Chapter 3

3

Vega's body felt weighted down as she slumped into the living room and collapsed on the couch. She blew air through her lips in an exasperated sigh. "What the fuck is my life?"

She rolled to her side, noticing her phone on the coffee table. Had it really been there the whole time?

Reaching out, Vega paused before the phone was in her hand, distracted by the ring sitting on her phone screen. She sat up slowly, tucking her legs underneath her as she inspected the ring.

The imperfect rectangular stone in the middle sparkled like the night sky, accented with diamonds fanning out like the petals of a flower. The closer she brought the jewel to her eye, the more depth it seemed to reveal. The stone in the center was unlike anything she'd ever seen before, so otherworldly. The black color was deep, reminding her of coal under a Christmas tree. When she turned the gold band, the jewel twinkled in the daylight filtering through the open curtains.

It somehow felt familiar in her hands.

Vega spun the ring between her fingers before sliding it onto the fourth finger of her left hand. Where she usually wore the wedding band she'd flushed down the toilet last night.

It fit like it was made for her.

There was no way to chalk this up to a wild dream anymore. A dream wouldn't explain how Arlet knew so much about her.

Starting with her last name. Caelum wasn't a name she'd had in thirteen years. When her mother died, she got what some would call "lucky," and the home she'd been placed into as a foster wanted to adopt her immediately. Her last name changed to Brooker, but Papa Brooker, as he'd requested to be called, was a fucking creep, and getting kicked out at seventeen might have been a blessing in disguise. Her last name changed to Hughes when she married Chase at twenty-four.

Caelum was a dead name. The name didn't even feel like hers anymore. It hadn't been on anything she used in her adult life. Not an apartment lease, not a job application—hell, not even her college applications showed any implication of the person she'd been before being adopted.

Arlet also knew about the odd scar on her wrist. Vega's hand slid to it, her fingers sweeping gently over the raised line. Arlet had the same scar in the exact location. What was the likelihood that two people donned a carbon copy scar on their bodies?

Her eyes wandered back to her hand, her attention focused on the ring. Arlet had left it as a little breadcrumb—a reminder that this wasn't a delusion her brain was making up.

When she eventually picked her phone up from the table, there were eighteen missed calls and thirty-five unread texts from Chase. Vega could try and make the relationship work like he'd been begging in the texts, but the trust was gone, irreparable. Vega didn't know what was supposed to come next, what she was supposed to do now.

Vega lay there for hours, turning over the last twenty-four hours in her mind. She was running late for work—as usual—because of it. If Bobby didn't fire her tonight, it would be a miracle .

Doing her best to sneak in the back door of the sixties-themed diner, Vega scurried to the computer in the office to clock in.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice you were over thirty minutes late?" Bobby's gruff voice stopped her in her tracks, her hand hovering over the computer screen.

Vega sighed, turning slowly while her hand fell to her side. She'd wished thousands of times he would hire a manager for this place and disappear forever. "I'm sorry, Bobby, really. I had a bad night that turned into an even worse morning." She wasn't sure she'd ever get rid of this brain fog.

Bobby was a bulbous man who always smelled like stale cigarettes. His dark hair, or what was left of it, was slicked back on the sides in what Vega imagined was grease from the flat-top grill. He was in his fifties, with faded, cheap tattoos up his arms, and was currently on his fifth marriage. I should ask him who his attorney is. Vega pursed her lips together, holding back a bitter laugh at the thought.

"It's always a bad day for you. What other excuse do you have?" The large man tapped his foot impatiently.

Vega knew she owed him an explanation. "I walked in on Chase cheating on me last night." She lowered her voice in embarrassment, eyes darting to the floor to avoid the lack of empathy on Bobby's face.

"I'm not surprised," he spat.

Bobby's words shouldn't hurt her, but they did. Vega inhaled deeply and met his dark eyes. "Should I clock in, or would you like to add to my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day by firing me?" Vega cocked her head, waiting for his response.

He didn't get the reference, slanting his eyes at her. "You get one more chance, Vega." He held up a nubby finger as emphasis. "One. If you mess it up, you're gone. Do you understand?" Bobby scolded her like she was a kindergartener.

She nodded, turning to the computer screen to clock in, and tied her apron around her blue diner dress uniform. "I hear you loud and clear." Vega's jaw was set in a hard line, teeth grinding against each other.

"Good, now get out there and help Susan. She's gonna be so pissed at me that I didn't fire you." Bobby glared at her until she was through the swinging doors.

The shift went by almost as slowly as Susan moved between her tables. That would be Vega—sixty-two years old, still serving tables at a sullied diner because she couldn't afford to retire.

The woman sneered at Vega, bumping against her at the coffee station. "You're in the way," she said, her tone sharp.

"What crawled up your ass and died this time?" Vega snapped.

"You. Always coming in late like it doesn't affect others around you. You millennials have no respect for anyone." Everyone hated Susan here, Bobby included. But who else was he going to get to work for him at his atrocious diner besides a crabby, washed-up old lady and a down-on-her-luck almost thirty-year-old?

