FairyTale

The blue light lenses were a ridiculous attempt to hide her bloodshot eyes, but she couldn’t show up in Gucci knockoffs for fuck’s sake. Unfortunately, they weren’t doing a thing for her oncoming migraine either, but she was pretty sure she was beyond help.

Damn Preston for dumping her, damn him again for doing it via text, and damn him to Hell for blocking her—blocking her—after. What kind of a heartless jerk breaks up with someone after two years like that? No explanation, no “I’m so sorry,” just an out-of-the-blue “It’s over.”

Preston Briggs, that’s who. And fuck his follow-up, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

Damn straight it wasn’t her. She sniffled and hiked her messenger bag higher onto her hip, stomping down the block. An errant white-blonde lock slipped from her messy bun, and she flicked it from her face. She’d poured everything into their relationship, and it had never been enough for him. But that was par for the course, now, wasn’t it? Men. No matter how hard she tried—ugh! It was infuriating.

Depressing. She put a hand over her mouth, burping Tums and tannin. The bottle and a half of Malbec she’d drunk last night wasn’t doing her any favors this morning, and the breakfast burrito she’d bolted while heading out the door was adding insult to injury.

Charlie puffed out her cheeks and steadied herself at the next corner, her head throbbing with more than her temper. And, of course, of course, he’d had to do it the night before she was scheduled to start the temporary controller’s position at Hendrick’s. God. Her entire life was crumbling. She ran a hand over her face, falling apart. No. She couldn’t screw this up.

Hendrick’s Florists had locations all over the city. They’d hired her on a probationary basis through Staffiture, the temp agency she worked for. If she could impress Hendrick’s enough to make the position permanent, she could drop the agency and never have to deal with those toxic asshats again.

She’d save a fortune on bus fare and ramen alone—her per diem was shit—and with the increase in rent she was looking at when her lease came up in two weeks, she’d need every penny…or another roommate. God, like dealing with Felicity’s drama wasn’t enough.

Charlie blinked back another round of tears, unable to think of another option. So much for looking for apartments with Preston. He was gone, along with the five hundred dollars she’d lent the jerk. Jesus, what was she going to tell her parents? They’d loved Preston and been so sure—damn it, she’d been so sure—he was going to propose. She could hear her mother now, hands on her hips with her father glowering in the background, “Well, what did you do to make him leave?”

Huh. It’s weird that you ask that, Mom, ’cause I’d like to know, too. Charlie swallowed the bile gathering at the back of her throat and pushed away from the building. She didn’t have time to feel sorry for herself. Being late her first day wouldn’t win her any points.

Hendrick’s Upper East Side shopfront was a sweeping display of botanicals beneath a striped canopy of pink and white. They specialized in big society affairs, and the bougie urns of peonies with sprays of pearls screamed spring gala. Charlie’s sweaty palm slipped on the door’s bright brass pull as she opened it, a bell above tinging. A woman in a fitted sheath dress with a sleek auburn coiffure looked up as she entered, a small frown on her plush ruby lips.

Charlie bit back a wince, the bell adding to her pending migraine, and plastered a smile onto her face, hoping it didn’t look as fake as it felt.

Crap. Hard fail, judging by the way the woman’s immaculately threaded brow rose. “Can I help you?”

Wow. Her melodic Eastern European accent wasn’t at all intimidating or condescending.

Suck it up, Charlie.

“Um, yeah. I mean, yes. I’m here for the temporary controller position?” She gripped the strap of her bag tighter and crossed the gleaming white tiles to stand at the other side of the counter, keenly aware of how much taller the woman was. Shoes. It had to be the shoes. She bet herself a brownie the woman was wearing four-inch stilettos. Even at five eight, Charlie’s All Stars didn’t stand a chance of making up the difference. “Staffiture sent me.”

The woman went very still, then her pale blue eyes flicked over Charlie. “But you’re a—you’re Charlie Peel?”

