[tw: burning children, blood, gore (the first one was wild-)]

GOD BLESS OREN, I don't have a clue how he dealt with me up till now.

The interview had gone as well as you could imagine. And no, I did not waste a single wink of sleep thinking about my newly acquired friend. Not at all.
Instead, I channeled my inner dark-romance-worthy stalker and basically got to know everything about the famous fashion model Arlene Nikto Invanova despite not ever even seeing her with my own eyes.

Not as the model, anyway.

She was what one would call a supermodel.

She walked for famous brands, rich designers, and even sometimes personal projects. She wasn't only a model herself but she was the CEO of a company that held a major share of IMG models. Recent news stated that Ivanova would be running Salvatore's designs. Now, I, personally, had never heard of any Salvatore related to fashion (murder, circus, and horrifying parenting? I can name a few).

And I then realized I lived under a rock.

Salvatore, Lorenzo Abraxas Salvatore, was fucking name. A big one. Designer for many luxury brands like Louis Vuitton, Versace, Gucci and you name it, owns his independent fashion company that is worth over-and I kid you not-thirteen-point-six-billion dollars, which is more than Christian Dior by the way, and is a philanthropist?

How the actual-

If textbook Mafia-rich-book-boyfriends had a human incarnation, I would believe it to be Lorenzo Salvatore. Well, not so sure about the looks though. I spent the entirety of the night scrolling through my glowing rectangle to find even a single photo of him. None. Not even a side shot, spotting, or anything. People don't even know where he lives. The only way they can call him the designer of his clothes is because of a special engraving on them that's only unique to Salvatore clothes.

A rumor burning through the forests said that in this very show starring Arlene Nikto Invanova, Salvatore will finally be revealing himself. The people are gobbling up the news so fast that when I tried to book tickets to the show, the high-end web page crashed. Not one seat left.

And that's basically how my eight hours of darkness went. I managed to sneak in two hours of sleep and a thousand layers of foundation to hide my eye bags and was now on my way down the stairs with Oren.

"So, we're playing dress dolls?" I leaped from the stairs, skipping the last three steps.

"Alisa wants you to," He simply shrugged. Walking all three steps down. "Don't worry, your sister will be joining in on your misery."

We were halfway out of the house when we went past Tobias' wing. I froze, memories of the blood-soaked fabric in that puzzle box fizzled in my vision. "Quick stop before we go?"

Oren nodded and I led him to the shrine-cum-temple, judging by his expression this was the first time he had come to meet this. I quickly solved the box and held it out to him, letting him examine the contents.

"You don't think..." He began, his chocolate eyes slowly meeting mine.

"I don't," I said, my fingers tightening around the wooden artifact, "but you can never be too sure, can't you?" He hummed in agreement, "I need you to send this to the labs. If allegations come up, we'll have proof against them."

Five minutes was all it took for Oren to get the job done.

He escorted me to the SUV. Alisa and two of his men were waiting inside it-and they weren't the only ones.

"Leena!" Avery smiled, although for a reason not known to me, her smile was strained. Two seconds later I got to know.

"I know you two weren't planning on going shopping without me," Thea said, by way of greeting. "Where there are high-fashion boutiques, so there is Thea."

I looked toward Oren, hoping he'd kick her out of the car. He didn't.
"Besides," Thea told me in a haughty little whisper as she buckled her seat belt, "your sister and I need to have a chat."

And so, squished between my sister and the window pane, my earphones working overtime to filter out Thea's high voice, I could only count the leaves on the passing by trees, knowing that it was going to be a long day for me.

·······•✦•······

Ignoring the fact that the paparazzi tried to suffocate us alive before we could even step foot in the mall I owned, I'd say things weren't going all that bad. I got to know something about tension between Jameson and Avery and my overprotective-big-sis-senses started to tingle, but the considerate part of me opted to not go down the awkward conversation lane.

Instead, we went down the extravagant dress lane.

The boutique Alisa had chosen for this carefully choreographed outing was the kind of store that had only one copy of each dress. They'd closed the entire shop down for me and Avie.

"Green." Thea pulled an evening gown from the rack, smiling at my sister. "Emerald, to match your eyes."

