Twenty-Seven

The Mercedes’s headlights cast twin beams of frosty-white light across my shabby apartment building, highlighting the cracks in the bricks and the once-gray paint around the windows peeling away in strips like shedding skin. I step out of the car and give Jade a quick forced smile and a muttered thank-you before turning toward the steps to my ground-floor apartment.

I fumble with the hide-a-key I keep tucked away under a loose stone by the stoop, the metal cold against my fingers as I slide it into the lock. Inside, my apartment is exactly the way I left it—a mess. The air is stale, a mix of forgotten takeout and lingering mildew greeting me as I shut the door and flip on the light.

Somehow my small studio feels even smaller with the lights on. I head to the screen divider that serves as the wall to my bedroom and untie my dress. Not for a moment do my thoughts drift to Kane—his rough hands on my bare skin, his lips at my throat, the laces around my wrists.

The rich fabric falls away, and the tarot card drifts to the floor as the perpetually cold air in my apartment blows against me, evaporating the fantasy as quickly as it came.

I toss the dress onto the back of the chair I found at a thrift shop and promised myself I’d learn to reupholster. Even waterlogged, the crushed velvet looks like it belongs to someone else in some other life next to the worn chair and upturned crates draped with fabric I use as a coffee table. It’s fitting, though, since it was always someone else’s. I was never Lady Ashwood.

You should remember that, Hannah.

I shed my damp undergarments as I step into the bathroom, leaving behind a trail of lace and silk. I turn the water on as hot as it will go. The heat is a relief, an almost-scalding balm that leeches into my muscles, easing the tension and warming my core. I close my eyes and let the water cascade over me, the stream beating a steady rhythm on my shoulders. It’s not the same as the tub in Towerfall—the steaming herbaceous water, the candlelight, the wine, the pomegranates, Kane…

I scrub at my skin as if I can wash away the memories, the heartache, the past. When I step out, steam billows around me, filling the small bathroom and fogging the mirror. I don’t bother to wipe away the condensation as I dry off. I can’t bring myself to look at my reflection, to face the loneliness that stares back at me.

Towel tucked up under my arms, I pad back into the main room. The apartment is silent, except for the faint drip of water from the shower and the dull pulse of music from the apartment upstairs, the bass thumping through the ceiling. Each step I take feels heavy, my damp feet leaving faint prints on the worn wooden floor.

I rummage through my dresser before pulling out a frayed pair of jeans and an old Illini hoodie. The sweatshirt is soft, familiar, and comforting, like I’m reclaiming a part of myself as I slip into the cozy cotton.

I sit crisscross on the couch and push aside the pile of papers I printed at work as research on LuminaLuxe and its products to make room for my Posh Pulse–issued laptop. The screen flashes to life, and I squint against the artificial pale glow. The laptop hums as I open my Slack, email, and personal texts, my muscles tensing against the onslaught that’s sure to come.

But it doesn’t.

I frown, reading through the handful of messages from my mom about two other “single and ready to mingle” shut-ins whose mothers she met at pickleball. No missed calls, no worried texts, no email, or Slack filled with urgent work matters that couldn’t be resolved without me. Jade said she was letting me have mental health time, but zero check-ins feels harsh. The only email that’s not a courtesy cc is from American Express.

Congratulations, Hannah, your credit card limit has been increased to thirty thousand dollars!

I nearly choke on my spit, letting out a dry, hacking cough as I close the computer and set it on the rickety coffee table. Clearly the credit card company didn’t get the memo that there’s no raise on the horizon.

Coughing into the crook of my elbow, I move to the kitchen, the soles of my feet sticking to the cracked linoleum. I don’t bother getting a glass. Instead, I turn on the faucet and cup my hands underneath, then slurp up a gulp to calm my throat. I search for the paper towels, but the tube on the rack is empty.

One by one, I open the cabinets, each creaking door a shrill laugh in the quiet. My gaze drifts over the dented can of soup tucked away in the back corner, the last remnant of a grocery run months ago. The empty shelves stare back at me in silent judgment as I attempt to find something, anything, to fill the void.

“It’s empty.”

I glance around my small shabby apartment. The walls are bare, the furniture is mismatched and worn, and the space feels more like a temporary shelter than a home.

Empty cabinets. Empty inbox. Empty relationships.

“ Every! Thing! Is! Empty! ” I shout into the void, punctuating each word with a slam of a cabinet. The noise reverberates through the kitchen, making the apartment feel full, if only for a moment.

For the past three years, I’ve been trying to make something of myself, to make a positive change in the world, but all I’ve done is stumble from one mistake to another. I wanted to bring something meaningful to people’s lives, to create campaigns that inspire and uplift and make a real impact. But what have I actually accomplished?

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to ward off the cold that seems to pour in through the walls. It won’t be enough. It will never be enough. The chill isn’t only physical; it’s an emptiness that fills every corner of my life.

“No one even noticed I was gone.”

I’ve been missing for days, dropped into a realm of magick and danger, and not a single person in this world reacted.

