The Oblivion

Chapter 7.

The laundromat's humid, floral-scented exhaust hit Layla the moment she stepped out of the cab, a familiar blanket of urban decay. Her apartment building was a relic from a past life, the sixteen floors small in comparison to the ones surrounding it. The elevator groaned its way up to the fourteenth floor, her body a leaden ache from the day's emotional whiplash. The flickering bulb over her door casting shadows down the hall, and she fumbled her key into the lock.

The door swung open to reveal Mark sitting on her thrifted couch, the one they'd picked out together, with Mercury in his arms. He stood up, his face a practiced canvas of remorse, the cat escaping his grip quickly, as if sensing what was about to happen.

All the hollowed-out feeling inside her solidified into a single, dense point of rage. "Get out." Her voice was flat, dead.

"Layla, please. We need to talk." His voice was that practiced, reasonable tone that used to soothe her. Now it felt like a chemical burn.

"There is no 'we.'" She shoved past him. "You lost the right to 'we' when you f****d Eva on my couch."

He followed her into the cramped kitchen. The space felt violated, still echoing with yesterday's betrayal. "It wasn't like that. It just... happened. We were both lonely, and you're always at work with that f*****g freak—"

"Don't." She spun around, her bag dropping to the floor. "Don't you dare use my job as your excuse. You made a choice. Both of you."

His face hardened, the mask of contrition slipping. "You think you're so superior? Buried in all that Fae bullshit, talking down to everyone. You left way before I did, Layla. You just weren't in the room."

The words were a physical gut-punch, stealing her breath. They found the secret fear she'd nursed for years, the one that whispered her ambition was a character flaw, her drive a coldness. She saw the smug flicker in his eyes, the satisfaction of having finally landed a blow that mattered.

Her hand moved before her mind caught up.

The crack of her palm against his cheek was shockingly loud in the small room. His head snapped to the side, a stunned, perfect silence following. She didn't feel victorious. She felt gutted, hollowed out. She walked to her desk, her movements mechanical, and pulled the freshly printed papers from her bag. She turned and thrust the stack against his chest.

"Sign them," she demanded, her voice eerily calm. "And get out."

He looked down at the words PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE, then back at her, his cheek glowing red. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He took the papers. She opened the door and stared at the peeling paint of the hallway until he shuffled past her. Nyx, her neighbour, stood leaning against the doorway to her apartment, her sharp pink eyes staring at Mark as he passed, before she strode across the hall to stand in front of Layla.

"You ok, Nip?" The nickname settled around Layla's shoulders like a familiar hug. Six years ago, when Layla and Mark had first moved in, the half-pixie had taken one look at Layla's gaunt frame—still wasting away by grief after her mother's death from cancer—and declared, "You're just a half nip from starvation." The name had stuck, even after the weight had returned.

Layla rubbed her forehead, a headache beginning to form. "Yeah, just a s**t week," she looked at her friend, noting the pinks, blues, and greens now streaking through her pearl-coloured hair.

"I know a werewolf who owes me a favour?" she teased, a small smile cracking across Layla's face.

"Tempting," she muttered.

"You've got a spare key, Nip. Always welcomed in my space." She gave Layla's shoulder a gentle squeeze before disappearing back into her apartment. Layla closed the door to her own and turned the deadbolt. The click was final.

Then she slid down the door until she sat on the floor, back against the wood, and the silence swallowed her whole, hot tears sliding down her cheeks. Mercury slipped out from under the couch where he's been hiding, rubbing his body gracefully across her legs and arms, purring loudly as if to comfort her.

Time became granular. She wasn't sure how long she sat there. The only light was the neon sign from across the street, painting the room in periodic washes of sickly blue and red. Eventually. she pushed herself up, joints stiff, and went to the bathroom. She didn't look in the mirror, just turned the shower on to scalding and stepped in, still wearing the borrowed blouse and dress from Kieran's closet. The expensive fabric soaked through, clinging to her like a second skin, heavy and ruined. She didn't even care at this point if she was required to return them.

She slid down the tiles to sit on the shower floor, knees to her chest. The hot water beat down on her bowed head. On the ledge sat a half-finished bottle of cheap cabernet. She picked it up, wiped the neck with a wet hand, and drank deeply. The wine was bitter, mingling with the taste of shower water and salt.

Her phone rang on the toilet lid. The screen showed her brother's name, Jamie. A different kind of dread, weary and familiar, seeped in. She knew this script. She grabbed the phone, water sluicing from her arm. "What."

"Layla? Hey. You okay? You sound... off." His voice was aggressively cheerful, a poor imitation of concern.

"I'm in the shower, Jamie. What do you want?"

A pause. "Just checking in. Things have been a little tight, you know? With the kids, and Sarah's hours got cut—"

The laugh that bubbled out of her was harsh, stripped of humor. "How much?"

"What? It's not like that—"

"It's always like that, little bro. How. Much."

Another pause, thinner now. "Two grand would just... it would get us through the month. You got that annual bonus, right?"

She took another long pull from the bottle. The warmth in her belly was the only thing that felt real. "Mum would be spinning in her grave. She'd see right through this 'loving brother' act. You're just a grown man who's bad with money, calling his little sister for bailouts."

"That's a shitty thing to say."

"I'm having a shitty week. No. The answer is no." She ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bathmat where it bounced, and skittered away.

The water slowly ran cold. She turned it off. Peeling the soaked, ruined clothes off was a struggle. She left them in a heap on the floor, a sad, expensive puddle. She toweled off roughly, not bothering to dry her hair, and pulled on an oversized t-shirt and underwear.

She fell into bed, the damp from her hair spreading on the pillow. The wine hummed in her veins, a blurry, forgiving static. She closed her eyes, but the darkness behind her lids provided no escape. Instead, it offered a face. Sharp, impossible angles. Eyes like a night sky, watching her with icy, unnerving focus. Kieran.

A flush of shame heated her skin, but it was distant, muted by the alcohol. Her hand trailed down her own stomach, beneath the waistband of her underwear. This was stupid. He was her boss. He was Fae. He was an arrogant, cold-blooded bastard who saw her as a malfunctioning tool.

But he had seen her. Not Mark's version, not Jamie's version. He'd seen the break, and then he'd seen the weapon she forged from it. In the hazy, permission-giving space of the wine, that felt like a terrifying form of intimacy.

Her thoughts fragmented into sensation: the memory of his voice, low and absolute, saying "Do not react." The chill of the air in his office. The way his gaze felt like a physical weight. Her breathing hitched, her fingers moving in slow, determined circles on her c**t. She chased the feeling, not of him, but of the power she'd felt under his command—the terrifying clarity, the lethal focus. It twisted together, the fear and the arousal, until they were indivisible.

The release, when it came, was sharp and solitary, wracking her body for a moment before leaving her utterly empty. A weak, shuddering sigh escaped her. The shame crept back in, cooler now, laced with exhaustion. She was too tired to entertain it. Within minutes, the dark wine and the spent adrenaline pulled her under into a deep, dreamless sleep. The empty bottle stood sentinel on the nightstand beside the cold, silent phone.