Ayla huffs a laugh and adjusts the strap of her backpack. “It’s a diner. Opulent girls come in, see me, decide they’re bored. Candy likes to make messes.”
I don’t respond right away.
They’ve been doing this to her. Repeatedly. And she just... takes it.
“Not anymore,” I say.
She stops walking. Turns to face me, one eyebrow raised. “What?”
“It’s not happening again.”
“Yeah because I got fired.”
“No, I meant her and any other girl from Opulent can easily be moved out of state.”
She freezes. “You can’t—”
“Watch me.”
Her mouth opens like she’s going to argue, then closes. She studies my face for a long moment, searching for something. Whatever it is, she doesn’t find it.
“I need to go,” she says instead.
“Where?”
“Mrs. Hardinoff’s. I have a cleaning shift. Might as well do it early.”
“She’s thirty minutes from here on foot, my bike is faster.”
She hesitates. I can see the war happening behind her eyes—pride versus practicality.
Practicality wins.
“Fine.”
***
Mrs. Hardinoff’s house is old money disguised as modest living. Brick facade, well-maintained garden, the kind of place that smells like furniture polish and secrets.
Ayla dismounts the bike, pulls off the helmet. Her hair’s a mess. She tries to smooth it down with one hand.
“Wait here,” she says.
“No.”
“Maksim—”
“I’m coming in.”
Her jaw clenches. “She doesn’t like strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger. I’m the Pakhan.”
“That’s worse.”
I swing off the bike, pocket the keys. “Lead the way, Beda.”
She glares at me for a solid five seconds, then turns and marches up the walkway. I follow.
