For ten long years, I’d been riding with Preston Atkinson, the kingpin who ran the streets like a lion. A decade of loyalty—dodging bullets, wading through the filth, always by his side.

But the day he decided to go straight, hang up his outlaw hat, his crew started calling another woman “Donna.”

Those hands of his—scarred, calloused, stained with blood and gunpowder—were now kneeling down, slipping a pair of crisp white sneakers onto her feet.

“Cressida,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to mine, “she’s cut from a different cloth, you know?

“You? You’d jump into the fire with me, no ring, no questions. Her? She needs the white picket fence, the whole dream.

I didn’t look back. Just kept my boots stomping, his words fading into the dust behind me.

Preston never had a clue, but my family? They’d clocked my wild side from a mile away. They’d already lined up a decent guy, solid as they come, just waiting for me to give him a name and a chance at something real.

*****

The night Preston swore he was done with the game, he dragged me into bed and we tore into each other like the world was about to end.

I stared at the shredded remains of my panties strewn across the floor, speechless for a moment.

“Preston, what’s the deal? End of days coming or something?” I finally tossed out, half-joking.

The way he looked at me—still ravenous, like he could eat me alive—had me thinking tomorrow might never show up.

Preston was kicked back, sparking up a cigarette, his hooded eyes heavy, face clouded like he was drifting somewhere else.

“Cressida,” he drawled, smoke slipping from his lips, “if I walk away from you, you’re not gonna go all psycho on me, right?”

Ten years riding with Preston, I knew his deal. He liked his women soft but with a spark of defiance, a little wild to keep things hot.

So I snagged the cigarette from his hand, burying the chaos in my chest, and shot him a lazy grin. “Preston, you think I’m still that clueless eighteen-year-old?”

Back in the day, I’d have torn through his world in my ratty sneakers, not giving a single damn if he tried to ditch me. I’d have been reckless, all heart, no brakes.

But at twenty-eight, that girl was long gone.

I froze, the rest of my words choking up, lost in the haze.

Preston just ruffled my hair like I was his kid sister, crushing his cigarette into the ashtray, the ember grazing his fingers.

“Cressida, let’s call it. We’re done,” he said. “And quit those damn smokes. You’re not invincible, you know. We’re too old to keep screwing around like this.”

My mascara streaked down my face, a total mess. Trying to keep it together, I grabbed my jacket from the floor, ready to bolt.

But Preston’s arm hooked around my waist, pulling me back into his chest, warm and familiar.

Outside, the sky was a churning mess, clouds thick as ink. Rain was about to pour.

His lips brushed my bare spine, hands deftly fixing the straps of my dress. Like old times, he nipped my earlobe, voice low and rough. “You hear me, Cress?”

I stayed silent. He didn’t care.

His words carried that quiet control, the kind that said he was the one in charge. “Storm’s coming. Stay a bit, huh?”

Ten years could grind any fight into a fragile truce. But Preston must’ve forgotten my temper wasn’t just for show. If we were cutting ties, I wanted it sharp and final—no messy leftovers.

I straightened up, shoving his chiseled face away. A sharp laugh slipped out. “How long’s this rain gonna last, Preston?”

If his heart was already with someone else, how long could he keep me on the hook?

His brow twitched for a split second, but he smoothed it over quick. When he finally talked about her, his voice was flat, like he was stating the weather.

“Cress, you’re smart. You get it,” he started. “Her name’s Fiona. She’s not like you. You can hang with me, no strings, no fuss. You’re built for it.

“She’s not. She’s… too clean for this.”

I choked, the room tilting. The floor was a disaster—tangled clothes, cigarette ash, my dignity—and I didn’t know where to start.

What did he mean, I could stick around without a title?

The black stockings, the sky-high heels, the slinky dresses—he’d shaped me into his fantasy for years. Now that I’d owned it, leaned into the sultry vibe, he thought it was cheap?

The black stockings, the sky-high heels, the slinky dresses—he’d shaped me into his fantasy for years. Now that I’d owned it, leaned into the sultry vibe, he thought it was cheap?

I wanted to rip into him, demand answers. But his finger pressed to his lips, silencing me.

Then I heard her. Fiona. Her voice drifted through the phone, all soft and shaky, like a lost little girl.

She said in a soft, gentle voice, “Preston, you promised you’d pick me up… I’m by myself. I’m freaked out.”

Ten years, washed away. Preston left me.

The underground garage thrummed with the growl of his car fading into the distance when my phone pinged with a text.

Preston: [I’m outta town for a bit. Clear your stuff outta the house. Two weeks, I’m changing the locks.]

I didn’t bother texting back.

Quietly, I erased myself from the sprawling villa I’d called home for five years. Every trace of me—photos, clothes, the little marks of my life—wiped clean.

Hours later, my phone glowed again.

Preston was probably with Fiona by now, her eyes wide with panic, clinging to him. He’d be his usual charming self, wrapping up our ten-year love story with a tidy little bow.

He texted: [Hit me up if you need me, Cress. Couldn’t give you the ring, but we’re still cool, right? Friends?]

Friends.

