Chapter One
The front door slams, and my heart jolts. A sharp blend of dread and anticipation twists in my chest. I drop the tea towel on the counter and rush into the hallway.
“Perfect timing! Dinner’s nearly ready. I made your favourite.”
Jay shrugs off his snow-dusted coat. “Hi, babe.” He kisses my cheek, and as he squeezes past, clips my collarbone with his bony elbow.
I gasp and rebound off the wall.
“You okay down there, shorty?”
“It’s all right. My fault.” I wince and rub the throbbing spot.
He’s never had good spatial awareness. He’s all elbows and knees, and I ought to know better than to greet him in the narrow hallway. Besides, he’s always extra clumsy after working late.
He vanishes into the kitchen, the smell of Chinese food wafting from the brown bag he’s carrying.
Oh no. I hurry after him.
“I—I cooked. I said I’d cook.” The once-cosy kitchen suddenly feels stifling.
He waves me off. “Yeah, yeah, but I don’t fancy your cooking tonight. I wanted a takeaway.” Without even looking at me, he dumps the bag, tears it open, and yanks out a plastic carton. Sauce splatters the spotless white countertop as he lifts the lid. He doesn’t wipe it—doesn’t even notice—just snatches a fork and strides into the living room with his prize.
Jay slumps in the recliner and kicks up his feet, the television droning while he shovels food into his mouth as though he hasn’t eaten in days.
My hands clench at my sides. Hours. I spent hours perfecting a Beef Wellington, yet he couldn’t be bothered to text and say he had other plans. I grind my teeth when a blob of orange sauce splashes onto his shirt. He curses, pinches the fabric to his lips, and licks the stain away.
I average fourteen-hour days. On my single day off, I scrubbed the house until it gleamed, ironed his shirts, and cooked his favourite meal. The least he could do was eat it.
But arguing changes nothing.
Over the past year he has been busy—entertaining mysterious clients, coming home at all hours—and through it all I’ve supported him and the family business. I handle the marketing, yet somehow I have become the office dogsbody: accounts, payroll, even coffee runs. I do so much that there are never enough hours in the day, but we are supposed to be working towards something—our future.
I force my shoulders to drop, unclench my fists, and flex my fingers. No reason to lose my temper. He means nothing by it. Fighting with him just shuts him down further. I can count on my fingers how many times I have managed to win an argument.
Besides, there’s something more important we need to discuss tonight.
I watch him, silently rehearsing the speech I have run through my head a thousand times. I have listened to countless motivational podcasts to work up my nerve. I deserve to ask for what I want.
We have been together ten years. In that time, we have celebrated everyone else’s engagements and weddings. Never ours.
In the Human Sector, marriage isn’t merely romantic; it’s protection from being snatched off the street and turned into a creature’s plaything. Being human is dangerous in a world of monsters. Long-term relationships without marriage count for little in our laws and theirs.
But Jay doesn’t see it that way.
I never wanted to beg for a ‘shut-up ring,’ to nag for commitment. Jay’s a free spirit—marriage isn’t for him, and for years I pretended I was fine with that. But I’m not.
Mum’s voice still echoes: “Why would a man buy the cow if he’s getting the milk for free?” I detest that saying. Yet perhaps she wasn’t entirely wrong. I thought time would change his mind.
Ten years. Deep down, I cringe. I thought I was doing right by him, putting his needs before mine. But I’m forty now. Each birthday gnaws at me; friends’ pitying looks pile up, and my doubts grow louder. What’s wrong with me? Why doesn’t the man I love want to marry me? Each special occasion, I hold my breath, thinking, Is today the day? And every time, nothing.
The disappointment chips away at me until I barely recognise myself.
No more. I’ve invested too much to leave without a fight. I hope he will meet me halfway, catch me when I leap from that proverbial cliff, admit he’s been a fool and is finally ready to commit.
Together we could have a happy and safe life.
I reach for the remote and switch off the television.
Jay glares. “Football’s on in a bit, babe.”
“I know.” My pulse hammers. I perch on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. “We need to talk.”
