Page 1 of Thor

Chapter 1

Mandy

Iwasn’tburningthecandleat both ends. I was cutting the candle up into tiny pieces and throwing them into a volcano.

“Come on Mandy, stay awake, stay awake.”

I stared at the numbers until they blurred, then blinked three times and straightened my posture, before pinching my cheek. I’d always found that a little pain was a great way to focus the mind.

The Peterson Holdings tax return wouldn't review itself. My fingers flew across the keyboard, each keystroke precise and deliberate, like the rest of my carefully constructed life. Outside the wall of windows, Denver sprawled fourteen stories below, but I barely registered the view anymore—just another beautiful thing I'd trained myself to ignore.

Prestige Partners occupied three floors in the glass tower downtown, all sleek surfaces and hushed conversations. My cubicle stood as a monument to organization—pens arranged by color, sticky notes aligned perfectly along the edge of my monitor, not a paperclip out of place. Even my desktop background was a simple gray gradient, soothing and unremarkable. Just like I needed to be.

I was exhausted, yes, but I couldn’t let standards slip.

I smoothed my charcoal pencil skirt and adjusted my cream blouse, checking that the top button remained fastened despite the slight discomfort at my throat. The navy blazer completed my armor—tailored to perfection, hiding any hint of the softness beneath. My copper hair pulled back so tightly it gave me a headache by four o'clock every day, but it hid the natural waves that made me look "too young" according to the senior partner's offhand comment three years ago. I hadn't worn it down at work since.

Too young. That was something I never wanted to seem.

"Mandy, just the person I wanted to see."

Martin Graves appeared at my cubicle entrance, his silver hair perfectly coiffed, his tie the exact shade of power blue that signaled authority without aggression. I'd analyzed his wardrobe choices once during a particularly tedious budget meeting.

"The Westridge audit was impeccable." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial level. "Peterson and the board noticed your efficiency. Your attention to detail is exactly what Prestige values."

I swallowed, arranged my features into what I hoped was a pleased but not overeager smile. Hopefully if I smiled widely enough, he wouldn’t notice the bags under my eyes. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate the opportunity to work on complex portfolios."

"Keep this up, and partnership discussions might come sooner than expected." He tapped my desk twice with his knuckles. "We're watching, Mandy. In a good way."

My smile remained fixed as he walked away, but underneath my ribs, something constricted. A familiar pressure—not quite pain, more like the slow crush of expectations I'd carried since childhood. 'Be better, achieve more, never show weakness.' The partnership carrot dangled, and like a good little donkey, I'd keep plodding forward.

When I was certain Martin had disappeared around the corner, I slid open my bottom desk drawer. Beneath a stack of manila folders and a box of expensive pens I'd never use, a tiny purple unicorn keychain caught the fluorescent light. I didn't touch it—just looked at its sparkly mane and silly grinning face. Three seconds of acknowledgment, that's all I allowed myself. Three seconds to remember there was more to me than spreadsheets and tax code.

I closed the drawer with a soft click just as my phone buzzed. The text displayed my sister's name and a simple message: "Went to treatment today. Nurse says I'm responding well."

My fingers hovered over the screen. Amy didn't mention the cost—she never did—but I knew what those treatments cost. $3,800 per session, insurance covering barely half. I'd been supplementing her bills for months now. My salary at Prestige was excellent, but not enough to cover both her care and my own expenses.

Quick mental math told me the payment from my next "special client" would cover her next two treatments with a little left over. The Kings paid well for discretion and expertise. I pushed away the flutter of anxiety that came with thoughts of my sideline accounting work. The fatigue I was experiencing and the lines I was crossing were worth it for Amy.

I typed back: "Great news! Love you. Call tonight?"

Then I closed the text and pulled up the Peterson Holdings document again. The spreadsheet welcomed me back with its orderly rows and columns, its predictable formulas. I took comfort in its rigid structure, so unlike the messy reality of my sister's illness or my own confused desires.

I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath. Triple-check the numbers. Format the report. Make it perfect. Whatever I felt inside—the yearning, the fear, the exhaustion—I could lock it away behind rows of numbers that always, always added up.

Theelevatordescendedfourteenfloors, each ding marking another step away from Mandy-the-accountant. By the time I hit the lobby, my shoulders had already dropped half an inch. I nodded to the security guard—same one for three years and I still didn't know his name—and pushed through the revolving doors into the evening air. Denver in June smelled like exhaust and restaurant kitchens, a far cry from the sanitized, climate-controlled office I'd spent eleven hours inside.

I walked with purpose to the parking garage, my heels clicking rhythmically against concrete. With each step, my rigid posture softened just a little more. The structure of my day—meetings, deadlines, colleagues watching—fell away.

My silver Audi A4 waited in its assigned spot, practical yet elegant. The car had been my one indulgence when I made senior accountant, though I'd calculated the payments down to the penny before signing. Inside, I locked the doors and exhaled. The first real breath of the day.

I reached up and pulled out the elastic band that held my ponytail, wincing as it caught a few strands. My scalp tingled as copper waves tumbled over my shoulders. I massaged my temples where a headache had taken root, pressing my fingers in small circles until the tension eased slightly.

Rush hour traffic crawled toward LoDo, my trendy apartment building chosen for its proximity to work rather than any real enjoyment of the neighborhood's overpriced cocktail bars. I'd just merged onto the highway when my phone rang through the car's Bluetooth system.

"Mandy speaking," I answered automatically, still in work mode.

"Hey numbers girl, why so corporate? It's just me." Lena's raspy laugh crackled through the speakers.

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