The construction site looked like it had been personally designed by God to mock Sierra's entire existence.
Abandoned cranes loomed like judgmental skeletons. Half-built concrete shells gaped empty under floodlights.
Gravel crunched underfoot with the smug satisfaction of a surface that knew it was ruining four-hundred-dollar heels. And not a single drop of blood, not one shredded designer shirt scrap, not even a dramatically discarded sneaker to justify the four-hour emotional apocalypse she'd just endured.
Nothing.
Just the weekend quiet of a place where dreams of state-of-the-art facilities went to die, and apparently so did her sanity.
Sierra stood in the middle of it all, mascara carving black war-paint streaks down her cheeks—waterproof, her ass—feeling the hysterical laughter bubbling up like bile.