Charlize, actually, but Charlie hated her given name so much she’d legally changed it last year. Not that she’d tell her mother that. She made herself stand straighter. “Yes, that’s right.”

“I’m assuming you have credentials?” The woman abandoned the receipts she’d been messing with, tapping her pointy gel tips against the counter. Her lips pursed to a thin line. “You’re not what I expected.”

Charlie swallowed her sigh and reached into her bag for them. No, she was never what anyone expected. Too thin, too pale, too female. Yup, that’s me, a big fucking disappointment.

“Here’s my ID,” she said, handing her passport over. “And I have a hard copy of the contract right here. You’ll need to sign into your account and verify my hours for the billing department.” She pulled out her phone and logged into her app to let the agency know she’d started work. Not a chance this bitch was taking the initiative. “I’ll just make a note I was here at 7:56.”

“You do that,” the woman murmured, still frowning as she scanned Charlie’s paperwork, then clicked her tongue, handing it back. She hadn’t even looked at the ID. “Well, I guess everything’s in order. The office is through there,” she said, flicking her pale hand at an open door to the left of the counter. “Mr. Hendrick will be in later this afternoon.”

Charlie’s throat went dry. “M-Mr. Hendrick?”

“Yes.” The woman’s gaze lingered on Charlie’s oversized, rumpled blazer, and sniffed. “He’s old school. Wants to be able to put a face to everyone who does work for him…no matter how briefly.”

Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence. “O-oh. Okay,” Charlie stammered again, wishing she’d worn something other than skinny jeans and maybe had attempted to use an iron. “And you are?”

“Zuzanna,” the woman answered like she shouldn’t have to, already back to her receipts.

Charlie’s fist whitened around the messenger bag’s strap. God, she hated being talked down to. Let it go, Charlie. You’re here for the job. Focus on the job. She forced another smile and rounded the counter, into the office—

Are you fucking kidding me?

The desk at the center of the room was buried beneath legal boxes filled with paperwork. She snapped a pic, then shot off a quick text to her boss. This was not what the job was supposed to entail. They didn’t need a temporary controller; they needed someone to do data entry and digitize this mess before Charlie stepped a toe into the building. Her phone pinged, and her blood pressure rose before she’d even glanced at it.

Better get cracking.

Not that she was surprised, but goddamn it, Brad. A muscle in her jaw jumped, fingers itching to tell him to go fuck himself. This was the third job he’d screwed her on. She didn’t suffer through six years of college to plug shit into a spreadsheet, and there was no way she’d be able to—no. You know what? If it meant getting out from under Staffiture’s thumb, she’d file this mess in triplicate with an Arabic translation. You can do it, Charlie. Think about the job. Focus on the job.

Right. Deep breath. She eyed Brad’s text, updating her on what the client actually wanted. Data entry of the last thirty-seven months to include scanning in paper receipts, then reconciling them with the online system, and noting any discrepancies.

Easy peasy mindless repetition, and way below her pay grade—well, it would’ve been, if they were actually paying her what she was worth, which they weren’t. Whatever. She could do it.

Probably. If she could find the boxes she needed in all this mess. God, there was another pile stacked in the little adjoining bathroom. They’d better have gloves if they expected her to rifle through that.

She set her messenger bag on the lone corner of bare desktop and tried to make sense of what she was looking at. 2000, 2024, 1989…her temples throbbed. Did they seriously expect her to sort through decades’ worth of—

“Zuzanna,” a man’s deep voice rumbled.

Charlie’s attention flew to the other room. No. There was no way…

“Mr. Briggs. Right on time, as usual. I have some samples of what you and your fiancée requested right over here. If you’ll both just follow me?”

Are you fucking kidding me? Charlie went hot, then cold, her breakfast burrito clamoring to make a reappearance.

“Of course. After you, darling dear.”

Darling dear. Charlie’s knees buckled. Oh my God…it was him. Preston. He was here.