"Her eyes are hazel," I said flatly.

I left the Calligris girl and Avery in the capable captivity of Alisa Ortega, choosing to go on a side quest of finding something to my own liking.

Now don't get me wrong. Each one of these dresses was beyond mere excellence. They were radiant, powerful, iconic, and could stab a man in the shin and laugh it off like a normal Tuesday. They were a vibrance of every range of color one could want or find. Jewels? They got you. Pencil skirts? Say less. Overly priced underwear made out of the same material I could've sworn I saw in a Target store once? Voila.

They were all perfect.
So naturally they were nothing like me.

My style was-unapologetically-cheap, but fashionable. They all had that pizzazz in them, nothing screaming simple. Nothing down to earth, a little modest, a little weird, and maybe a little tacky. Even if going for formals, I would've liked at least some character in a dress. A quote, I recalled from Arlene Invanova, as I walked through racks and racks of fabric.

'A dress is not but a mere layering of fabric. It is the warmth to heat and chill to cold. It is the flavor to food and shine to jewels. A good model may need her body, may not. But it is the dress she or he wears that defines her character.'

This collection seemed to certainly have been failing in that department.

Just as I was about done sulking about my lack of taste, ready to throw in the towel. I saw them.

Beautiful. They were so utterly and innocently beautiful. They were soft and yet frilled. Some were in bright colors and chaotic clothes, the others were more calm and serene. Neat. They were designed in such manner that both the rich and modest would want to wear them. They were artistry, mastery, and passion as touchable, physical articles. They were not in every color, but in the ones one would find solace in. Home. Maybe a fancy dinner date, a romantic walk, a mere time with a child's smile. Or maybe nothing at all.

The gold engravings on the inner or hidden parts of the articles, the elegant sign above. It belonged to the company I least expected.

Salvatore.

And out of all those chef-d'oeuvres, there was one that I could just not tear my eyes away from. Not even with my full might.

Its deep crimson tulle flowed in cascading layers, whispering secrets of graceful elegance, yet at the ends, fluffing into messy, cheerful tuffs. The bodice, delicately sculpted, rose in gentle folds as if the fabric itself had sighed into existence, shaping a silhouette both regal and tender. A gathered knot at the waist, like a bloom unfurling, as if caught in a moment of becoming. It was a dress fit for a queen, yet touched by the wonder of a girl who still believes in magic. It was simple. It wasn't loud, screaming for eyes. It wasn't dull, shying away from stares. It there.

And it was the best. My dress.

Damn. Salvatore was good. What a surprise, a lunatic is actually a genius.

"You know you could really do red."

My eyes finally tore away from the fashion item. Thea materialized from thin air and my soul left my body to go meet my dead relatives.
Happily unbothered by the side-eye thrown at her from me, she strode ahead, picking out dress from dress. "This one brings out your blue eyes," She held up a piece of fabric. I couldn't even call it a dress, it was more of a stitched-up expensive towel with sleeves. And it was maroon.

"Do you have trouble with differentiating colors, Calligaris?"

"Oh, whatever," She tossed it aside, as if worth not thousands of dollars but a dirty sock found in laundry. "My statement still stands."

Statement. Not opinion.

Theadora Calligris. I had no reason to call her a bad person, an interloper of dubious intentions, or anything negative. Yet I had no good reason to call her anything opposite. I suppose that was what intrigued me about her. Not much I knew about her, aside from the fact that she did not like Hawthorne guts. And was Emily Laughlin's best friend.

All the more reason to stay the hell away from her.

I learned from Avery that to Emily, the boys-Grayson and Jameson-were games. They were people to toy with, players to play with, toys. She loved both of them and, at the same time, loved none. They constantly competed, with the victor claiming her heart.

And oh, I'll tell ya, the boys played. A sneaking suspicion told me that game led to her final breaths.

"Look," My gaze glinted at the Calligaris girl, "you wanted to talk with my sister. So,"-and even if I highly disapprove-"you should go talk to her, Calligaris." In simple words: Leave me be.