Every booth had rips in them, and the bar seating wrapped around the inside of the restaurant was missing stools. The sign reading Bobby's Diner was a hazard to walk anywhere near, hanging on by a wish and a prayer. Vega would be surprised if it lasted one more winter, the salt from the roads eating away at the metal base.

God, I hate this fucking place. Vega finished pouring the three cups of coffee she needed and stepped away from the server station. "Stop worrying about me so much and try not to forget table ten's side salad this time!" Vega didn't lower her voice, giving the kitchen staff behind the window a good laugh.

"You need to learn to respect your elders, Vega!" Susan was as red as the tomato on the burger under the heat lamp.

"Respect is earned," Vega said with a wink while bringing her tray down from its resting spot on her shoulder to distribute drinks to her table.

The rest of the shift went by without a hitch, and Susan avoided her at all costs. She walked out with $100 in her pocket—a good night for crummy old Bobby's Diner.

On her way home, Vega stopped at the corner store for the cheapest wine she could find.

The owner sat behind the counter, his permanent scowl on display in the stark lighting. "You look awful. Smell like wet dog," Gregor said with his thick Romanian accent.

As if Vega didn't have enough to worry about, she had to deal with this asshole. "Yeah, in case you haven't noticed, it's spring in Chicago. Rain happens this time of the year." She usually stopped here at night after a long shift and bought a bottle of wine to sip while she and Chase watched whatever trashy reality TV show was on. Tonight, she bought two bottles for herself—praying to anyone who would listen that Chase wasn't home.

Gregor grabbed the bottles and scanned them as he continued to talk. "Your husband was in here with a pretty blonde last night. At first I thought it might be a sister, but they were too cozy for that." He slid the bottles into separate brown bags. "Trouble in paradise?" he asked, eyes wide with excitement. Gregor was a leech, living off the misfortune of others.

"Do you ever mind your own business?" Vega snapped. This wasn't a conversation she wanted to have with Gregor.

The chuckle that left his lips was thick, filling up the room like a bleating sheep. "Bad day?"

Vega's response was the loud whack against the counter her hand made when she slammed a twenty-dollar bill down. "Just give me my change." Her voice sounded defeated and tired, which might have been why the man did as he was told for the first time since Vega had known him. She packed the bottles into the bag slung over her shoulder and gave the man behind the counter a sarcastic salute as she slipped back out into the unrelenting rain.

The walk back to the apartment took half the time it usually would. Vega was sick of being rained on—physically and metaphorically.

Old Man Morris stood outside the mailboxes in the main lobby of their apartment building, keys rattling against the metal door. "Ah, Vega. I got a package of your husband's outside of my door today. Would you like to stop by and get it for him?"

Vega didn't slow her pace, dashing to the elevator. Morris was a fucking weirdo . Always staring at the younger women who lived in their building, offering to help them put their groceries up when he caught them in the hall. He liked to sit in a lawn chair on the stoop during the summer and comment on dress lengths as women walked by. Their landlord never said anything to him because Morris had been living here since the dawn of time.

How he'd ever been married was a mystery to Vega. "He can get it himself." She hit the Up button, adjusting the bag on her shoulder.

Riding in the death trap that was this elevator was more appealing than joining Morris in the stairwell. He always took the stairs so he could brag to his friends at Monday night Bingo that he was still getting around just fine!

The elevator dinged upon its arrival at the ground floor. Vega stepped in, hit her floor number, and began to press the Door Close button a hundred times like that would speed the door closing.

"… should keep the noise down!" was all she heard before the door snapped shut.

Vega leaned against the wall of the elevator when the machine roared to life, creaking as the cable jarred the box. Vega's stomach dropped, her heart speeding up as she ascended in the elevator that was built before Prohibition.

She forced herself to focus on something other than the sounds the elevator made on its climb, her eyes fixed on the lights around the buttons lighting up at each new floor. They flickered between floors three and four, and the elevator lurched to a stop, sending Vega tumbling to the ground .

"What the…" Vega screeched, landing on her knees with a thump. Her bag flew off her shoulder, slamming to the floor—pink wine puddled around her. "No!" she cried, ripping the bag open to save whatever she could inside. One bottle was shattered, but the brown bag kept the glass contained.

"Fuck!" Vega was losing her mind. Slowly but surely, she knew she would break.

All the blood left her body when the realization sank in that the elevator was no longer moving and the doors hadn't opened to her floor. Vega hopped up, scrambling to the buttons. "No, no, no," she muttered to herself as she continuously pressed the Open Door and Fourth Floor buttons. "This can't be happening." She slammed her hand onto the door with an open palm hard enough to feel the sting of the impact.

An unwelcome wave of nausea rolled in the pit of her stomach. "All I wanted to do was get black-out drunk and forget who I am tonight. Is that too much to ask for?" Vega screamed to the ceiling, knowing no one would answer back.

Frantically, Vega began to press the Emergency Call button, but nothing happened. Her breathing hitched, chest tightening—a panic attack was creeping in.