“Were you able to get the lavender roses?” an unfamiliar woman’s voice asked.

“We were. I have two shades for you to consider and an accent…”

Zuzanna’s voice faded into an unintelligible wah-wah-wah beneath Charlie’s thudding pulse. Preston was here. With his fiancée.

His fiancée?!

No, this couldn’t—how was this happening? Charlie covered her mouth with a trembling hand. It had to be a mistake. She stumbled to the door in a haze and peeked around the jamb—

That son of a bitch.

Preston sat at the designer’s table beside a much younger brunette. She held a swatch of fabric up to one rose, then another as he flicked through his phone—Charlie made for the bathroom and dropped to her knees, retching loudly, everything in her stomach splashing back up at her. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t.

But it was. God, why had she thought Preston was any different than the rest of them? She wiped a shaking hand across her mouth and glanced over her shoulder at the staccato clack of heels coming closer.

“Just what do you think you’re—ugh! Don’t think I won’t report this to your employer,” Zuzanna hissed in the open doorway, then stomped back through the office, pulling the main door shut behind her, just short of a slam.

Charlie’s head threatened to split at the bang. Her guts wrenched again, the dregs of her self-esteem withering and dying when the toilet refused to flush.

Six hours and half a bottle of CBD later, she sat at the PC, numb as she entered the last of the receipts. They’d been more organized than she’d expected, and the lion’s share were already in the system. It’d been nice, actually. Just checking dates and noting discrepancies. Not having to think, to feel.

Fucking Preston.

Objectively, she really should’ve seen this coming. Their sex life had been nonexistent for months. He’d never wanted to take her to his apartment or anywhere in Manhattan, for that matter. No, it was always hanging out at her place in Hoboken, and did she have any cash he could borrow? God. Slumming. The frickin’ leech had been slumming for two goddamned years.

And she hadn’t had a clue.

Hadn’t wanted to have a clue. Her parents were over the moon, and he’d checked all the boxes, right? Well, most of them. It wasn’t like she’d been head over heels for the guy, but…

“Passion fades, Charlize. Stability is what’s important,” her mother’s voice chirped in her mind. Charlie ran a hand over her clammy forehead, trying not to focus on the lingering stench of vomit. Stability. So much for that. She should’ve said something. Confronted him. Let that poor woman know what a lying piece of shit he was.

“Ladies don’t make a scene, Charlize,” her mother’s voice tsked. “It’s better to just let things go with grace.”

Right. Because that’d been working out so well for Charlie over the past thirty-six years. A litany of her exes marched through her mind, their “quirks” center stage: Tad’s drinking. Pete’s gambling. Stu had gotten her fired from her last job. And Staffiture. Oh, Staffiture. She snorted. They’d been fucking her harder than any of her exes had, but Brad was related to one of her father’s golf buddies. Quitting would strain their relationship. Couldn’t have that. So, what did she do? She smiled and took it. Didn’t want to raise a fuss. God forbid she ruffle feathers or cause a commotion.

Disgusted at herself, Charlie typed in the formula to reconcile the discrepancies she’d noted. Ninety-three percent of them were directly attributable to a single employee’s access to the till. How people thought they could get away with this shit…she laughed. How? Probably because no one had ever called them on it, so they kept right on doing it.

Thanks, Universe. Pretty sure this time I’ve gotten the message.

And employee number 456 would, too. A felony was definitely in their future.

The office door swung open, and a large man in a tweed suit recoiled. “Good Lord, what is that stench?”

“I told you, Mr. Hendrick. The temp they sent over is a problem,” Zuzanna sniffed behind him. “She came in reeking of alcohol, and I’ve entered a complaint with their office. I’ve been assured that she won’t be working for them any longer, but we almost lost the Briggs account because of her.”

The last vestiges of Charlie’s future went poof beneath Mr. Hendrick’s frown.