"Please," The bronze-toned girl smiled, "call me Thea." Not really a request, eh? "And regarding Avery..." She hummed. Her voice changed. Something controversial. Something dwelling in between a whisper and a breath, "How honest has she been with you? Not much, probably. Not about that fact that she and Jameson made out after she got shot, not at all about the fact that she and that Maxine had almost fallen out. Definitely not about her argument with that Hawthorne. How insulting, hm?"

Oh, the glare I gave her... If looks could kill, Theadora Calligaris would die a slow and painful death. Preferably with her lips sown shut and her limbs torn apart.

Try say one word about her again. My golden eyes dared. One fucking word and it'll be your last.

Thea blinked, stepping back instinctively. So she did have enough common sense to be careful of a girl ready to commit murder and having a very very sharp manicure.

A beat of silence went by and she spoke again. This time far more aware of my nails, "What I meant to say," her voice slow, carefully considering her each syllable, "is that maybe you two should talk with each other first. After all, no one likes being in the dark." Alisa called; Avery and Oren standing by the gate.

"Especially not by the person we trust most."

·······•✦•······

My Shayla, the car crash hurt.

We found a dress. The paparazzi snapped their pictures as Oren ushered the lot of us back into the SUV.

As we pulled away from the curb, he glanced in the rearview mirror. "Seat belts buckled?" Mine and Avery's was.

Between her, Thea fastened hers. "Have you thought about hair and makeup?" she asked me.

"Every moment of existence," I replied in a bright smile, so much so that even I was questioning my own sarcasm. "These days, I think of literally nothing else."

Avery snorted, "A girl has to have her priorities in order."

Thea smiled. "And here I was thinking your priorities all had the last name Hawthorne."

Remind me why I didn't skin this girl alive back then?

"Hm, and your priorities seem to have all the last name Laughlin, yes, Ms. Calligaris?"

That shut her up.

My eyes rolled, ignoring the disapproving look from Avie. The scenery around us whizzed by.

Then we whizzed by.

Without warning, the car swerved. My body kicked into battle mode fight or flight, and neither one of them was an option, strapped into the back seat.

Avery whipped her head toward Oren, who was driving and noticed that the guard in the passenger seat had his hand on his gun, vigilant, ready.

And that my fingers slipped into my boots.

Where I had my own weapon. And Avery knew this.

Something's wrong. We shouldn't have come, her eyes panicked. Her hands were shaking and eye sights were everywhere.

She was having a panic attack. Her PTSD from the shooting. My sister developed PTSD.
I'm gonna rain hell.

Alisa pushed this. She wanted us out here.

"Hold tight," Oren yelled.
"What's going on?" Avery asked. The words lodged themselves in her throat and came out as a whisper. I saw a flash of movement out of my window: a car, jerking toward us, high speed. She screamed.

Shit. Someone was trying to run us off the road. My hands gripped the seat as our bodies leaned at a horrible angle. And just my luck, something stabbed into my gut. I didn't have enough time to worry about that as Oren laid on the gas. The sound of sirens-police sirens-barely broke through the cacophony of panic in my head.

What really broke through the haze was a face. Barely a second of frame I could see, but I caught her pale, snow-white skin.

Vallerine.

The Stage was involved. As if things weren't already complicated enough.

I heard keening, screaming, and a mix of crying. It was out of pure instinct as my arms wrapped tightly around her. The poor girl was shaking against my chest, my nose buried in her hair, my body shielding her from any damage. At least physically.

"Avie, Avie," Her name left my lips twice, "It's okay. It's gonna be okay. Calm down, I'm right here." I was going to be right there with her, even if the world exploded. Arlene Amira Grambs doesn't make the same mistake twice.

Oren roared into the left lane, ahead of the car that had attacked us. He swung the SUV around, up and over the median, sending us racing in the opposite direction.

I never let go of her.

There was more than one siren now. I turned toward the back of the car, expecting the worst, preparing for impact-and I saw the car that had hit us spinning out. Within seconds, the vehicle was surrounded by cops.

"We're okay," I whispered. I didn't believe it.

"We're..." Avery sniffled, her voice hoarse from hysteria, "Okay..." and then in a moment, she was back. "What the hell was that?" she asked, her voice high enough in pitch and volume to crack glass.
"That," Oren replied calmly, "was someone taking the bait."

