Part 1My 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 table—five grand, easy—and 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 face—a face that was almost unfairly, dangerously handsome—and only one thought crossed my mind: This guy is completely out of his mind, and he’s 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 I’d 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 driver’s 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.