But Staffiture—Brad hadn’t—no, he wouldn’t have called to fire her. Not if he could get the work done for free. She’d get an email late tonight, and her dismissal would be retroactive. The blood drained from Charlie’s face. Without a job, she’d have to move back in with her parents.

And suicide was abruptly on the table.

Mr. Hendrick grunted. “Go find a fan, and get someone to take out all that ruined stock. I want our supplier on the phone, something must’ve happened at the warehouse,” he said over his shoulder before turning to glower at her. “And you, young lady, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Charlie looked up at the ceiling and blinked the tears from her eyes. Fuck it. She literally had nothing left to lose. Might as well make some waves.

“That Preston Briggs is a cheating asshole.” She grabbed her messenger bag and stood. “And whoever employee 456 is, they’ve embezzled close to thirty-six thousand dollars from you. I’ll see myself out.”

She squeezed past the man and his dangling jaw as he rounded on Zuzanna, pinch-faced behind the counter.

Whoa, he hadn’t been kidding about ruined stock. Half of the flowers were dead, and the rest petalless spikes. Charlie shook her head. Whatever. Not her problem—she had plenty of her own.

She pushed through the doors, out onto the street. Behind her, Zuzanna’s shrill protests were cut off sharply by sirens as the door snicked shut.

Holy shit, emergency vehicles had cordoned off the entire corner. It looked like something had happened at the construction site down the street, and everything was in shambles. Just her luck, missing that.

Charlie closed her eyes and took a deep breath, ditching her blue light glasses and pulling her hair out of its pathetic bun. It streamed around her in the late afternoon breeze. That was it then. Everything she’d worked for—gone. Her position, her prospects… God. She was done. Done with people-pleasing. Done taking one for the team. Done filtering her every thought and emotion. What good had any of it been? What did she have to show for it?

A big fat fucking nada.

She blinked back tears, her gaze rising from the commotion down the block to a billboard across the street. Valibu, an up-and-coming luxury watch brand, was cashing in on Daylight Savings. “Don’t you think it’s time for a change?”

Why yes, Valibu. That’s exactly what I was thinking. What she’d been doing—following all her mother’s dumb advice—wasn’t working, so the opposite it was, and there was no time like the present to start.

Oddly liberated by having zero prospects or anything to look forward to, instead of catching the bus to head home, she slipped off her vomit-stained jacket, dropped it beside a dumpster, then turned toward Central Park and set out into the rush hour crowd.


***

Nikoś paused in the dimly lit stairwell to wipe the back of his hand across his brow and take a hit off his inhaler. Messy. This entire job was messy. Wrong time of day, wrong phase of the moon…the building was crawling with security, a stone’s throw from the park’s PD, and the bones his babcia had thrown that morning had all but screamed upset.

But that’s what the client wanted. To send a message that no one was untouchable.

That anyone could disappear.

Upset. Disruption. He’d already had more of that than he could stomach. Goddamn his shitty family legacy, but thanks to his father’s death, Nikodem Wiśniewski was now Kruk—Raven—and obligated to finish any of the man’s outstanding contracts.

His father had gotten off on this shit, but Nikoś was more pragmatic. It was a job, and he could think of a thousand other things he’d rather be doing.

Especially when the portents were all wrong.

His fucking anxiety was on overdrive. He’d be lucky if he got out of here without getting nicked by security. That he could probably talk his way out of, but the police were a different story. His father’d had way too many run-ins with the authorities—local and federal—and Nikoś had shaken every last one of their hands when they’d shown up to “pay their respects” at the old man’s funeral two weeks ago.

Boże, Tato, the mess you’ve left me with…

And this job was only the tip of the iceberg. Nikoś grimaced and tucked away his inhaler, not wanting to think about the rest of today’s to-do list.

He rolled his shoulders, wishing he was out on his boat. Christ, he’d be lucky to get back out to his boat. The uneven weight in his backpack was seriously screwing with his injured rotator cuff. His physical therapist was gonna have a bird when he couldn’t move the fucking thing next session.