The bait? I swung my gaze toward Alisa. "What is he talking about?"

In the heat of the moment, I'd thought that it was Alisa's fault that we were here. I'd doubted her-but Oren's response suggested that maybe I should have blamed them both.

So even the man I trust most can't be trusted.

"This," Alisa said, her trademark calm dented but not destroyed, "was the point." That was the same thing she'd said when we'd seen the paparazzi outside the boutique. The paparazzi. Making sure we were seen. The absolute need to come dress shopping, despite everything that had happened.

Because of everything that had happened.

I didn't know why, but something in me shattered.

"Stop the fucking car."

Now, let me tell you a little story about me. When back in the Stage, I was the distraction, the attack, and the weapon. But most of all, I was a deadly decoy. I was used to being on the frontline. Of having people fire from my shoulders.

But when I killed Arlene to realize that I had been bait so the enemy forces could find me. That I had been 'sacrificed' by the very organization I once called my family. I got tired of being played.

I got tired of being bait.

No one gets to make their toy. No one gets to make me their play doll.
No. One.

"Arlene-"

"That was an order, Oren." My voice changed. It was a row, deathly whisper. A threat and a promise. It wasn't kind or light as before. This wasn't Arlene Amira Grambs talking. This was La Bombola Mortale.

The flicker of hesitation in Oren's eyes did not go unnoticed by me. But the brakes were slammed and the tires came to a screeching stop. The door on my side swung open harshly by the sheer force of my push.

"Wait, Arlene," Alisa's voice called, panicked. I was going to ruin her perfect PR plan and I didn't give a shit.

All I cared about was to get that motherfucker who shot my sister.
And show him what salt in blood can do.

"Arlene, stop!" Fingers curled around my forearm. I'm pretty sure if it wasn't for Avery witnessing my rampage, I would've cut those fingers off without a second thought.

"Touch me again and you won't have skin left on your body, let alone hands, Ortega."

She let go. She let go when she realized that I wasn't going to be that naive girl who got thrown into a fortune and cling for guidance. She let go when she realized that maybe I wouldn't believe in a word of her's again. Ever.

Fuck trust issues.

·······•✦•······

Drake Sanders was arrested. That's what the world was told.

What actually happened to the mutt was much more brutal and including of knives, paper cuts, and prolonged bleeding. And burying a corpse in the woods.

Don't ask how I did it. I'll give you nightmare fuel again some other day.

It was as if I never met the guy. As if I wasn't drenched in blood just moments ago. I was good at cleaning. Cleaning dishes for the diners, cleaning Avery's old rusty car, cleaning Libby's baking utensils.

Cleaning asshole guts from myself.

See? I'm a perfect housewife.

I knew they weren't where I had left them. I practically threatened to end my employees' entire bloodline if they didn't take my sister back home to safety. Arlene from a week back would probably have her eyes closed and feet stretched with Oren being with her sisters.

I don't think I want those two anywhere near me or my family now. But when no one to trust, trust the disloyal.

"Is it considered kidnapping if the kid consented without knowing the consequences?"

Vallerine knew how to start a conversation off well. Rarely. More frighteningly, she had a point.

"Said every Free-candy Man ever."
My back leaned, my legs taking up the entirety of the backseat as if I owned the Mercedes myself. I had no right being this calm in front of a murder dancer, but things happen when you grow up with psychopaths as such. Things like getting into cars that are driven by the most closest incarnations of demise, willingly.

In my defence, it was that or walk home ten miles.

"I could kill you right now, if I wanted to." Those dull, piercing blue eyes met mine through the mirrors.

"So could I."

"You could kill yourself?"

"If I wanted to-which talking to you makes me do, yes."

"Seeing your humor is the same," The car began moving, crossing streets I'd never seen. Which was probably every street since I'd barely been on the Texas road. "I'm assuming that only your sense of survival has eroded."

My eyes hold back a roll, but the corners of my lips do twitched down in distaste. "Please, Val. I know damn well you won't harm a hair on me. You can't."
Not now, anyway. Ah, a familiar street. "The Emperor needs his