My Curse Is His Only Fortune

My name is Cassie, and I spend my days hustling on an e-bike, delivering packages across the city. The other day, I was mid-route when a sleek black sedan whipped past me, tires hissing against the pavement, and sent a tidal wave of muddy street water entirely over my legs. Furious, I glared at the receding taillights and muttered under my breath, "I hope your damn tire blows."

The words had barely left my lips when a massive BANG echoed down the avenue.

The sedan swerved. The tire had actually blown.

I thought it was just a freak accident, a stroke of karmic luck. But the very next day, the owner of the car tracked me down. He slid a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills across a tablefive grand, easyand gave me a sharp, crooked smile. "How about we play a game, Cassie? You hurl whatever curse you want at me. Every time it lands, I pay you."

I stared at his facea face that was almost unfairly, dangerously handsomeand only one thought crossed my mind: This guy is completely out of his mind, and hes practically begging me to ruin his life.

My name is Cassie, and I deliver boxes for a living.

The sun was brutal that afternoon. The asphalt was baking, turning soft and sticky beneath the soles of my worn-out Converse. I was straddling my e-bike, the front basket overflowing with cardboard packages of every shape and size. Sweat dripped steadily down my forehead, pooling in the corners of my eyes, stinging like crazy.

I blinked hard, trying to squeeze the acidic burn away.

That was when the black sedan rolled past me. It wasn't even going that fast, but the splash it kicked up was spectacular. It had rained hard the night before, leaving deep, oily puddles along the curb.

The water hit me dead on.

It was freezing, and thick with city grime.

I hit the brakes, looking down at my favorite pair of vintage denim. A second ago, they had been perfectly faded blue. Now, they looked like Id just waded through a swamp.

I jerked my head up. The black car had come to a smooth stop at the red light just a hundred yards ahead.

The drivers side window rolled down, revealing the sharp profile of a man. High cheekbones, a strong, aristocratic nose. As if feeling the sheer weight of my glare, he turned his head and looked at me in the rearview mirror.

Just one look.

I kicked the kickstand down, planting my feet firmly on the pavement.

I stared at the back of his car, speaking into the thick, humid air between us.

"Your tire is going to blow."

My voice was barely a whisper. The traffic drowned it out instantly.

Having said my piece, I ducked my head, dug a rag out of my basket, and started furiously scrubbing at my jeans. If the mud dried, it would stain forever.

The light turned green.

The black sedan accelerated, and the moment it did, I heard a heavy, sickening POP.

It sounded like a gunshot, but muffled, heavier.

My hand froze on my jeans.

I looked up.

The luxury car was limping to a halt in the dead center of the intersection, leaving a thick, black skid mark in its wake. The rear left tire was completely shredded, the wheel rim grinding agonizingly against the pavement. The entire chassis tilted drunkenly to one side.

The driver stepped out. He was dressed in a tailored, charcoal-black suit, his leather oxfords gleaming in the sun. He walked slowly around to the back of the car, staring down at the ruined rubber. His brow furrowed into a tight, dark knot.

He kicked the tire.

I hopped back onto my e-bike, squeezed the throttle, and glided past him without a second glance.

I finished my delivery route.

Later that night, sitting in my cramped, overpriced studio apartment, I tossed my jeans into a plastic basin, dumped in a heavy scoop of cheap detergent, and scrubbed until my knuckles were raw.

It didn't work. The dark stains were baked into the fabric.

I stared at the wet denim, my throat tight. I didn't say a word.

My mouth had always been like this. Ever since I was a little kid.

Whatever I said came true.

When I was seven, the neighbor's aggressive German Shepherd used to lunge and snap at me through the fence. One day, terrified, I yelled, "If you don't shut up, your throat is going to rot!" The next morning, the dog lost its bark. It just laid in the dirt, panting and drooling, its vocal cords mysteriously paralyzed.

When I was nine, my mom took me to the county fair. I begged her for a spun-sugar apple, but money was tight, and she said no. Furious, I muttered, "I hope this whole place burns down so nobody gets anything." The following afternoon, an electrical fire swept through the fairgrounds. It incinerated everything.