I sink to the floor. Leaning against the cabinets, my heart aches with a new kind of pain, a longing for a place that isn’t my home but felt like it could be.

There’s a knock at the door, a sharp rap that jars me from my doom and gloom. I pick myself up off the kitchen linoleum and make my way to the entrance. Maybe someone noticed I was gone after all.

I open the door and am met with the last person I’d ever thought I’d see.

“Chad?”

“Hey, Hannah.” He flashes that charming smile that once had me hooked but now just makes me want to punch him. “Can I come in?”

I hesitate for a moment, then step aside, letting him inside. He strides in and looks around like he’s about to give me an insurance quote.

I grimace.

The place looks even worse with him in it.

He leans on the lip of the elevated peninsula that serves as my dining room, running his hand through his purposefully tousled hair in that annoyingly casual way he always does. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you the past few days. I mean, you didn’t text. You didn’t call…”

“You didn’t stay faithful.” I interject, cold and flat.

“Listen, Hannah, I didn’t realize we were that serious. If that’s what you wanted, you should have communicated with me. I can’t read your mind.”

“I should have communicated. You’re seriously putting this on me?” I cross my arms over my chest, trying to keep my voice steady, my anger contained. “You were the one sneaking around.”

He steps closer, his expression softening, his eyes sparkling with a sincerity that throws me off-balance. The man in front me is the one I thought I cared about, the one I thought was kind and gracious, the one who took me to restaurants and events I’d never imagined going to.

“I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmurs. “We both made mistakes, but I want to make things right between us.”

For a moment, I see past the betrayal and hurt to the person I fell for, the person I thought I could trust.

I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of emotions clouding my mind. “Chad, I don’t—”

“Just hear me out,” he pleads, holding up his hands. “I miss you, Hannah. I miss us .”

I hesitate, the words caught in my throat as he reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a small rectangular box.

“I got you something.” He takes my hand and sets the box against my palm. His touch is warm and familiar, and despite myself, I feel a pang of longing.

I open the box with numb fingers. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, is a key fob.

I stare at it, my mind racing to make sense of what I’m seeing. “What—what is this?”

“It’s access to my apartment. To me.” He smiles, that same charming smile that used to make me melt. “No more Stuart. No more texting before you come over. No more living”—he gestures around my apartment, the mismatched furniture and shabby decor suddenly feeling even more inadequate—“like this. Move in with me, Hannah.”

The offer hangs in the air between us. This is a chance to start over, to rebuild my life and become exactly who I thought I wanted to be.

Yet a part of me is running, running back to Towerfall, back to the other half of my heart.

Before I can respond, he slips his strong arms around me and pulls me into a hug. At first, I resist, my body stiff and unyielding against his. But as the seconds tick by, I sink into his warmth.

His arms tighten around me, and I let them. I close my eyes and lose myself in the scent of his cologne, the feel of his breath against my hair. I let him hold me, the weight of my worries lifting just a little.

And for a brief fragile moment, I also let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, things will be different.

“This is going to be great.” Chad’s voice vibrates against my cheek, echoing the sentiment I’m starting to feel myself. It’s delicate and thin, but I cling to the line of hope, desperate for something to hold. “I don’t suppose you have a bottle you can pop so we can celebrate the occasion?”

“Let me check.” I smile, my cheeks hot, my head already spinning.

I open the fridge and wrinkle my nose. The only options are an old bottle of wine that’s definitely turned to vinegar by now and a lone can of sparkling water.

“I knew I was wrong about you, Hannah. I knew it the minute you left and Celine launched into this speech about some psychological theory on the benefits of being an independent woman.”

“Oh?” I ask, drumming my fingers on the can, distracted by my utter lack of food.

“Yeah,” he continues, settling onto the worn couch as if he belongs here, as if nothing has changed. “It made me realize how much I appreciate you. How much I need someone who’s down to earth and not caught up in all that nonsense.”

As I trail him into the living room, my gaze snags on the floor—on the tarot card.

The Empress stares back at me with wisdom and strength that I suddenly crave. Her expression seems to change, disappointment flashing across her face before fading.

I bend down and pick it up, the card warm in my hand, its edges glowing faintly.

If you hold the card again and command her to return you here, to Pentacles, you will be at the mercy of the Tower. I cannot cast this spell a second time…

I take a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs and steadying my nerves.

“I realized that women with ambition are a lot of work. I know you’ll be happy just being with me. You’re easy.” Chad leans back, stretching out his legs. “It’s nice. It’s refreshing. I can see myself marrying a girl like you. Not right now or anything. I mean, let’s take things one step at a time—”

“Easy?” I repeat, my hold tightening on the card.

“Yeah, you know, low-maintenance. Not like those high-strung career chicks. It’s just easier with you.”

The words are casual and light, as if he’s offering a compliment.

Chad reaches for the can, but I pull it back.

“No,” I say, my voice unwavering.

“No?” His brow furrows, and he tilts his head like a baby bird, as if he’s never heard the word before now.

