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Chapter 1

Cristina

There are exactly three things I don’t do: trust men who call their exes crazy, drink expired milk, and develop magical powers.

Okay, fine, maybe I’ve risked milk once or twice.

But the magical powers thing? Absolutely not.

So when the overhead lights start pulsing on my way to the bathroom, I do what any reasonable person would—I try to outrun them.

Obviously.

“This can’t be happening,” I mutter while darting down the resort’s long, sleek hallway.

The place is brand new and smells like hope and wishes—I know, technically not a smell, but just roll with it, okay?

But I can’t enjoy the scent because the lights ping with each step I take on the slick marble floors, my clacking heels echoing off the walls.

Is it magic? What else could it be? Most people—at least in novels and movies—would kill for this moment.

Not me.

Magic means losing control, and I’ve worked too damn hard to get mine back.

As if they can read my thoughts, the lights pulse faster, like they think it’s fun to mock my worry.

And then, to add even more insult to injury, my body tightens and my lungs squeeze. Great. My lungs have decided now is the perfect time to betray me.

This is not how tonight is supposed to go. I’m supposed to meet my new boss, introduce myself as the manager of his spa, let him see my winning smile, give him the sense that I’m confident, self-assured, capable of handling anything he can throw at me—including massaging a sumo wrestler.

Which I could do with one hand tied behind my back.

But the magic in this place and my lungs have other plans, apparently.

I spot one of the resort’s restaurants and pull my inhaler from my bra. The dining room is empty because everyone’s in the lobby celebrating the grand opening. Which is where I should be.

Pushing through the last few steps, I shove open the glass door and head for the kitchen, where there won’t be clear windows that people can ogle me through.

Let me be clear—attacks like this used to be rare. But lately, every time my phone buzzes, my lungs stage a revolt. One person is to blame: the man who shares my DNA but none of my life.

I shake off the tension building in my shoulders and watch as the pulsing lights follow me into the kitchen.

Or are they guiding me?

What a dumb thought. They aren’t guiding me. They’re like evil lights of horror.

I shake the inhaler. The aerosol hisses as I take two quick puffs and fold over the slick steel counter, waiting until the medicine hits my lungs and opens them, ever so slowly releasing sweet, sweet oxygen into my bloodstream.

I gulp down big mouthfuls of air and wipe my arm across my sweating brow, taking a moment to rest. My phone buzzes in my hand, indicating a new text just arrived.

I don’t bother checking it because I know who it’s from.

As my lungs relax, I shut my eyes for a second and open them slowly, lifting my head and realizing that the lights aren’t blinking anymore.

They’re still, mirroring the quiet hum coming from the refrigerators behind me. My limbs loosen. And then—

“You okay?”