He rolls his eyes, crams another piece of chicken into his mouth, and gestures vaguely with his fork. “Go on, then. Spit it out. If you’re pissed about the food, put mine in the fridge. We’ve got Tupperware, haven’t we?”
Be brave, Winifred.
I lean closer. “Jay, I know this isn’t your favourite topic, but it is important to me—”
He’s barely listening, more focused on chasing a stray slice of carrot around the carton. “Go on,” he mutters.
I reach over and brush his hand, but he shakes me off as though I were a nuisance. Dismissed. Dismissed, again. No, like he always says, I’m overreacting. Being too sensitive. I pull back and toy with the remote.
“Jay,” I begin once more, inhaling sharply. My instincts scream to let it drop, but I can’t. Not this time. “I want to talk about us.”
He raises a finger for silence. The pause stretches, thick and tense. His expression shifts: blank, annoyed, then something else entirely.
Then he laughs.
He laughs.
Not a nervous or surprised laugh—a mean, sharp one that pricks my skin. A knife slicing through my brave façade. Slicing through my confidence yet again.
Jay drops the fork into the carton and reclines, a nasty grin spreading. “Us,” he repeats. Then his voice hardens. “Oh, I get it. This again. You don’t know when to leave things alone. Come on, babe. Don’t you have everything you want? Nice house, nice cars. Why slap a label on it?” He grabs the fork in his fist and stabs another chunk of chicken.
I swallow, my throat tight. “It’s not a label. It is safety.”
He sighs through his nose. “Not this again. No vampires are dragging you out of bed. No shifters are humping your leg. You’re perfectly safe. Stop being so dramatic. And you wonder why I don’t want to marry you.”
“Jay—”
“No.” Flat. Final.
“But… I—I want us to—”
“No.”
That’s it. No discussion.
Good enough to share his bed, not good enough to be his wife.
Dread knots my stomach. “If I’m not good enough to marry—”
He cuts me off with another short laugh. “Don’t do this, Winifred. You know you love looking after me. The house is in my name. You leave, you lose everything. And your job? Think my parents will keep you on if you’re not my girl? Walk out that door, and you’re dead to them. Dead to all of us.”
Dead.
I stare, numb.
“Thought so. Now stop being silly and get me a beer.” He snatches the remote and turns the television back on.
Right.
Right. Okay.
My hand shakes as I tuck a strand of blonde hair behind my ear. My chest is tight, disappointment pressing in, but autopilot takes over. I fetch a beer, set it in his waiting hand, collect the empty carton, and wipe the sticky mess in the kitchen.
My mind whirls.
I hunch against the kitchen counter and let reality settle. A sob traps in my throat, and my arms fall to my sides, lifeless. That went exactly as I feared. I barely managed two sentences before he shut me down.
I’m disappointed in him, but… I’m more disappointed in myself.
I’m embarrassed.
Embarrassed I dared to hope. Dared to want more, dared to believe I was worth loving. Worth fighting for.
I feel so ashamed.
I press a trembling hand to my mouth, tears slipping down my cheeks as the sad reality burns my throat. Deep down I always knew I wasn’t enough for him—or at least not in his eyes. He shows me in a hundred small ways: every dismissive comment, every selfish choice. Even tonight he brought food only for himself.
Yet I clung to him, pretending not to notice, numbing myself because admitting the truth meant leaving, and I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t ready until now.
I’m still not ready.
Winifred, do you want to be loved like this for the rest of your life?
A hollow, bitter laugh escapes through my hand. I have been so in love, so befuddled by hope, that I overlooked the glaring red flags, like bunting wrapped around him, chaining us both.
Mum would have hated Jay. Hated how he treated me. I met him just after she died, when I was broken with grief and utterly vulnerable. She had been caught in the crossfire of a magical skirmish—a spell had misfired into a crowd of onlookers and killed her instantly. Old, familiar pain carves another hole in my chest. It was my fault. If only I hadn’t asked her to pick up that parcel.
Perhaps that’s why I let Jay in.
