The Alpha Regret

ne tasted l

ings like well-dressed ghosts. They clinked glasses, murmured appreciatively, and occasionally

art was selling

r pillow, wondering if the pain in her chest would ever stop. Now I was Wren Mercer, rising star of the P

brooding

her head, a knowing smirk on her crimson lips. My best friend had

said. "I'm observing.

e one that says you're about to spiral into some deep, dark corner of yo

, shattered and desperate to become someone new. She didn't know the full story, couldn'

"Really. This is e

t in my cramped studio, every rejection letter, every moment I'd poured my heartbr

d I feel

Mer

n hand. "The collector from New York is asking about 'Shat

to professional mode.

ooze. Make obscene amounts of m

cost more than my car. He wanted a companion piece to 'Shattered Moon' my largest work

et them see beauty in the wreckage. Let them find the

I saw it through the galler

torc

t. The rider was just a silhouette, leather-clad and anonymous,

never him. He's a

r? Are you

lector. My hands were trembling. I pressed them

voice steadier than I

ng. That prickle at the back of my neck. That phantom ach

bo

hard I tried. Most days I could pretend it didn't exist. Most days I was W

when the moon hung heavy and full

zy with hope, feeling that golden

ce. The horror in h

the words t

to me, Wren. You'll

ff my heels, poured myself a glass of wine I didn't real

one who thought they knew me. A portrait I'd painted in those first agoniz

er V

ptured him perfectly-the arrogance, the intensity, the hint of so

ng. I hated that I

did. The guilt was a familiar weight, but not heavy enough to make me answe

off the gallery's lingering p

dreamed of forests and moonlight and a