“I’m not your easy option.” I stand up straighter, the Empress pulsing in my hand, filling me with strength. “Do you think you’re doing me a favor by asking me to move in with you?”

He blinks up at me. “I mean, this isn’t even a real coffee table, and the rest of your furniture looks like you found it on the street. Hannah, you put one more person in here, and you’re practically asking to get fined for breaking occupancy regulations.” With a shrug, he drags his fingers through his expensive haircut. “I’m not doing you a favor, but I’m not, you know…”

“No, Chad, you’re going to have to spell it out for me. I can’t read your mind .” I don’t think he gets I’m mocking him, because he simply offers me another shrug.

“I’m not not doing you a favor.”

“I don’t need your apartment or your life or you to complete me.”

“No, not to complete you, but to…elevate your status. Make you, you know, better.”

“More worthy of you.”

“Yeah!” He grins before realizing his mistake, his expression twisting. “No, Hannah, that’s not what I meant. You’re overreacting.” He pats the cushion next to him. “Come sit down. We can—”

“Stop fucking talking for once and actually listen to what I’m saying. I’m not moving in with you .” I enunciate each word like he’s a child.

He stares up at me, his expression shifting from confusion to anger. “Hannah, what the fuck? Being easy and living someplace better than this dump aren’t bad things. I said I might one day marry a girl like you. Possibly. You’re being emotional over nothing.”

“Am I?” I laugh, bitter and liberating. “I’ve been trying so hard to fit into a life I thought I wanted, to be someone I’m not. But I’m done. I want to be myself. Find out who she is. Find my own path, my own happiness. And it’s not with you.”

Chad stands, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for the girl who used to agree with everything he said. “Fine,” he mutters, heading toward the door. “But don’t expect me to be there when you realize what a mistake you’ve just made.”

Outside the door’s threshold, he spins around to face me, and I slam the door as his mouth flops open to let out more fetid air.

The Empress throbs with an insistent warm energy, urging me to take action.

I’ve made mistakes, but whining about them won’t fix anything. For once, I’m actually going to be in control of my life. It’s clear I can’t go back to pretending that the only things that matter are the next big marketing pitch and whether I’m dating a douche.

It’s about choosing who I want to be, what kind of life I want to lead. And as much as I want to believe that things can be different, a part of me knows that the only way to truly find myself is to stop running from the shadows and face the light head-on.

“American Express, I’m going to take you up on your offer and do some good with that thirty-thousand-dollar limit. Let’s make some donations and get my new life started.”

The Empress pulses again as if in agreement, an otherworldly hype girl, cheering me on.

I drop the can of seltzer on the counter, stride over to the fridge, and yank open the freezer.

I read an article once, the whole article since this one was written specifically for women on a budget, that suggested putting any credit cards in a container of water and freezing them. The ice obscures the numbers, so I’d have to wait for it to melt to make any impulse buys.

It worked. I’ve made zero credit card purchases other than the recurring monthly bills I have on auto pay and then promptly pay off when my measly paycheck lands in my account. According to the credit bureaus, I’m a catch. And I’ve had the same block of credit card ice in the back of my freezer since I moved into this apartment straight out of college as proof.

I pull out the freezer-burned block of ice and narrow my eyes at the warped credit card frozen beneath the surface like a mirage. In the hundreds of daydreams I’ve had about chiseling this cube open and getting to the plasticky center, I would have never dreamed it would be to pursue a future in a different world.

Frost stings my fingers as I lift the ice block overhead and slam it onto the floor. It shatters on impact, frozen chunks skittering across the linoleum in a burst of glittering shards. My credit card rests on an ice chunk between my feet. I pick it up, frozen flecks melting and sliding down the glossy silver surface.

“How about we start with a sizable donation to the ACLU?”

Caring about corporate responsibility is easy to talk about in pitches and drop into conversations at work. And it made me feel like I might be doing more than just pushing products and polishing brand images. But I wasn’t. Not really. To inspire change, I have to actually do something. This isn’t just about saying the words; it’s about making a difference. And this is me taking a step in that direction—to finally becoming the person I’ve always been deep down.

The air crackles with electricity, the tarot card vibrating with a soft hum that resonates deep within me.

Slowly, the Empress begins to move, her painted form coming to life. Her crown twinkles, each star pulsating with its own rhythm. Eyes gleaming and hair flowing like liquid gold, she raises her mirror. Her scarlet gown ripples, and the lush flowers and wheat at her ankles sway, caught in an unseen breeze.

The Empress’s laughter is the tinkle of wind chimes on a perfect summer day accentuated by the gentle whoosh of water from a distant stream. It fills the room and tickles my skin.

She leans forward as if she might step right off the surface of her card and into my realm, her movements graceful and fluid. “ Claim your destiny, Hannah. Embrace the magick within and let it guide you. ”

I nod, a binding contract with the Empress, with Towerfall and most importantly, with myself.

I’m in control.

And it’s about fucking time.