Why I pursued a relationship I would never have tolerated if she had been alive. Even in the early days, Jay was dismissive of my feelings.
I wipe my face as something shifts inside. Even the kindest souls have limits, and Jay is about to learn that he does not get unlimited chances. He had two choices tonight: commit or watch me walk away.
I’m done.
Staying will only hurt me now.
I stare at the Beef Wellington resting on its wire rack, at its golden-crusted puff pastry encasing savoury mushroom duxelles and perfectly medium-rare beef tenderloin. I stamp on the pedal-operated bin; its lid flips open. Snatching the Wellington from the rack—burning my fingers, flakes of pastry lodging under my nails—I drop it inside. The dauphinoise potatoes and green beans follow.
He’s not getting anything nice from me again.
I will need somewhere to live and a new job. His mother will make my life hell. It’s going to be a nightmare. I have no family; there is no safety net. But the rose-coloured glasses are off, and I cannot stay.
I won’t.
Chapter Two
Four Months Later
“Don’t come back!” my landlord yells as he tosses my belongings out of the first‑floor window of the scruffy little house. They rain down around me, scattering across the grass and snagging on the thorny hedge bordering the street.
Wow. He’s angry. Like a proper numpty, I stand there frozen with my mouth open, staring.
There’s a thump of a wagging tail hitting the grass and a playful growl. I glance at the dog who started all this, happily gnawing on a piece of black fabric clutched between his grey and white paws.
“Baylor, no, really? Do you have to?”
He’s slobbering, tearing into my favourite pair of knickers, the expensive satin‑and‑lace kind. I groan and rub my eyes. I know better than to try to take them from him. A Saturday morning Husky‑underwear-tug‑of‑war isn’t on my to‑do list.
At least the distraction keeps him occupied and stops him from ruining anything else.
I hope.
I stare at the growing mess and rub the back of my sweaty neck. Seeing my things on the ground is almost overwhelming, especially the things that landed in the flowerbeds and are now streaked with dirt.
I’ll have to wash everything. I love clothes, but now that I’m on a strict budget, each piece must be chosen with care. My carefully curated capsule wardrobe—where everything mixes and matches—is a source of pride, along with my makeup.
My makeup… Bile fills my mouth. I close my eyes. Most of it won’t survive the drop from the window. A few palettes are already broken, and I don’t dare look closer. I refuse to cry, not with onlookers enjoying the show.
A few neighbours peek out from their windows, while the bolder ones linger in their doorways, coffee mugs clutched in their hands, clearly entertained at my expense.
I know how people see me—blonde, blue eyes, petite, unassuming. They decide who I am before I open my mouth: stupid. Soft. Weak. Middle‑aged.
It doesn’t bother me. Let them think what they want. The version of me they have in their heads isn’t real. Only my own perception of myself matters.
“That’s what you get when you cheat!” a woman calls out before slamming her door. The sound echoes down the street.
My cheeks burn. “I didn’t cheat,” I mutter. Louder, I yell, “He’s my landlord!” As if I would have a relationship with Derek. “He’s not even a friend.”
I flinch as something smacks me in the forehead. Ouch. The rubber chicken dog toy squawks comically as it hits the grass. Baylor eyes it and lets out a soft “awoo” before returning to his work of tearing at the wet, silky fabric under his paws.
This is all his fault. Bloody dog.
I sigh, hunch my shoulders and—with one eye on Baylor and the other on the window above—begin gathering my things, yanking them out of the shrubs. The stems catch on my sleeves and scratch my hands. I sweep my scattered possessions into a pile, hoping Derek will eventually toss down my bags.
Baylor’s a good dog, really. It’s not his fault, it’s mine. He’s been through a lot. He has separation anxiety, and I don’t blame him—his humans passed away a couple of weeks ago, and I’m a poor substitute.
I don’t know what the heck I’m doing.
What I do know is that a three‑year‑old Husky isn’t ideal for a first‑time pet owner.
