Chapter 3

Oh God, how can I save him? I can’t let him die.

Sweat beads on my back as I stare at the adorable brown husky in front of me. Sure, most people probably won’t call him “adorable,” especially since he lost one eye due to significant abuse by his previous asshole owners, who I hope are rotting in jail or dying of a slow and painful death somewhere.

It also doesn’t help that the little guy is currently destroying a dog bed I snuck into his cage at the beginning of my volunteering shift here at the Bronx Shelter for Unwanted Animals, known to us as BSUA.

Ugh, I hate this name. It reminds me of the gothic orphanages I’ve read about in the early nineteen hundreds.

Technically, we’re forbidden to bring any toys or bedding to the shelter because they are “a mess to clean up” as some of the higher-ups have complained in the past.

He growls, attacking the bed with vengeance, spreading cotton stuffing all across his tiny, cold cell of cement walls and peeling plaster. He’s in solitary confinement today for attempting to nip the leg of the shelter manager, a sleazy balding guy named Bob. That has probably earned him a shortcut to the lethal drip this evening when the murder squad, as Cole and I like to call them, comes in later tonight.

Oblivious to his dire fate, he settles down on the ground, a cloud of stuffing floating in the air. He sticks out his tongue and lolls his head to the side, clearly satisfied with his handiwork.

“Oh, what am I going to do with you, little guy?” I groan .

But I already know the answer to this. I need to break him out of his cell and steal him. BSUA is a pound. A kill shelter. It’s the main reason I’ve volunteered here for the last three years as opposed to the fancy no-kill humane shelters in Manhattan. I figure if I hustle and get these poor animals adopted, that’ll be one less pup or kitten on the chopping block.

This little terror is now peeing in the corner, despite the fact I let him out half an hour ago.

“Paying your respects?” a quiet voice asks from behind me and I jump and face the interloper, my hand fluttering to my chest.

“You scared me, Cole!”

“Sorry, you looked like you were deep in thought, and I didn’t want to interrupt you. But I’m heading out now and want to check on you before I go. I know it’s a hard day for you.”

I gnaw on my lip and quickly release it. High-society ladies do not gnaw on their lips in public. My etiquette tutors from my childhood have drilled that into my mind, but somehow, my body has never gotten the memo.

Staring at my tall, blond friend, I let out a sigh. “It’s okay. I think I’m a mess today.”

“It’s the little guy’s turn with the drip. Of course, you’d be pissed. I know I am,” Cole grits out, his nostrils flaring. “Fuck these kill shelters.”

“Yes. Pieces of…shi-crap. Heartless monsters pretending to be do-gooders.”

He smirks. “Or you can just say fuck them.”

I blanch. Curse words are unbecoming in the elite circles my family runs in.

“Repeat after me, Belle. Fuck them. Come on, you can do it.”

“F—fuck them?” I whisper, my heart pounding wildly in my chest.

Not today, Ms. Goodie Two-Shoes. Not today. Today, you’ll be a rule breaker. It’s your year of yeses.

“Fuck them,” I growl louder .

Cole whistles and claps his hands in a mocking slow applause. “Damn, I think I can quit volunteering now. My work is done. I’ve corrupted the elegant Annabelle Law-McKenzie.”

I roll my eyes. “Shut up, Cole.”

He chuckles then quiets and looks around the empty hallway, filled to the brim with rotten cardboard boxes of stale food none of us dares to use, but Bob doesn’t let us throw out because he thinks that’d be wasteful. But what good is moldy food that’ll make the animals sick? Not that he cares. I honestly wonder why he’s in this business in the first place. Rumor has it there’s a grant he’s getting from a bigwig pharma lab who conducts animal testing.

It’s disgusting.

The florescent lights suddenly turn off, plunging us into darkness. The windows rattle violently against the hinges as the subway train makes its regular pass underground.

I let out a squeal, my heart in my throat once more.

“Guys, we’re still here!” Cole shouts, his voice echoing down the corridor, followed by raucous barking and yipping. He bangs on the bars of the cage.

“Sorry!” someone responds from far away and the lights turn on.

Panting heavily, I try to calm the racing pulse in my ears. I love the animals but hate this place. The creaky windows, dank corridors, and strange cloying smells that have nothing to do with animals.

