Page 1 of Poison's Promise

PROLOGUE

Poison

Four Years Ago…

“Where the hell are you, Dad?” I mutter, pacing my tiny living room.

The clock ticks louder with every passing second, a constant reminder of how unreliable he is.

I glance at the broken shelf leaning against the wall, its screws and brackets scattered on the floor.

He promised he’d be here by noon to help me fix it. It’s now six o’clock, and there’s no sign of him. Typical.

“He’s not coming,” I say out loud, more to myself than anyone else. Anger bubbles up inside me, hot and fierce. “Why do I even bother asking him for help?”

I grab my phone and scroll through the contacts, hovering over his name. Should I call him? Give him another chance to let me down? No. Screw that.

“Polly, you’re better than this,” I tell myself, tossing the phone onto the couch. I can’t rely on anyone but myself, and it’s time I accept that.

With a sigh, I plop down on the floor and start sorting through the screws and brackets. Might as well try to fix this damn shelf on my own. How hard can it be?

“Stupid, useless piece of crap,” I mutter, struggling to fit the pieces together.

My hands are shaking, frustration mounting with each failed attempt.

“Just once, it’d be nice if someone actually followed through,” I grumble, wiping sweat from my forehead. “Just once.”

My mind drifts back to all the times he’s made promises and broken them. Missed birthday parties, school events unattended, countless moments where I needed him, and he wasn’t there. It’s always the same story.

“Why do I keep expecting anything different?” I ask the empty room. Silence is my only answer.

The doorbell rings, snapping me out of my thoughts. I scramble to my feet, hope fluttering in my chest. Maybe he finally showed up.

I yank the door open, but it's just a delivery guy holding a package.

“Polly Cozallo?” he asks, glancing at the label.

“Yeah, that’s me.” I take the package, trying to hide my disappointment. “Thanks.”

“Have a good day,” he says, walking away.

“Fat chance,” I mutter, closing the door behind me.

I tear open the package, finding a new pair of high-heeled boots I’d ordered weeks ago. At least something’s going right today.

“Guess it’s time for a change,” I say, slipping off my sneakers and pulling on the boots. They fit perfectly, hugging my calves like they were made for me.

I go back to being a furniture builder and struggle a little more trying to put this piece of shit together, until I finally give in and accept the fact I need help.

I grab my phone and dial Asher’s number.

Asher, my boyfriend of two years.

My fingers tap impatiently against the counter as it rings.

“Hey, Puddin’,” he answers, sounding a little distracted. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Totally fine,” I lie, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “It’s just... my dad didn’t show up again. He promised he’d help me fix some stuff around the apartment.”

---