If he made it to the next session.

Damn it. He scowled and spat thrice to ward off bad luck. Focus, Nikoś. Staying out of prison might be more important at the moment. Wouldn’t that just be tits, getting hauled in for doing exactly what every firstborn Wiśniewski male had been doing under the authority’s noses since time immemorial, here and in the old country.

The shame of it would kill his mother, but if he did get nicked, he wouldn’t have to deal with Stanisław Dąbrowski’s attempts to marry off his shrew daughter to him in another hour.

Nikoś spat again and adjusted his grip on the oversized pelican case he was towing before bumping it down the last flight of concrete steps.

He stopped by the industrial steel fire door leading to the alley and paused to listen. Okay, that was bullshit. He couldn’t hear anything outside of his own ragged breathing. He closed his eyes and swallowed. Damn, this would be a shitty time for a panic attack.

Keep it together, Nikoś. What had his shrink said? The senses. Count them down. Start with five things you can smell. He inhaled deeply, through his nose and out his mouth. The musty stairwell. Oxidizing metal. The leather of his jacket and his own sour sweat beneath it. Bleach—Right. Not helping. Let’s just get this over with.

He backed through the door, trying to channel nothing-to-see-here, and wheeled the case to the waiting late model sedan. Popped the trunk and went to heft the case inside—

“Fuck!” It clunked to the ground, and he gripped his shoulder, his injury screaming at him.

“Need some help?”

Nikoś’s head snapped up at the soft voice, and his breath caught. He fought to keep his face neutral. Holy shit, it was a wiła. Was this what the portents had meant? No, Nikoś, get a grip. There weren’t Slavic fairies in Central Park. Were there? God, he’d been spending too much time in Poland. Four things you can see, other than your life flashing before your eyes.

A woman against the backdrop of the setting sun. Tall, thin, and too beautiful to be walking around the city alone. She was all cascading white-blonde hair and big, violet-gray eyes, her lithe form on display in a pair of skinny jeans and a tight, white t-shirt. A ratty olive messenger bag rode at one slim hip. She stood at the mouth of the alley and popped the last of a hot dog into her mouth, then proceeded to lick ketchup off her fingers.

Definitely not something a wiła would do.

“What?” He must’ve misheard her. Nikoś blew a clump of sweaty hair from his eyes, still hunched in pain. Who the fuck offered to help a complete stranger in New York?

A fairy sent to fuck with him. To test him. Shit, was this a test?

“Do you need help?” she asked again, enunciating like he was an idiot. “I wouldn’t normally ask, so I am. It’s a new thing I’m trying.”

And that was exactly something a wiła would do, but what she’d want in return… You didn’t accept help or gifts from fairies, but damn it, he couldn’t risk offending her and had nothing to offer for appeasement.

He was also totally screwed if he couldn’t lift this case into the trunk.

Nikoś glanced down at it and grunted with a slight nod.

“Cool.” She wiped her hands on her jeans and came over to grab the case’s opposite end. “On three. You ready?”

No, but he didn’t really have a choice, now did he? He glanced at her askance. Three things you can feel. Cold sweat slicking his back. Hard plastic beneath his fingers. Fire banking in his shoulder. Nikoś winced again as he steeled himself to lift the case. She counted, and he heaved, barely getting it to the lip of the trunk. Thank God. He slid it the rest of the way in, and slipped off the backpack, his shoulder a throbbing mess.

“Dziękuję,” he murmured, thanking her.

Her brow furrowed like she’d had no idea what he’d said—See, stupid. Just a woman—She laughed, gripping the strap of her bag. “Jesus, what’ve you got in there, a body?”

Nikoś forced a smile and tossed in the backpack—

The zipper parted, and a plastic-wrapped head rolled out.

They both stared at it for a beat before he slammed the trunk closed and grabbed her arm. “Get in the car.”