After that, I learned to keep my mouth shut.

I was terrified. Terrified that the things I said, the dark little flares of anger we all feel, would physically destroy the people around me.

But today, on that sweltering street, I just couldn't hold it in.

Those were my favorite jeans.

My phone buzzed against the nightstand early the next morning, pulling me out of a restless sleep.

It was an unknown number.

I rubbed my eyes and answered, my voice rough. "Hello?"

"Is this Cassie?" It was a man's voice. Low, smooth, and chillingly calm.

"Yeah. Who is this?"

"My name is Gideon Maxwell."

Gideon Maxwell?

I dug through my foggy brain for a second before coming up entirely empty.

"Do I know you?" I asked.

"Yesterday afternoon. The intersection on Monroe Street. Your e-bike. My car."

Oh.

The guy in the black sedan.

"Right, you," I said, playing dumb. "Did you get your tire fixed?"

A heavy silence stretched over the line.

"Cassie, I think we need to meet," he said finally.

"I don't think so. Im just a delivery driver. I don't exactly run in the same circles as guys who drive cars that cost more than my life."

"My tire blew out precisely three seconds after you told it to." His voice was devoid of emotion, which somehow made the hairs on my arms stand up.

"Coincidence," I lied smoothly. "City streets are a mess. Nails, glass. It happens."

"Does it?" he murmured. "Then lets meet and discuss this 'coincidence.' Unless, of course, you aren't interested in learning how a simple coincidence might result in a rather large compensation check for you."

Compensation?

I sat up straight in bed.

"What kind of compensation?"

"Come meet me, and you'll find out," he said. "Noon today. The coffee shop at the bottom of your dispatch building."

He hung up before I could say another word.

I sat there staring at the blank screen for a long time.

Compensation? What was this? Hush money?

My chest felt tight. I didn't want anything to do with this man. The cardinal rule of my life was simple: the more I cared about someone, the closer I got to them, the more likely my mouth was to ruin them.

But I was broke.

Rent was due in three days, and my bike desperately needed a new battery if I wanted to keep my job.

At noon, I walked into the coffee shop.

It was quiet, the air conditioning blasting like a meat locker.

Gideon was already there, sitting in a leather booth in the back. He was still wearing black, a cup of black coffee steaming untouched in front of him.

He saw me, caught my eye, and offered a microscopic nod toward the empty chair across from him.

I pulled it out and sat down.

"Alright, talk," I said, skipping the pleasantries. "What's this about money?"

He reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a thick, sealed envelope, and slid it across the table.

"There's five thousand dollars in there. To cover your dry cleaning, and the emotional distress of the incident," he said smoothly.

I stared at the envelope. I didn't touch it.

"Five grand? What kind of racket are you running?" I shot back, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. My jeans cost forty bucks at a thrift store.

"How much do you want, Cassie?" He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His dark eyes locked onto mine.

"I don't want your money." I pushed the envelope back. "Yesterday was a freak accident. If you think I'm bad luck, then do yourself a favor and stay away from me."

I grabbed my bag and started to stand.

"Cassie," he said.

I stopped, but didn't turn around.

"You don't have to pretend with me," he said softly. "I know it wasn't a coincidence."

My stomach plummeted.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're a fascinating creature," he mused, leaning back in his chair. "I rarely encounter things that genuinely surprise me. So, I want to play a game with you."

"What kind of game?" I turned back to look at him.

"A test... to prove if you really are as 'gifted' as I think you are." A slow, dangerous smile curved the corner of his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes. "If you win, I'll write you a check for fifty thousand dollars. If you lose..."

"What happens if I lose?"

"If you lose, I give you a hundred thousand," he said evenly.

I stared at him.

This man was utterly, completely unhinged.

And heaven help me, so was I.

Because a twisted, buried part of me was actually tempted.

Not by the money. But by the simple, staggering fact that he wasn't looking at me like I was a monster. He wasn't afraid.

He looked at me like he understood.

"Fine," I breathed. "Let's play."

The rules of Gideon's game were brutally simple.

He would select a target, and I would "jinx" it.

