Chapter 1: The Birthday Present No One Can Touch

On my birthday, Natalie gave me a gentle shove, and suddenly I was flat on my back, the mattress dipping beneath me. The AC hummed in the background, stirring the heavy Southern air, and the faint, lingering scent of birthday cake mixed with the coconut-vanilla of her shampoo. The room was washed in a golden slice of late-evening sun, striping the navy sheets beneath us. She was shaking, but her eyes pinned me there—like she’d finally decided to be brave, and nothing was gonna stop her.

Her cheeks were bright red as she whispered she wanted to give herself to me as a birthday present. Her voice cracked on “present,” like she was digging for every last ounce of courage. I watched her twirl the edge of a red ribbon around her finger, fidgeting, and it hit me: she was more nervous than I’d ever seen her—even more than before finals or prom. Her hands knotted in the hem of her dress, just above my chest. Was she scared I’d laugh? Or worse, say yes too easily?

But when I reached for her collar, she recoiled like she’d been shocked. Every time I touched her, it was like she was in real pain. She jerked away with a gasp, as if my fingertips were live wires. Her whole body went rigid, and a strangled, involuntary whimper escaped her. For a second, I thought I’d hurt her—maybe a bruise I hadn’t seen, or something worse. I froze, hands up, afraid to touch her again.

Then I saw them—the barrage of comments floating above. My heart started pounding, sweat prickling at my hairline. It was surreal—like someone had turned on closed captions for my life, except these captions weren’t mine. Neon text zipped above Natalie in the air, flickering and shifting, a digital barrage I couldn’t blink away. I rubbed my eyes, half-expecting it to vanish, but the words just kept coming.

“The heroine is locked down by a chastity shock collar. If anyone but the main guy touches her, she’ll be in agony.”

“Supporting dude, just give up already. You’ll never make it to home plate with her.”

The words stung, both because of how impersonal they felt—and how true they seemed, in that bizarre moment. I stared, feeling like I’d stumbled into some twisted reality TV script.

To spare Natalie from that pain again, I decided to fly overseas and keep my distance from her. It felt like the only thing I could control. I lay awake that night, staring at the popcorn ceiling in my Savannah apartment, the air conditioning humming like a lullaby I couldn’t sleep to. I booked the first flight out—New York, then London. The thought of Natalie hurting every time I reached for her was more than I could stand.

Who could have guessed—when my cousin came to see me off at the airport in Savannah, she misunderstood everything.

The airport was busy, the sticky heat clinging to my skin as the drawl of the loudspeaker announced delayed flights over the rumble of rolling suitcases. I barely had my boarding pass out when my cousin, Marissa, barreled through the crowd. She gripped my shirtfront, knuckles white, and before I could ask what was wrong, she pressed her lips to mine. “Don’t go. Give me one more chance. I have a way to break the curse.”

I tasted salt—her lip gloss, desperation, and something that made my heart squeeze. A TSA agent did a double-take, and I managed a weak, confused smile. In Savannah, scenes like this still turned heads.