“You want me to stay with you for a bit? Cry it out? Graffiti the walls in secret? Then, I can take you to Milton’s for your favorite ice cream.” Cole stares intently at me with those bright green eyes of his.

“Don’t you need to be with your family? You mentioned there is an event, right?”

His face falls, and he locks his jaw. “Yes. A memorial for the anniversary of a death in the family. Life is fucking short sometimes.”

He looks away, clearly not wanting to talk about it .

I shake my head and squeeze his arm in support. I don’t want to pry. “I’m good here. Go home, Cole. Be with your family. Thanks for stopping by.”

He nods, hefts his gray backpack over his shoulders, and takes a few steps toward the exit. He pauses and turns back, a brow cocked in question.

“I’m fine, honestly. See you the week after next, Cole.”

“I’m always here for you, you know. Anytime, Belle,” he murmurs, not looking at me.

He swallows, his throat rippling, and turns around before striding out of sight.

I groan into my hands. Even the blind can see Cole’s interest in me, and I wish I could reciprocate. Cole Whelan is the dictionary definition for tall, blond, and handsome. He’s thirty-two, eight years older than me, some sort of IT genius working his way up a security company for the investment banks in the financial district.

He’s kind, funny, sensitive, and heck, volunteers at the pound every other Saturday without fail. I’ve seen how the other volunteers stare at him, their mouths practically open and drooling like the dogs here when he walks around.

But I don’t feel a thing. Not a flutter or a skipped heartbeat. No shortness of breath or flushed skin. No daydreams about his beautiful eyes or wondering how his hands will feel on my body.

He’s more like the brother I wish I had growing up, instead of being the lonely princess locked away in her large, shiny new castle, talking to her dolls as her only friends, wondering what it’d be like to be a regular girl being smothered by her parents’ kisses or getting a bedtime story before bed.

I sigh. Not that my feelings matter to anyone. I overheard my parents last month talking about candidates for marriage. I knew it was going to happen sooner rather than later. After all, most people in our circles treat marriage as a business merger. But I’ll fight them or die trying .

I shake myself and straighten my back. I’m a lonely princess no more. Now I have my girls, my career, I’m a fucking twenty-four-year-old and the world is my oyster. I’m going to take control of my life. There’s no way they can shove a random man down my throat and expect me to just take it.

As if sensing my changing moods, the little terror ambles toward me, rubbing his thick fur against my leggings, leaving a trail of white and brown hairs behind. Then, he trots back to wreak more havoc on his crime scene, his fluffy tail wagging, not knowing these are his last few hours on this side of the rainbow bridge.

Unless I do something about it.

He stares at me with the solo cute blue eye and sits obediently on the ground like a perfect dog.

My eyes water and I crouch down and stroke his soft fur. I bury my face in his neck and he softens against me and lets out a low whine. Why can’t the world see how perfect he is, one-eyed terror and all? How much love he has to give? Why can’t anyone see the true him, this sweet dog?

My chest aches and my nose burns, the stench of sterile antiseptic filling my nostrils, bringing me back to my appointment three days ago with my reproductive endocrinologist.

“Sorry, I’ve reviewed your test results. Your hormones are low, Ms. Law-McKenzie, and the ultrasound shows a very small number of follicles,” Dr. Chen says softly, her brown eyes shining with sympathy.

“S-So you’re saying?” A heaviness weighs on my lungs and I can’t breathe.

“You’re right. Diminished ovarian reserve. DOR. Much earlier than expected, to be honest.”

Shaking my head, the lump grows larger in my throat. “I knew there was a chance I’d have DOR, with Mom having the same issue when she was younger, and now with my periods getting more and more irregular.”

“It isn’t a death sentence. There are options for fertility, you know.”

“IVF. Egg freezing. Trying earlier? But time is running out, isn’t it? My egg reserves are that of someone who is near menopause, not someone who has years left.” I’ve spent hours researching online, panicking that my biological clock is about to run out.

I thought I’d have at least until thirty before I had to worry about this. And I don’t have a boyfriend or any candidate to even think about trying earlier. And now, I realize I’ll soon lose the chance of becoming pregnant.