If my words materialized, I won.

The first target... was him.

"Whenever you're ready, Cassie. The stage is yours." He leaned back against the leather booth, crossing his arms over his chest, looking entirely too amused.

A slow, sultry saxophone track was playing softly through the caf speakers.

I studied him.

He was undeniably gorgeous. Deep-set eyes, a sharp jawline, lips that were a fraction too thin, giving him a naturally arrogant look. It was the kind of face that belonged on a billboard, the kind that screamed untouchable.

I cleared my throat.

"I hope..." I dragged the words out, watching his reaction.

He raised a single, dark brow, waiting.

"...that the second you walk out that door, a pigeon takes a massive shit directly on your head."

I almost laughed as I said it. It felt so juvenile.

Gideons arrogant mask slipped for a fraction of a second.

"Is that the best you can do?" he asked, clearly disappointed.

"What did you want me to say?" I threw my hands up. "That I hope you walk out and get hit by a bus? I'm not putting a murder charge on my conscience for your little experiment."

He stared at me for a long, heavy moment. Then, he stood up.

"Alright. Let's see which is stronger: your little parlor trick, or my luck."

He picked up his jacket and strode toward the exit.

I didn't move. I picked up his untouched coffee and took a sip.

Bitter. Too strong.

I watched through the massive front window as he pushed open the glass door.

He took exactly one step onto the sunlit sidewalk.

From the awning above, a thick, white splatter dropped straight down from the sky.

It landed dead-center in his perfectly styled, dark hair.

He froze. His entire body locked up like a statue.

Somewhere in the caf, a barista snorted, desperately trying to stifle a laugh.

Moving with agonizing slowness, Gideon raised a hand, touched the top of his head, and looked at his fingers.

His face went murderous.

He pivoted on his heel and glared straight through the glass at me.

If looks could kill, I would have been a pile of ash in the booth.

I raised his coffee cup toward him, mouthing the word, Cheers.

Then, I slammed the cup down, bolted from the booth, and slipped out the cafs back exit.

I ran. I sprinted down the alleyway behind the building, the air thick with the smell of dumpsters and damp brick.

I pressed my back against the wall of a dead-end alcove, gasping for air.

My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Half of it was the adrenaline of running. The other half was... the sheer, unadulterated thrill of it.

For the first time in my miserable, guarded life, my cursed mouth had actually done something entirely hilarious.

I was just starting to grin when a shadow fell over the mouth of the alley.

It was Gideon.

He was holding a wet wipe, methodically cleaning his hand as he stalked toward me.

Instinctively, I scrambled backward, but my shoulder hit the rough brick. I was trapped.

He stopped directly in front of me, planting a hand on the wall beside my head, caging me in.

He was tall. Even standing straight up, the top of my head barely reached his collarbone.

"Where are you running?" he asked. His voice was still cold, but there was a dark, gravelly edge to it now.

"I... I have to get home to make dinner," I stammered, my eyes darting everywhere but his face.

"You're very gifted, Cassie," he murmured, tossing the soiled wet wipe into a nearby trash can without looking.

"I do my best," I whispered.

He took a step closer. The remaining space between us vanished.

I could smell him. Clean, sharp cedar, mixed with the faint, bitter tang of the coffee in his hair. It was intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

"The fifty thousand is yours," he said, looking down at me, a strange, feral heat flickering in his dark eyes. "But the game isn't over."

"What... what else do you want?" My throat was so dry it ached.

"I want to know where your limits are," he said softly. "I want to see just how dark those words of yours can get."

He lowered his head. He was so close I could see the reflection of my own panicked face in his pupils. Small. Cornered.

"Tell me, Cassie," his voice dropped to a near-whisper, ghosting over my ear. "What would happen if I kissed you right now?"

The scent of cedar wrapped around me, pulling the oxygen right out of my lungs.

My mind went completely blank. Static.

He was too close. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, the faint brush of his breath against the shell of my ear. It made me shiver.

I swallowed hard.

"What would happen?" I echoed, forcing my voice to drop to the same dangerous pitch as his. "Your front tooth would fall right out of your skull."