The corners of her vision went fuzzy, and she tripped over herself. No, not a panic attack. She was about to black out again. Vega reached for the handle on the wall, attempting to steady herself before she was thrust into her mind.

A calloused hand reached out to grab hers, and Vega's eyes fluttered up to meet the gaze of the most handsome man she'd ever seen. His delicate grasp contradicted the way his eyes locked on hers with feverous intent. He dipped his head, never breaking their eye contact as he placed a light kiss on the back of her hand.

"No wonder they've kept you away from us for so long. A striking young man like yourself wouldn't last a night around a bunch of hormonal teens." Vega heard her voice swirl above her head, so melodic and carefree.

"I'm sure I could hold my own." Her voice was met with one so unlike hers: deep and mysterious.

"Is that a challenge, Dimico?" Vega asked with a playfulness to her tone.

"Please, call me Bridger. And it could be, if you'd like."

Her laugh echoed off the walls of the grand home, winter decor hanging from chandeliers and taking up space on the mantles. She sounded so happy.

Vega couldn't take her eyes off him. His hair was the darkest color of obsidian she'd ever seen, nearly matching the color of his eyes. He ran a hand through it when he noticed Vega's eyes dragging down his body, a smile fit for a god lighting up his naturally sun-kissed skin. He towered over her by a good six inches in her heels, his shoulders were broad, and his all-black suit with small gold accents hugged his toned physique—his suit tailored to fit perfectly.

"I'm not so easily won over," she admitted with a wink.

"You're not the only one who loves a good challenge, Kitten."

The nickname made her cheeks burn hot. "Kitten?" she asked.

"Black nails, black dress, a spitfire attitude. I'd say this kitty has claws, regardless of how badly you're trying to keep them hidden." He licked his lips as his eyes trailed down the length of her body.

A shiver traveled up her spine when his eyes made it back to hers, jarring her out of the vision she never wanted to end. Vega's eyes shot open as she came to on her hands and knees in a puddle of wine.

Frightened, she popped up, only to end up on her ass from the rush in her head from standing too fast.

Her breathing was ragged, chest heaving from the rush of adrenaline. "What is happening to me?" She'd seen his face in dreams before—the dreams that haunted her years ago. But now he finally has a name, just like Arlet and Marlena. Once the vertigo subsided, Vega pushed herself up. She thumbed the Emergency Call button once more and let out a defeated sigh when nothing happened again.

"Hello? Can anyone hear me?" Vega wiped at her face, tears free falling down her pink cheeks. She knocked on the door again. "Help! I'm stuck in the elevator!" It wasn't that late. Someone was bound to hear her pleas for help. Morris would make it up the stairs at some point, right?

"My phone. Shit, where's my phone?" Vega lunged for her bag and rummaged through its wet contents until her hand felt the slim device at the bottom. Everything inside was soaked, including her phone, but the screen lit up. Her fingers tapped against the sticky glass.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" the voice on the other end asked as Vega pressed the phone to her ear.

"Hi, I'm stuck in my building's elevator." Vega sniffled, backing up against the cold metal wall and sliding to the floor.

"Ma'am, you need to press the Emergency button. It'll alert the elevator service company." The woman's tone sagged in annoyance.

"Yeah, um, I've already tried that. It's not working. Can you please send someone out before I have another panic attack?" And see shit that isn't real. Her patience was wearing thin—not just with the woman on the phone, but with life in general.

"Is there a fire? Are you hurt?"

"No, there's no fire, and I'm not hurt," Vega responded. Yet.

This was the third time she'd blacked out, visions materializing in her head. Vega was starting to believe this was the start of a nervous breakdown, maybe an undiagnosed mental health issue.

"What's the address of your building?" Fingers tapping on a keyboard echoed through the phone.

Vega gave the monotone woman her address, pulling her legs into her chest to make herself as small as she could. She was still in her work uniform, smelling of fried foods and grease. The little blue dress with the white apron built in did nothing to keep her warm, and neither did the wet raincoat wrapped around her.

"I've contacted your local fire department. They will get to you as soon as they can."

She took her bottom lip between her teeth. "How long do you think it'll take?" She rested her chin on her knees.

"I'm not sure, ma'am. If you smell smoke or this turns into a dire situation, please call us back, and we'll try to get someone out faster." Which translated to, If this turns into a real emergency…

"Okay, thanks." Vega didn't wait for her to say anything else before ending the call. Tears poured down her cheeks, and Vega threw the phone across the small box, unconcerned if it shattered into a million pieces.

Maybe I am cursed. No one's luck is this bad.

Since she was stuck in here for the foreseeable future, Vega crawled across the small space on her knees and ripped the intact bottle of wine out of her soggy bag. She twisted the cap off the cheap bottle and chugged until she felt like she needed to come up for air.

The wine warmed her belly as she rested her head against the wall, eyes closed tightly, and fingertips tracing the branded ring around her wrist.

Arlet claimed to know where she—they—got them. But did she understand why it itched, burned, why it tingled so severely she couldn't sleep sometimes?

As if it could hear her thoughts, the scar started to itch.

Vega brought the bottle back to her lips.