Ah, Friday night.
All she wanted was to crawl into her sweatpants, order a pizza that she definitely shouldn't be eating alone, and vanish into the mindless glow of a streaming service.
Or so she thought.
The lobby of the Ispire building was a cathedral of glass and cold, expensive stone. Sierra adjusted her tote bag on her shoulder, reaching for her transit card, but her hand froze. There, silhouetted against the streetlights through the heavy revolving doors, stood a ghost she wasn't ready to confront.
Broad shoulders, that specific, arrogant lean against the concrete pillar, and a phone screen illuminating a face that had once meant "home" but now just meant "headache." It was Mark. Again.
