The office looks different when I return. Smaller. Less important. I'm here to collect my things. One cardboard box worth of personal effects. That's all several years of my life amounts to in this place.
Whitney is waiting.
She leans against my desk like she owns it, arms crossed, that familiar smirk plastered across her face.
"Well, well." Her voice carries across the empty floor. "The freak returns."
I set down my box and turn to face her fully. "I'm just here for my things."
"Are you?" She pushes off the desk, circling closer. "Or are you here to threaten me? To try and scare me into silence about what you really are?"
My hands clench. "I'm not threatening anyone."
"Good. Because I have copies." She holds up her phone like evidence at trial. "Multiple copies. Cloud storage. Friends who have instructions to release everything if something happens to me." Her smile sharpens. "I'll send it to news outlets. Post previews online. Everyone will know vampires are real. And you'll be the proof."
The fear hits first—exposure means death, means hunters, means the entire vampire world coming down on me for breaking the most fundamental rule. But then something shifts. Settles. Clarifies.
Whitney is just human. Fragile.
"It's really stupid," I say quietly, "of your human ass to threaten a vampire."
Her confidence falters. Just for a second, but I see it—the moment her hindbrain registers that she's cornered something dangerous and doesn't have an exit strategy.
"You won't do anything," she says, but her voice wavers. "Not here. Not with witnesses."
"Theresa."
James's voice cuts through the tension. He stands in his office doorway, and I can see him calculating the situation.
Instead of explaining or de-escalating, I cross to him and kiss him. Right there. In front of Whitney and the two other night shift workers still present. I claim him publicly, brazenly, with the kind of confidence that makes Whitney's face twist with rage and something that might be envy.
When I pull back, James's eyes are dark with hunger and concern in equal measure. He takes my hand and leads me into his office, closing the door with careful precision.
"That was—" he starts.
"Necessary." I cut him off. "And I need you to fire Whitney."
His expression shifts from lecturer to businessman. "Theresa, I can't just—"
"Yes, you can." My voice carries authority I'm still learning to wield. "She's a threat. Not just to me, but to you. To every vampire who operates in secret. She has video evidence and she's already distributing it."
He goes very still. "What?"
"She says she's sent it to news outlets. Posted it online. She's trying to expose us."
The temperature in the room drops as James processes this. When he speaks again, his voice carries two centuries of cold calculation. "That's unfortunate for her."
"So you'll handle it?"
"Firing her is the least of what needs handling." He meets my eyes. "But yes. She'll be terminated immediately for harassment and threatening behavior. As for the rest..." He pauses. "I'll make some calls."
Relief floods through me, but I need to hear the other thing. "Alan. The Vincent situation. Is he safe?"
James's expression softens slightly. "Yes. I've had my people bury every piece of evidence connecting him to the loan sharks. The investigation has been redirected toward gang violence, internal conflict. Alan's name won't come up."
The weight that's been crushing my chest since Alan's rejection loosens. Not gone—he still hates me, still won't speak to me—but at least he's safe from prosecution for murders I committed.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"You don't need to thank me." His hand cups my face gently. "This is what you do for people you love."
Through his office window, I watch Whitney storm across the floor toward the bathroom, her movements jerky with fury. She's made her move and it's failed, and now she doesn't know what to do except retreat.
I recognize the feeling. I lived it for two years.
"I need to finish this," I say, pulling away from James.
His gray-blue eyes narrow. "Theresa—"
"I won't kill her." The clarification feels necessary.
I follow Whitney's path with predatory purpose. The bathroom door hasn't even finished swinging shut when I push through it.
Whitney spins from the mirror, mascara already smudged from angry tears. "Get out."
"No." I let the door close behind me. "You wanted to know what I am. Let me show you."
She backs against the sink. "There are cameras—"
"Not in here." I move with vampire speed, crossing the space before she can scream, pinning her against the porcelain with strength that makes her gasp.
"You can't—" she starts, but I'm already lowering my mouth to her throat.
"I can do whatever I want," I whisper against her pulse. "That's what you never understood."
My fangs extend, and I bite.
The pleasure that floods her is immediate. Her knees buckle and I hold her up easily, feeling her body respond in ways she never consented to, never wanted, but can't resist. I don't feed—just demonstrate how easy it is to overwhelm her.
When I pull away and lick the wound closed, she slumps against the sink, disoriented and trembling. Her eyes are glazed, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and shame colors her face as she realizes she's aroused by something that should have terrified her.
I lean close, letting her see the blood on my lips, the inhuman gleam in my eyes. "You'll never come near me or my family again. If you do, I'll drain you dry—and you'll die begging for more."
The threat lands exactly as intended. She nods frantically, too shocked to speak.
"Good." I straighten, smoothing my clothes. "And Whitney? If you ever tell anyone about this conversation, about what I am, about what I can do—I'll know. And I'll come back. Understand?"
She nods again, tears streaming down her face now.
I leave her there, shaking and ashamed, and walk back out into the office where James waits by my desk. My cardboard box sits beside him, packed with the few personal items that marked my time here.
"It's handled," I say simply.
He studies my face, sees the blood I've already licked away, the satisfaction humming through me. "Did you—"
"She'll recant everything. She won't be a problem anymore."
His expression carries approval mixed with concern, but he doesn't lecture. Just picks up my box and gestures toward the exit. "Then let's go home."
As I walk out of the office for the last time, I feel the weight of my old life finally falling away. The invisibility. The fear. The desperate need for approval from people who saw me as disposable.
That person is gone. Buried in the same grave as my humanity.
And whoever I'm becoming? She's not afraid anymore.