First, he chewed the wires in the back of my car and damaged the lights. I thought I was being thoughtful when I lowered the seats so he would have more room to curl his fluffy bum and grumpy attitude into the boot. I had no idea he’d make a meal out of it.
I couldn’t afford the repair, but I had no choice since I need a vehicle for work. So, today I got it fixed, bought a waterproof cover to protect the back seat, and invested in two dog guards: one to block the front, and one to protect the boot and its tasty lights.
I assumed locking him in my room while I ran to the dealership would be safe.
Turns out, it wasn’t.
I wasn’t gone long, maybe forty‑five minutes. But when I returned, there was a hole in my bedsit’s door, and Baylor’s head was sticking through it, tail wagging, a huge doggy grin on his face.
He was thrilled to see me.
Derek was there to fix a leaky tap and saw the damage at the same time I did.
I rub my sore biceps, where finger‑shaped bruises circle my arm. The tender flesh pulses under my touch. He dragged me downstairs and threw us both out. I scowl up at the window. No, Derek is not my friend.
My hairdryer lands next, its plastic shattering on the path. “Oh no.” I dash towards Baylor, deciding he’s safer in the car.
There’s no dog lead in sight. I improvise with a knee sock, loop it around his collar and let him drag me to the vehicle. He leaps into the back and wriggles, smoke‑grey tail thumping against me as he inspects the new ‘anti-Husky décor.’
The spring weather still holds a chill, but I crack the windows for him before running back to salvage my belongings. At least I don’t have to haul them downstairs.
A threadbare bag scrapes the red brick on its way down. Finally. I scoop up armfuls of clothes and shove them inside.
What’s sad is that this doesn’t even make the top ten worst things that have happened these past four months. Just thinking about everything churns my stomach. If I dwell on it too long, I’ll be sick.
Four months ago, with my pride in tatters, I moved out and rented a dingy, mouldy room. Jay didn’t call, but his mum sent me an email at 2 a.m. terminating me ‘effective immediately.’
Deep down, I wanted Jay to miss me. To fight for me. As days turned into weeks, his family waged war on my reputation, but Jay remained suspiciously silent.
Seven weeks later, I was scrolling through my mobile when my thumb froze. Jay’s face flashed on the screen, smiling, his arm around another woman.
For reasons I still can’t explain, I read the caption: he was getting married to her.
I didn’t realise I had stopped breathing until my chest started to burn. A dull roar filled my ears as I stared at my phone, hands trembling. The betrayal—the finality—hit me like a punch.
I wiped every social media account. One more ‘I’m so sorry’ or ‘serves you right’ from my so‑called friends, and I would have screamed.
As if to twist the knife, Jay tracked me down just to send me a wedding invitation.
A bloody wedding invitation! I was mortified. The wedding day is in June, on my birthday. Humiliation scorched beneath my skin. I felt small, foolish, desperate to curl up and disappear.
I keep telling myself it wasn’t my fault. Our relationship was like a book held too close to my face—only when I moved it to arm’s length could I read the words. With distance I could finally see the whole story, and now I shove the memories aside just to function.
I can’t believe I was with a man for so long who was so deliberately cruel.
I grab another item and stuff it into the bag. People are no better than the monsters who lurk in the darkness, just waiting for us silly humans to show a sliver of weakness.
The only person I stayed in contact with was the wife of one of Jay’s friends, Amy. She chose to stand by me, which surprised me. Amy wasn’t gentle with her opinions; she never patted my arm or said, ‘You’ll be okay.’ She was livid—furious on my behalf—and never once said, ‘I told you so.’ Instead, she stood beside me, letting me be angry, letting me grieve, letting me hate. Letting me cry on her shoulder. Amy was a true friend.
And then she was gone.
A simple dinner date. A fun night out in the Vampire Sector with her husband, Max. They never came home.
A vampire killed them.
I swallow the lump in my throat. That’s how I ended up with Baylor. Nobody here cares about animals—no shelters, no rescue groups—so it’s just him and me.
Losing Amy was the wake‑up call I needed. It wrenched me out of any lingering daydreams about Jay, forcing me to face a real tragedy. My broken relationship was nothing compared to my best friend’s murder.
