Mag-log inThe sun was setting, casting long, bruised shadows over the city shadows that felt like Devi’s fingers trailing over the skyline.Cali didn’t go to the agency. She didn't go back to the loft. She walked until her feet ached, her oversized hoodie pulled up like a shield against a world that was rapidly becoming a gilded cage.She ended up at The Rusty Anchor, a dive bar so grimy and forgotten that even the city's rats seemed to have moved on. It was the kind of place where the lighting was dim enough to hide her face and the smell of stale beer was strong enough to drown out the scent of sandalwood that seemed to haunt her skin."Whiskey. Neat. The cheap stuff," Cali snapped, sliding onto a cracked leather stool.The bartender, a man whose face looked like a crumpled paper bag, didn't even look up. "Rough day, Princess?""Don't call me that," she growled, her grumpy mask settling into a permanent scowl.She stared at the amber liquid in her glass. She felt the weight of the mother-of-
The meeting was a disaster, which meant for Cali, it was a soaring success. She watched the tiny squares of twelve powerful men on the monitor blink in stunned silence. They were expecting a puppet in a designer suit, instead, they got a girl in a moth-eaten hoodie with her feet on the desk of the most feared man in the city. "Any questions?" Cali asked, her voice flat and grumpy, as she popped a blackberry into her mouth. "Or are you all too busy wondering if you still have jobs? Because spoiler alert, you don't." One man, a silver-haired veteran of the agency named Miller, cleared his throat. "Miss Cali, with all due respect, you can’t just fire the entire board. The Santoro—" "The Santoro is sitting right behind the camera," Cali interrupted, casting a jagged, mean look toward the shadows where Devi stood. "And he’s the one who gave me the keys. So, Miller, you’re done. Security will escort you out. Don't forget your cactus." She clicked End Meeting before any of
The sun didn't just rise in the loft, it assaulted it. The floor-to-ceiling glass turned the shrine of her life into a blinding gallery of her own face. Cali woke up on the velvet sofa, her neck stiff and her temper shorter than the hem of her sheer gown. She stood up, her bare feet hitting the cold polished concrete, and looked at the walls. Thousands of Calis stared back. Happy Cali, sad Cali, and most of all, grumpy Cali. "Morning, narcissist," she snapped at the empty air, assuming Devi was watching his monitors. She marched over to the nearest photo, a candid of her at eighteen, laughing at a street performer. She grabbed the edge of the frame and yanked. It didn't budge. It was bolted to the masonry. "Oh, you think you’re smart?" she muttered. She looked around for something heavy. Her eyes landed on a sleek, black kitchen island. On top of it sat a single, white porcelain bowl filled with fresh blackberries and a small, silver paring knife. Next to it was a glass of
Cali didn't even look at the crepe. She swept her arm across the stone pillar, sending the silver saucer and the food clattering onto the marble floor. The sound of expensive metal hitting stone echoed like a gunshot, but no one rushed out to see what happened. The guards at the balcony entrance simply turned their heads, their faces as blank as statues. "Is that it?" she yelled at the empty air, her voice cracking with a mix of fury and exhaustion. "You buy my agency, you stalk my family, and you send me breakfast at midnight? You're pathetic!" She didn't wait for a response. She marched back into the ballroom, her heels sounding like a death march. The crowd parted for her like she was carrying a contagious disease. She saw her mother, Elena, in the corner, laughing with a group of men in sharp suits. Cali grabbed her mother's wrist, her grip bruisingly tight. "We're leaving. Now." "Cali, don't be dramatic!" Elena hissed, trying to pull away while maintaining her social
The morning sun was an intruder. It poked through the gaps in Cali’s blinds, mocking the three deadbolts she’d slammed home the night before. Cali sat at her vanity, staring at the dark circles under her eyes. She looked like hell, which was a professional disaster for a woman whose face was her only currency. She grabbed a concealer palette and began aggressively masking the fatigue. "Cali! Open this door right now!" Her mother’s voice shrilled through the wood, followed by a frantic pounding. Cali didn't move. She finished her eyeliner with a steady, lethal precision before standing up. She swung the door open, her expression flat and unimpressed. "The sun is barely up, Elena. Unless the house is literally on fire, get out." Elena pushed past her, waving a glossy invitation like a weapon. "You didn't tell me! Why didn't you tell me you were invited to the Santoro Gala? The guest list is exclusive to the top 1% of the underworld and the elite. If you go, our debts—" "I’m not
The camera shutters sounded like rapid-fire bullets, and every single one of them was giving Cali a headache. "Chin up, Cali! Give us enigma! Give us ice queen!" the photographer barked, his voice grating against her nerves like sandpaper. Cali didn't move. She kept her gaze fixed on a peeling piece of tape on the studio wall, her face set in a look of pure, unadulterated boredom. "I'm giving you unpaid,'" she snapped, her voice dry and biting. "My contract said the shoot ended at five. It's 5:02. My face is closed for business." She stepped off the pedestal before they could catch another frame, ignoring the frantic gasps of the stylists. She began ripping the diamond pins out of her hair with zero regard for the expensive extensions. "Cali, darling, don't be difficult," her mother, Elena, hissed as she swept into the dressing room. Elena wasn't just her mother, she was a woman who treated her daughter's beauty like a high-yield savings account. "The designer is right there.







