Chapter 1
3:02 A.M.
Avaria Sage Westlin jolted awake, breath trapped in her throat.
The scream still rang in her ears—her sister’s scream—a sharp, splintering tear in the dark that never faded. It wasn’t just noise. It was blood. It was bone. It was the sundress once white, now soaked in a crimson memory that wouldn’t die.
She sat still in the half-dark, sweat slicking her collarbones, heartbeat punching through her ribcage. Her curls clung to her face, tangled and damp. The sundress wasn’t on her. Not tonight. That was memory, not reality.
But it never felt like just a dream.
She rubbed at her face with shaking hands, dragging herself out of bed and onto the plush carpet—a small softness to balance out all the hard. She reached for her tray, rolled herself a blunt with fingers that remembered how to steady under grief.
Click.
The lighter sparked. She took a drag— feeling smoke slowly erase the ghosts from her lungs.
She moved through her apartment like a ghost. In the kitchen, she cracked open the fridge. Half a bottle of Merlot. Leftovers from last night. She poured the wine heavy, took two mouthfuls straight. Then slid the patio door open.
Cold air kissed her skin as she stepped out. Dallas lights blinked in the distance, soft but unfocused.
Avaria sank into the patio couch, blunt in one hand, wine in the other. The smoke blurred things. The wine blurred more. But nothing could blur that scream. That scream always found her.
She tried not to think of her sister’s voice. That laugh. The goofy snort she never wanted anyone to hear. The way she’d call her Varia when she was teasing.
She closed her eyes.
I wish you was here. She thought to herself, tears brimming before the creak of the floorboard caught her attention.
Right behind her. Same spot every time. Always a deliberate step.
She clears her throat from any tremble.
“What you doin’ here this late, old man?”
Her voice was dry. She didn’t even turn to look. She didn’t have to.
A warm chuckle floated through the air. “I should be asking you that. Why you up so late, my daughter?” he asked, drawing out the you the same way he always had—when he was trying to make a point without lecturing.
Avaria exhaled a thick ribbon of smoke and shrugged. “You already know. Same ole, same ole.”
Carter Westlin, her father, settled beside her on the other end of the couch, a weight of quiet comfort and concern. He watched her for a moment, his eyes heavy with something unspoken. He could see through his daughter, beneath the hardness lies the pain and hurt she carries. He hated seeing her like this. Hated knowing there was no fixing it.
Avaria could feel it crawling in the air now—something more than just fatherly worry.
She turned to him slowly, sharpening her gaze. “Something’s wrong, ain’t it.”
Carter smiled faintly. “You always had the knowing. Like your Grandma G used to say—you got that third sight in you..”
She ashed the blunt into the tray, inhaled again, and sighed. Her chest tightened.
“If you pullin up on me at three in the damn morning,” she said, “this ain’t small talk. Go ahead, lay it on me.”
Carter’s hand reached into his coat. Out came a thick manila envelope—creased, old, and heavy. He tossed it onto the glass table. A few photographs slipped out, catching the moonlight.
Avaria leaned forward, fingers still warm from the blunt, and saw her own face in grainy black-and-white. Surveillance shots. Longlens. From multiple angles.
Then came the letter. Her mother’s signature etched across the bottom like poison.
“Marco,” Carter began, “and your mo—”
“She ain’t my mother.” Avaria’s voice snapped like a whip. “She’s a retired incubator.”
Carter’s jaw tensed. “Avaria.”
That was the tone. Government name, no smile. It shut her up fast.
“They’ve been watching. Waiting. And now? They think it’s time to finish what they started.”
She didn’t blink. No gasps. No fear. Just rage. It bubbled quietly, slowly, somewhere deep in her bones.
She just started getting used to normal again. Even if it was lonely. Even if it was empty. It was hers. She was slowly becoming Avi again.
And they wanted to take that too?
Carter saw the shift in her honey brown eyes. That far-off, numb look. Her best friend, Camille, had a name for it—the “disassociating gaze.” He hated it every time it came back.
“I’m not takin’ chances,” he said firmly. “You’re gettin’ protection. Starting now.”
Avaria chuckled darkly. “I appreciate the gesture, Dad. But I’d rather wipe my ass on glass.”
He gave her that classic Westlin warning smile, sharp and amused. “Better start scootin’, smart mouth. Because he gets here in the mornin”.
Her face froze. “The hell he does.”
She stood, pacing, wine glass in one hand, blunt in the other, her fuzzy bear slippers skimming the tile. “Dad, you don’t get to just drop a bodyguard on me like this.”
“This isn’t up for discussion, baby girl. Your safety is non-negotiable.”
His voice cracked, just a little. That small falter Avaria wasn’t supposed to catch.
But she did.
She turned around.
He looked tired. Too tired. There was a grief in his eyes that still hadn’t healed. One daughter buried. He couldn’t afford to lose another.
“I won’t lose you too, Avi,” he said.
And just like that, she stopped arguing.
7:58 A.M.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Relentless. Precise.
Avaria stirred beneath the sheets, face half-stuck to her pillow. Her eyes flicked to the clock.
“Oh shit.”
She shot up, wine bottle rolling off the bed with a dull clink. No time for the robe. No time for cozy. She was already late.
She did her morning ritual on autopilot—facewash, fresh teeth, scarf off, shake out the two-day-old braid-out (still bomb, by the way). Her favorite two-piece set clung to her like a second skin. Bear slippers. Gloss on. Phone and water in hand.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Still going.
She stomped downstairs, glasses askew, patience nonexistent.
She yanked open the door. “Now who the fu—”
Stopped.
Everything. Just… stopped.
There he was.
A wall of muscle and silence. Skin so rich it looked like midnight drank it whole. Eyes—gray, stormy, and unreadable. Shoulders wide enough to block her whole doorway. Arms crossed, jaw tight, presence louder than his voice.
Enzo Valerian Izeal.
Avaria’s mouth went dry. Her heart did a stupid little skip she refused to acknowledge.
Great.
He was fine. Too fine. And she hated that her body noticed.
She hated him already.