Ten years of loving him, bleeding for him, and it all boiled down to that one cheap word. Like it meant nothing.

The rain hammered Brookshire for two days straight, a relentless downpour that left everything sodden and heavy.

The damp sank into my bones, and sleep was a stranger. In the dead of night, I’d drag myself out of bed, flicking my lighter on and off.

Click. A spark. Click. Gone.

Ten years ago, Preston was just a scrappy nobody, holed up in a dank half-basement, scraping by on nothing. The air stank of mold, and the only light came from that tiny flame in my hand.

He’d stared at me, his buzzcut sharp, eyes sharper, while I stood there dripping wet in my school uniform.

“You better think twice, Cressida,” he said, voice rough. “A guy like me? I ain’t exactly the white-picket-fence type.”

I was young and dumb, too stubborn to care. I kicked off my soaked sneakers and slid my ice-cold feet under his shirt, right against his chest.

His heat burned through that flimsy tank top, warming me like a furnace.

That little flicker of light from the lighter felt like it could outshine the sun. I nodded, fierce and sure.

“Preston, I don’t give a damn about some perfect future,” I told him. “All I want is you.”

We’d held guns together, gripped knives side by side. In nights thick with the stench of bandages and antiseptic, we clung to each other, hands at throats, losing ourselves in a haze of passion—fading out, snapping back, over and over again.

Preston always said when he went straight, the first thing he’d do was put a ring on my finger.

Now he was cleaning up his act, and the first thing he did was cut me out of his life.

I was twenty-eight, too old to keep chasing ghosts. Back home, my family had a guy waiting, polished and ready for me to slap a title on him—fiancé, husband, whatever.

The rain kept pounding. My lighter kept flickering. And Preston was long gone.

I’d finally decided to kiss this city goodbye.

Keys to the villa jangled in my hand as I rolled up to Preston’s spot. No makeup, no effort—just my worn-in jeans and beat-up sneakers.

When I stepped into the dive, most of the regulars didn’t even clock me at first. But the second I yanked off my cap, the crew that used to scream “Donna Cressida” went dead quiet.

Gossip spreads like wildfire, and they all knew Preston’s heart had jumped ship.

One of the guys, a scrappy kid who’d always had my back, tried to cut through the awkward. “Hey, Cressida, real talk—you and Don Preston? You all were it. That new girl’s just some college kid. She’s got zero swagger, no juice.”

“Yeah, Cressida, come on,” another one jumped in, flashing a grin. “Work that charm on Don Preston. You know he’s always been a sucker for you.”

I let out a brittle laugh, the kind that hurt more than it healed.

Ten years with Preston. I had that sweet, girl-next-door thing going, but throw on some red lipstick and a sharp winged liner, and I could make heads turn faster than a car crash.

Back in the day, plenty of folks had their eyes on me, but Preston was my armor. Anyone stupid enough to mess with me got sent to the sticks, lugging sandbags till they dropped.

One tear from me, and he’d ditch everything to make it right. That was my power, my place—back when it mattered.

But before the boys could keep up their cheerleading, a glass came flying, smashing against some poor guy’s forehead and shattering into bits.

Preston’s face was a brewing storm, dark and vicious.

“What the hell is this? You think Cressida’s running my show now?” he growled. “I step out for a hot second, and you morons let my business turn into a damn soap opera?”

The whole place froze, silent as a tomb. That was Preston’s magic, his iron grip. Only now, that grip was crushing me.

I opened my mouth to smooth things over, to say something to douse the fire, but then the girl behind him peeked out, all wide-eyed and fake-sweet.

“Preston, is this that Cressida you talked about?” she purred, her eyes sliding over me like she was sizing up a rival. “Oh, wow, we’re totally twinning with these fits!”

Preston’s brow furrowed as he gave my outfit a slow once-over, like he was trying to figure out a riddle.

Worn jeans, beat-up canvas sneakers—I might as well have been Fiona’s mirror image. His eyes narrowed, hesitation flickering in them.

“Cressida, you been creeping on Fiona’s style or what?” His voice came out low, sharp, like I’d stepped over some unspoken line.

If one looked close, Fiona could’ve passed for me at eighteen. Same vibe, same jeans-and-sneakers deal. It was like seeing my younger self in a cracked mirror.

I caught the sly game she was playing, her little moves to get under my skin, but I kept my lips zipped.

Me, stalking Fiona? Come on. Wasn’t it more likely someone had been scoping out Preston’s type?

Ten years together, and he still didn’t trust me enough to see the truth.

I pressed my lips tight, stubborn as hell. Preston let out a dry, mocking chuckle. “Dress up all you want, Cressida, but you’re not eighteen anymore. That train left the station.”

“What’s your deal, huh? Why you pushing me like this?” he shot, his words cutting clean through.

I blinked, my head spinning. Did he just say that?

“Here’s the deal,” he said, licking his lips like he was about to throw a knockout punch. “Ten years. What’s it gonna cost me?”

I froze, my breath catching. Ten years. I’d taken bullets for him, caught blades meant for his blood. But nothing—not one damn second—had ever hurt like this.