I have three goals in my life.

First, I want to protect Grandpa’s legacy at McKenzie Atelier, the only American couture company going head-to-head with the famous fashion houses in Europe.

My nose burns and eyes prickle at the thought of my grandpa, the only family member who’d given me his free time and care when I was growing up and taught me everything he knew before he passed away.

I’m going to make him proud.

Second, I want to have kids of my own so I can shower them with the love I wish I’d received as a child. I don’t even need to have a husband or a man in my life. I just want the kids.

Now, with the ticking clock inside me, there’s a desperate need to experience the miracle of life myself before it’s too late. I want to fill the yearning and restlessness inside me and find the missing fragments of my heart.

Third, I want to give back to humane societies, to eradicate kill shelters one by one, saving unwanted animals so they can be taken care of the way they deserve.

But two out of the three goals are vaporizing in front of my eyes, and I’m helpless to stop them.

The little terror nudges me with his nose and lets out a soft whine before he delivers a comforting lick to my fingers. The burning sensation in my nose grows stronger and I sniffle.

You’re perfect—flaws and broken body and all.

I ruffle his fur and he wags his tail so vigorously, it thumps against the wall in a staccato rhythm.

I can’t let him die. I just…can’t. I’m in control of my destiny and I’ve decided.

Dog-napper it is.

Wiping my nose with the back of my hand, I poke my head out of the open cage. Spying no other personnel loitering about, I hastily dart back inside and take out my cell phone from my jacket pocket. I press a button and wait for an answer.

“Belle, this better be good. I’m taking a nap.” Taylor Peyton’s grumpy voice travels across the line.

“Psst. I need help.”

“What? I can’t hear you.” She yawns.

I step to the far side of the cage, away from the hallway. “SOS. I need you at BSUA now !”

“What? Why?” More yawning. Seriously, the woman has the strangest sleep habits.

“Why are you sleeping at four p.m. on a Saturday?”

“I have a show at the Met tonight. The director has high hopes for my solo. I need my beauty sleep.”

“Can you get your sleep later? I need help and Grace is on her date with Steven and Millie said her brother is in town. I don’t know who else to call.”

She snorts. I can imagine my raven-haired, gray-eyed ballerina friend rolling her eyes in bed. “Gee, thanks for being your last resort.”

I bite my lip and smile. She loves her sister Grace, and our best friend, Millie, as much as I do.

“Fine, Belle. I’m up. What do you need me to do?”

“I’m going to steal him.”

“Who?”

“Little terror.” My voice thickens, but I steel my nerves. “I can’t let him die today. I need you to come and cause a distraction so I can sneak him out.”

“But yours and Millie’s apartment doesn’t allow pets,” she murmurs. I hear rustling in the background.

“Fuck this. My year of yeses. You know, this is all your fault for giving me that stupid book last month. Now, I’m thinking I need to have my year of yeses before I turn twenty-five because I can’t be complacent in my life anymore. I need to take control.” Not to mention, with the possibility of an arranged marriage and my new medical diagnosis, I feel like time is really running out.

“Hell yeah, that’s my bad bitch. And you’re going to that street race next week, right?” She cackles.

“Ugh. Don’t remind me. That is so not my scene. And you’re ditching me!”

“Year of yeses, Belle. Last minute practice—can’t be helped.” She sighs. “But to make it up to you, I’ll leave my comfortable apartment and break some laws with you. I’ll even wear my purple devil nose piercing.”

She’s the grumpy rule breaker of our girl group, the dark eyeliner, nose piercing wearing, curse words loving ballerina at the top ballet company in the country. The walking contradiction.

“Be there in thirty.” The phone disconnects.

My pulse races in my veins as a warmth spreads from my chest to my hands. My head feels woozy—fear? Excitement? A middle finger to the world? I have no clue.

I squat down and motion for the little terror to come over, and like the beautiful, perfect dog he is, he trots over and settles in front of me. He delivers a long, wet lick on my cheek, and I realize tears have escaped without me noticing.

Clutching him closely, I whisper, “You’re coming home with me, little guy. You’ll get to go on my year of yeses with me and we’re going to change our destiny. We’re going to show everyone who underestimates us how wrong they are.”