The gun feels like an old friend.
Cold. Heavy. Familiar.
I press it against my temple and close my eyes. The city hums below me. New York never sleeps. Neither do I. Not for ten thousand years. Not once.
I pull the trigger.
Click.
Empty. Again.
I lower the gun and stare at it. Six bullets. I loaded six bullets. I watched them slide into the chamber one by one. Now they're gone. Vanished. Like every other attempt before this.
Pills dissolve before they hit my stomach. Ropes snap before they tighten. Water spits me out like a bad taste. Even fire gets bored of me.
I am Lyra Sterling. CEO of Celestial Corp. Forbes calls me a genius. Wall Street calls me a shark. My employees call me ma'am.
Nobody calls me what I really am.
A goddess.
Tired. Broken. Trapped.
I set the gun on my desk and pour myself a whiskey. It burns going down. Not enough to kill me. Nothing is ever enough.
My office sits on the 60th floor of Celestial Tower. Glass walls. Marble floors. A view that would make most people cry with joy. I've seen better. I've seen the first sunrise. I've watched galaxies form like flowers blooming in slow motion.
None of it matters anymore.
My phone buzzes. Another prayer. Somewhere in the world, a child is asking the stars for help. I feel it like a needle in my brain. Sharp. Small. Constant.
I used to answer every prayer. Ten thousand years ago, I was Sara. A young goddess who loved humanity so much she painted the sky for them every morning. I made it snow in July for a little girl's birthday. I guided lost sailors home by their stars.
Now I can barely remember why I cared.
I take another sip.
The elevator dings.
Nobody should be here. It's 3 AM. Security cleared the building hours ago. I reach for the gun out of habit. Then laugh at myself. What am I going to do? Shoot someone? With what bullets?
The doors open.
He walks in like he owns the place.
Dante Carver. CEO of Titan Industries. My biggest rival. The man who has been trying to destroy my company for six months.
He's tall. Dark hair. Amber eyes that remind me of someone I've been trying to forget for ten thousand years. He wears a charcoal suit with no tie. Top button undone. He looks like a man who stopped caring about appearances three drinks ago.
He also looks like he's dying.
I can see it. The grey cloud around his body. The way death clings to him like smoke. Most people can't see auras. I see everything. His lungs are struggling. His blood is thick with disease. His cells are eating themselves alive.
Cancer. Stage four. Pancreatic.
He has thirty days. Maybe less.
He doesn't know yet. Or maybe he does and he's pretending he doesn't. Humans are good at pretending. I should know. I've been pretending for centuries.
"Rough night?" he asks.
He spots the gun on my desk. His eyes move from the gun to me. Back to the gun.
"Planning to shoot me, Sterling?"
"If only it were that simple."
He sits on my couch without being asked. Crosses his legs. Pours himself a whiskey from my bottle like we're old friends.
We're not friends.
We're enemies.
Six months ago, he tried to buy my company out from under me. I blocked him. He went after my board members. I went after his clients. He called me a monster in a press conference. I called him irrelevant in a tweet.
It was the most fun I've had in centuries.
"What are you doing here, Dante?"
"Saw your light on." He takes a sip. "Thought my favourite enemy might want company."
"I don't."
"Too bad." He settles deeper into the couch. "Nice gun. Yours?"
"Go home."
"Can't sleep." He shrugs. Something flickers across his face. Pain. Quick and sharp. He hides it behind his glass. "Besides, we have a merger meeting tomorrow. Thought we could prep."
"At 3 AM?"
"Best ideas come at 3 AM."
He's lying. He's not here to prep. He's here because he's scared. I can smell fear on humans like perfume. His fear smells like coffee and sleepless nights and the quiet terror of a man who knows something is very wrong with his body.
"You should see a doctor," I say.
His glass freezes halfway to his lips. "What?"
"You look sick."
"Wow. Charming. You should write greeting cards." He said
"I'm serious."
"And I'm fine." He sets the glass down. Hard. "Why do you care? We're not friends."
Because I've been watching you die for ten thousand years, I think. Because your soul keeps coming back to me in different bodies with different names and I keep losing you every single time.
"I don't care," I say instead.
"Good." He stands. "Then I'll see you at the meeting tomorrow."
He walks toward the elevator. Stops. Turns.
"Lyra?"
"What?"
"The gun." He nods toward my desk. "Whatever you're going through... there are better ways."
He steps into the elevator. The doors close.
I stare at the spot where he stood. His whiskey glass still sits on my table. Warm where his fingers held it.
My chest hurts.
gods shouldn't feel pain. We're above it. Beyond it. But he looked at me with those amber eyes and for one second I wasn't a goddess. I wasn't a CEO. I wasn't ten thousand years old.
I was just a woman.
And he was just a man.
A dying man.
A man I've loved a hundred times and lost a hundred times and I'm about to lose again.
Unless I do something about it.
I pick up my phone and dial my assistant.
"Set up the merger meeting for 9 AM. And clear my schedule for the next thirty days."
Thirty days.
That's all I have to make Dante Carver believe in gods.
Or watch him die for the hundred and first time.
I pour another whiskey.
It still doesn't kill me.