My nails bit into my palms, my voice shaky as I choked out, “Preston, what the hell are you saying?”

“You heard me,” he said, cold as a February wind. “Ten years of your life, wasted. Name your price.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, his jaw clenched so tight it might’ve cracked. His eyes were a mess of emotions, but he forced the words out like they didn’t burn him too.

My legs wobbled, the world tilting under me.

Fiona tugged at his sleeve, her voice soft, almost breakable. “Preston, come on, don’t be such an asshole. Cressida didn’t do anything.”

He looked down at her, his face softening as he brushed his nose against hers, gentle as a whisper. “Shh, darling, relax,” he murmured, tucking her behind him like she was something fragile. “No way I’m letting anyone hurt you.”

Time was, he’d stood in front of me like that. The memory stung like salt in a wound, and my stomach twisted, bitter and raw.

I glanced down, my eyes catching the silver bracelet hanging loose on my wrist. When Preston had first slid it onto my hand, it clung to me like a vow, a piece of him I could hold onto forever.

But the harder I loved him, the more it slipped, growing looser with every year, every fight, every piece of my heart he chipped away.

Just like him. Just like everything we’d been.

I could still picture it, clear as day—our second year together, me and Preston.

A killer flu ripped through South City, taking out 3% of everyone it touched. My pathetic immune system folded like a cheap card table, and they carted me off to quarantine without a second thought.

My eyes were on fire, the world a blurry, fever-soaked haze, but then I saw Preston’s face hovering over me.

For a split second, I thought I was hallucinating.

I grabbed his hand, my voice rough as sandpaper, and choked out, “Preston, I miss you so fucking much.” Then, barely a whisper, “Am I done for? Is this it for us?”

I was only lucid for a handful of minutes each day, drifting in and out.

Preston had never cried in front of me, not ever. But that day, he broke down, sobbing like a kicked puppy.

This scrappy, no-good punk somehow sweet-talked his way into the school as a volunteer, hauling ass from Building A to C just to find my name scrawled on the quarantine list.

I chewed him out, called him a fucking idiot for risking his neck to care for a mess like me.

But Preston? He didn’t give a single shit. He just slid this silver bangle onto my wrist with a crooked grin and said, “Happy birthday, Cressida.”

We were dirt-poor back then, scraping by on fumes. We’d stand outside those dingy jewelry shops, gawking at a cheap silver ring like it was some unattainable treasure.

I was convinced I wouldn’t make it to spring, my body wasting away in that sterile ward.

But that day, when Preston wished me a happy birthday, cherry blossoms drifted past the hospital window, soft and pink, like a quiet promise of hope.

Later, I found out the real story. That bangle? He’d melted down a little peace charm he’d carried since he was a kid to make it.

Preston looked me dead in the eyes, all grit and heart, and said, “Cressida, I’m tough as hell. I can handle whatever bullshit life throws. You? You just gotta live—safe, sound, all that good shit.”

That bangle clung to my wrist for nine years, a piece of young Preston etched into my skin.

Back then, I swore it bound our lives together, like our fates were forged in that molten silver. Safe and sound—that was what Preston meant to me.

But now? That bangle didn’t fit anymore. It hung loose, heavy with memories that didn’t quite belong.

I clenched my jaw, yanking at it, scraping my wrist raw until it finally slipped off, leaving behind red marks and a dull, lingering ache.

Preston froze, then crushed his cigarette under his thumb, his eyes wild with panic. Those bloodshot eyes locked onto mine as he snapped, “Cressida, what the hell are you doing?”

My brows furrowed, tears stinging my eyes, barely held back. Wasn’t he the one who told me to put a price on our ten years? I’d done it, and now he was too damn weak to let go.

I started, “Preston, let’s just end this—”

“Don’t you fucking say it!” he yelled, lunging toward me like he could stop the words, only to trip when Fiona grabbed at his leg.

A bitter, broken smirk curled my lips as a tear slipped down my cheek. “I never begged you to stay…”

The words hit like a knife. With one final tug, the twisted silver bracelet ripped free and flew into the fishpond outside. Ripples bled into the green, churning under the rain.

Preston bolted to the pond’s edge, dropping to his knees in the downpour, hands clawing through the water for that lost glint of silver. It was gone.

Watching him so desperate, I fought the dumb urge to dive in after it. My chest ached, heavy and sour, like I’d swallowed acid.

What was this? Did he still care?

Ten years with him flashed through my head like a cruel highlight reel, each memory slicing deeper until I went numb.

Breathing felt like work. All this pain, just to pay back a shitty “happy birthday” from years ago. Maybe it was worth it. But me and Preston? No matter how much it hurt, we were done. No future, no nothing.

The rain fell in soft, whispering threads. When I stepped into it, I felt like I’d left half my heart behind. Preston chased after me, gripping a drenched umbrella.

He stank of cigarettes, and his hand clamped onto my shoulder, too stubborn to let go. “Cressida, let me take you home.”

I didn’t look back. Then Fiona splashed through a puddle, her wet bangs plastered to her pale, fragile face. “Preston, you’re just gonna leave me here alone?” she whined, voice cracking like she was one sob away from breaking.