Shirts—small. Easy. She’s swimming in her shirt now, even with it tucked into her jeans.
Jeans… maybe a two. Could be a four if she eats good.
Boots—seven. I’d bet onit.
I type fast.
I need a leather jacket. Black.
Jeans, size 2 or 4. Figure it out.
Shirts, maybe five or six of them. Size S.
Boots, size 7. Flat. Nothing flashy. More combat then fashion.
My sister replies almost immediately.
Katya
Why am I buying clothes for a woman?
I transfer money before she can push.
Enough to shut her up.
Mind your business.
I slide the phone back into my pocket.
When I look up, Ayla’s gone.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
Eyes sweep the room, counter, kitchen pass-through, booths, the door.
There she is.Near the register. Leaning in slightly, listening to a table.
Taking an order.
FromCandy.
Fuck.
The whore from Opulent.
But she’s not alone, she has another with her. They already have drinks sweating onto the table, straws bent, ice melting I watch the way Ayla stands—straight, professional, shoulders squared even in clothes that don’t protect her the way they should. Candy smiles up at her, sweet as sugar, all teeth and gloss.
Then the other girl moves.
It’s subtle, but intentional. A nudge of her elbow. The fork skids, clatters to the floor.
Ayla exhales once, quiet. She bends to pick it up.
That’s when Candy lifts her glass.
I see it happen before my brain finishes processing it. Liquid arcs—slow, deliberate. Dark soda spilling straight down Ayla’s back, soaking into that thin shirt, dripping to the floor.
Ayla straightens fast.
