Page 3

By the end of the day, that manuscript will be in the hand-carved redwood case I have waiting at home.

The auctioneer calls $12,000, but I don’t waver in the race to make my bid. The auctioneer’s gaze turns to the blue-eyed asshole. I barely see his arm move when the auctioneer nods and calls out $13,000.

I flick my wrist to place my next bid. My gaze is honed directly at the man signing his own death warrant. The auctioneer calls out, “$15,000?”

Violence floods my veins, forcing me to my feet.

“$16,000!”

It’s over my limit, but I can sell off some investments to cover the price and make some lifestyle changes. I’ve already been on a starvation diet to fit into the dress I have for the museum gala. Might as well make it permanent.

The prick has the audacity to look over his shoulder at me. His immaculately shaped eyebrow lifts in amusement. Shaking his head, he turns to the auctioneer.

A deep, smoky voice calls out, “$25,000.”

My stomach flips and churns. My throat closes. My nose tickles.

Blinking back the tears forming behind my eyes, I shake my head, falling to my seat. The weight of emotions is too heavy for my legs to stand. The rush of blood in my ears silences the room as I look at the manuscript on the block.

I barely hear the moment the auctioneer shouts, “Sold.”

The thin veil of glass holding my sorrow at bay snaps with the sharp crack of the mallet.

Standing to leave, I turn to steal another look at the man, etching his features into my memory.

The crisp air does nothing to soothe the all-consuming rage coursing through my body. A rage broken by moments of sorrow. I may not have the manuscript, but I can track down the person who does.

2

My mind keeps circling back to the disaster that was my morning.

Zarya’s incessant calls keep interrupting my playlist. After hitting decline for the third time, I sigh and lean my head against the seat. When I come to terms with the defeat, I’ll call her back.

Pulling into the driveway of my quaint two-bedroom house, I sit and take a moment in my car to revive my spirits. It’s a modest house, but it’s mine.

Faux thatched roof, crusty red bricks, and a big yard. Someday, I will plant something in it. For now, it’s in Mother Nature’s guiding hands.

Grabbing my bags and what’s left of my ego, I trudge through the front door. Dropping everything just inside, I continue my depressing march to the sofa. My foot catches the lamp cord for the fifth fucking time, and my body pulls tight as a drawstring. Taking shallow breaths, I try to imagine my anger as a red balloon drifting away into the sky. The momentary pause fails to ebb my anger. It must die.

I clutch the lamp and swing it into the wall.

My anger fractures with the melodic sound of glass shattering. The pieces fly through the air, catching the light like sparkling specks of pixie dust. Breathing becomes easier. The sound of shards hitting the floor becomes a lullaby for my awakening rage. The room falls silent. The tension in my shoulders melt. Peace.

Scratching against fabric disturbs the calming silence, making me turn to the right. Gerald sits perched on the arm of the couch, his beady eyes darkening in judgment over my outburst. His head shakes in disappointment a moment before fleeing the room. When I hear the sound of his furry ass conducting parkour off the wall upstairs, I let the remains of the lamp fall to the floor.

Cleaning up the glass acts like meditation, allowing my mind to turn off the of emotion and focus only on the task at hand. As the final shard clatters to the bottom of the trash, I pause to deliver an ode to its sacrifice.

Rest in peace, dear lamp. A year was a good run.

When I finally get into the shower, I don’t bother standing. Crumpling to my knees, I close my eyes and let the water rain down over me. Each drop lands like a blow as the memory plays on repeat in my mind. Once the droplets start to feel like shards of ice piercing my skin, I reach up and turn the water off.

Then I slip into a pair of sweats and fall onto my bed, sprawling like a starfish. Small talons grating against the wooden floor force me to lift my head. I can barely see over the rise of my breasts.

Tapping the bed, I signal for Gerald to jump up. When he doesn’t move, I tap again. His only response is a small chuff. Lifting myself onto my elbow, I glare at him. My attempts at getting his capitulation through fear has no effect on the tiny sentry still standing post in the doorway.

“Gerald, if you don’t get your ass up here, no more peanut butter for you, sir.”

Gerald doesn’t hesitate as he climbs the frayed ends of my comforter and lays his fluffy little body across my chest. Stroking his head, I whisper, “It’s been a really long day…”