires, of course, are different. Their borders barely feel like boundaries. They want humans to visit—for dinner, if you catch my drift. Their sector borders feel more like invitations, with flashy buildings, vibrant nightclubs, and an entertainment culture designed to lure you in.
Magic users—mages, witches, and wizards—inhabit the southwest, where the air hums with latent power.
What everyone calls magic has a scientific explanation: it’s a form of energy manipulation.
Pure humans perceive only a narrow slice of reality. Their senses are limited—six million receptor sites in the nose compared to more than a hundred million in a dog. And that’s just smell.
Something unique in a magic user’s brain allows us to manipulate the invisible forces of the world, such as magnetic fields, dark matter, and the substructures of reality. In essence, we manipulate gravity, mass, and molecular vibrations, using what humans can’t see and what science has yet to fully understand to create incredible things.
As my vision wavers and exhaustion claws at me, I know I’m done for the day. I pull into the car park of a popular chain hotel. The sky is darkening, and I don’t want to be on the streets after nightfall.
A yawn cracks my jaw, and booking a room feels like a chore. I power up my laptop, clicking through the motions to avoid having to talk to anyone more than absolutely necessary. If I can walk in, flash my ID, and get a key without speaking, that’ll be perfect.
I don’t have the energy for small talk. Tonight, the entire world can get lost.
While waiting for the hotel’s booking system to update, I stare at the dusky sky, tapping my fingers on the keyboard’s edge.
This is it.
It’s time to put my shaky plan into action.
As a freelancer, I’ve worked with shifter businesses on and off for years. I’m not a superstar, but I’m good at my job, and people know I get things done.
Ten days ago, I received a job offer from the Shifter Ministry to help develop and implement a new defence system. It’s an incredible opportunity—a once-in-a-lifetime kind of role.
But I dismissed it immediately, certain Paul wouldn’t want me working for the shifters, let alone for their government.
I didn’t even tell Paul about the offer.
He has never been good with the other derivatives, and the contract would require relocation. Even if his record was squeaky clean, he wouldn’t have moved with me, no matter the prestige or benefits.
Paul won’t admit it, but I know him too well. It’s in his eyes, in the way he tenses when derivatives are mentioned. Like most pure humans, he is scared—scared of our differences, scared of our perceived weaknesses. That’s why we lived smack bang in the middle of the Human Sector, on a gated estate where everything was controlled and contained.
The real kicker?
Both Dove and Paul are members of Human First, an anti-supernatural group. Idiots.
The Ministry undoubtedly has them on a watch list. I always steered clear of their nonsense, favouring tolerance and common sense. My job requires the highest security clearance.
Poking the supes is asking for trouble. I told them countless times not to mess with them; some of the stronger vampires can read your thoughts.
I glance down at the email I’ve pulled up. It’s time to implement the first part of my plan. I never officially turned down the shifter job—life had been too hectic, especially with the big project I wrapped up today. Writing the rejection email was on my to-do list for tomorrow morning.
How fortuitous.
Now there’s nothing stopping me.
I’ve got nothing better to do, nowhere else to go, and it’s not like things can get any worse.
This job will give me more than a salary. It will give me a home, a fresh start, and an adventure. I rub the pale, empty skin of my ring finger, the absence of my wedding band achingly obvious.
It’s a chance to go somewhere the past can’t follow.
I read through the details of the offer again, the words blurring slightly in the dim light of the car and the harsh brightness of the screen. Then, quickly and decisively, I type out my acceptance, including the hotel’s address so they can send over the paperwork.
If they are still interested, they will contact me.
I exit the car, smoothing down my trousers as I gather my things. Chin up, shoulders back, I walk toward the hotel entrance.
The automatic doors slide open, and I’m greeted by a blast of sickly warm air that follows me into the lobby.
The hotel is standard—clean, efficient, and utterly forgettable, just like every other chain hotel. The air is tinged with the faint scent of freshly brewed coffee from the restaurant in the corner, mingling unpleasantly with the sharp pine scent of the floor cleaner.
I nod hello to the receptionist and give him my booking confirmation number. Moments later, I’m holding a keycard and heading to the lift.
I scan the card, hit the button for the fourth floor, and lean back against the cold, brushed steel wall. There’s no mirror, but the black strip above the buttons reflects my face.
“Huh.”
I look exactly as I did when I left work this afternoon. Not a hair out of place, not a hint of the turmoil churning inside me. It’s impressive, really, how much of the pain I feel is invisible, etched nowhere but within.
The lift pings, and the doors slide open. I quickly find the room, and when the door clicks shut behind me, the dull, safe uniformity of four solid walls settles something inside me.
It feels as though I’ve finally stopped running.
I drop the shopping bags onto the suitcase holder next to the wardrobe, kick off my shoes, and strip out of my clothes.
The shower beckons.
Hot water pounds against my shoulders, runs down my face, and pools at my feet. I scrub at my skin until it’s bright pink, hoping to wash away the smell, the betrayal, the day.
But no matter how hard I scrub, it’s still there.
I’m surprised I don’t cry now that I’m safe and alone. I thought I would. I thought tears would come rushing out of me like a dam breaking, but instead, there’s… nothing.
The numbness settles over me like a second skin, wrapping me in an emotional lockdown I can’t break through. Somewhere in my mind, a little voice screams, What the heck is wrong with you? Why aren’t you more upset?
I just feel hollow.
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