Now I’m left with a heart full of grief and a depressed, clingy dog.
And now this.
Yeah, it doesn’t even make the top ten.
I sniff, throat tight, chest aching under the weight of it all.
We will be fine. We have to be.
Things must get better. This has to be the worst of it. This has to be rock bottom.
… Right?
When the window opens again, I gather my courage. I’m not the doormat I used to be. I’m learning to speak up for myself.
“You owe me rent!” I shout. “I’ve paid for the entire month, and we have a contract!” I don’t expect to see my deposit again.
“Get lost, Winifred!” Derek yells, sticking his greasy head out the window to glare at me. “Thanks to your mutt, you owe me a new door.”
It begins to rain. “Will you please just stop? I said I was sorry. He didn’t mean to eat the door.”
“I warned you that you could only have the dog stay for a week. It’s been two. I told you no pets! By the time I’m finished with you, no one will rent you a room. You are finished in this town.” It’s not as though he’s landlord of the year. “You should have done the world a favour and had that animal put down!”
I gasp. “So you are a dog killer now?”
“That dog I am. He peed all over my flowerpots. He’s an untrainable menace.”
“Derek, you can’t do this. I have tenant rights. You can’t throw us out with nowhere to go. It’s a death sentence!”
As soon as I say ‘death sentence,’ the nosy neighbours vanish, and the street falls silent.
I stand alone in the cold, drizzle spattering my face and wind tugging at my hair. Is this really happening?
“You should have thought of that when you let that uncontrollable beast into my home. Actions have consequences, Winifred.”
“I’ll fix the door, and I will wash all the flowerpots. Please, Derek—” I will beg on my knees for a roof over our heads. Pride is useless if we end up dead.
“No,” he snaps, and the window slams shut.
Stunned, I stare at the glass, a deep sigh building in my chest. Then I keep moving. What else can I do?
One by one I rescue the rest of my belongings. It’s like playing Tetris, cramming everything into the tiny boot, the footwell and the passenger seat. The large bag of dog food—for sensitive skin and stomachs—that was shoved out of the front door gets wedged in next, followed by Baylor’s bowls. The dog eats better than I do.
I slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door, letting out a shaky breath. No tissues in sight; they are likely buried behind half my life. I wipe my nose on the back of my hand, determined not to break down.
“Come on, Fred. Everything will be all right. This is just a blip.” It has to be. Everything happens for a reason, otherwise the universe would be chaos. Yeah, everything happens for a reason and the good people, the special people, die first.
My lower lip trembles. Amy would be so disappointed in me. We have nowhere to go, and we can’t even stay in a guest house or hotel. They won’t take a dog and me. I refuse to abandon Baylor.
I have no idea what to do next.
If only Derek would let me fix things. I understand why he’s angry. The hole in the door was huge, with wood chunks all over the carpet, but he didn’t need to hurt me or throw us out.
It’s a nightmare.
Baylor whines, snuffles and pokes his tongue through the grille, trying to reach me.
“It’s all right, buddy,” I murmur, trying to convince us both. Something else occurs to me: I didn’t get a chance to compare the splinters on the floor with the size of the hole before we were shoved outside. So I have no idea if he swallowed any.
For all I know he munched on a chunk of ’80s lead‑painted wood. Who knows what that will do to his stomach. My gut twists. We are looking at an expensive emergency vet visit.
“We will see the doggy doctor to make sure your tummy is all right, and then we’ll find a new home.” I rest my hand against the mesh. “Everything’s going to be fine. I won’t let you down.”
I can’t let him down. Amy adored him—her fur baby. What kind of person would I be if I gave up on him?
I still can’t believe I’m in this situation.
From the corner of my eye, I spot Derek glaring through the window as he sticks a sign on the glass: Room for rent.
I huff out a bitter laugh. If I stay here much longer, he will call the police. I groan and start the car, the engine rumbling to life. Slowly I pull out of the driveway. Surely everything’s going to be fine.
It can’t get any worse.
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