Velvet Smoke & Gunmetal Hearts

Layla almost cancels.

It’s been a long week, she’s still half-tired from too many late nights and not enough decent sleep, and the idea of smiling politely through a “family dinner” in some glass palace sounds exhausting. She’s halfway through typing I’m so sorry, I’m knackered, can we reschedule? when Sofia rings instead of replying.

“Don’t you dare bail,” Sofia says by way of hello. “Mum has gone fully unhinged. There are candles. Plural. And she bought those tiny stupid napkins that nobody uses.”

Layla laughs, even as she flops back onto her bed. “Is this supposed to convince me?”

“It’s your twentieth,” Sofia insists. “She wants to celebrate you. And”—her voice drops into a mutter—“the husband will be there.”

“The husband,” Layla repeats. “You mean Luca?”

Sofia exhales loudly. “Yes. Him. I still refuse to say his name like he’s a normal human.”

“You’ve been married into him for, what, a year?” Layla teases. “You could at least pretend to tolerate him for one dinner.”

“Oh, I tolerate him,” Sofia says. “I just don’t trust him. There’s a difference.”

“You’ve never trusted anyone your mum dates.”

“This is different,” Sofia replies. “He’s too calm. I don’t trust men who never lose their temper. It’s unnatural.”

Layla rolls her eyes, but there’s affection in it. “You do realise you sound like a walking red flag detector?”

“Good. I am. Anyway, point is: you’re coming. I told Mum you were. She’s made dessert with your name on it. Literally. There’s icing involved. Don’t make me a liar.”

That’s how Layla ends up in the back of a taxi forty minutes later, smooth dress hugging her body, hair curled and sprayed into place. The city slides past in streaks of light. Sofia sits beside her, scrolling through her phone, grumbling about her ex and occasionally glancing up to make sure Layla doesn’t suddenly order the driver to turn around.

“So,” Layla says, fiddling with her earrings. “Remind me what we know about this man I’m apparently meeting like a character reveal in season two.”

Sofia snorts. “He’s mid-thirties, somehow richer than God, suspiciously calm, and married to my forty-year-old mother like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Also: he looks like trouble in a suit.”

“That last part is not helping,” Layla says.

“It’s not meant to. I’m warning you.”

“Because you care about me,” Layla singsongs.

“Yes,” Sofia groans. “And because Mum already adores you and never shuts up about you, and I don’t need Luca joining the Layla Fan Club.”

Layla freezes mid-laugh. “He… knows who I am?”

“Oh my God, are you kidding? Mum tells him everything. ‘Layla this, Layla that.’ ‘Layla helped Sofia with her deadlines.’ ‘Layla’s the only one she trusts with her daughter.’ I’m sick of hearing your name.”

A warm, uncomfortable feeling settles low in Layla’s stomach. She stares out of the window, watching the streets grow nicer, taller, shinier as they climb.

“So he’s heard of me,” she says, trying for casual.

“Babe,” Sofia says, “he probably knows your national insurance number.”

The lift opens straight into the penthouse.

Glass is the first thing Layla notices—walls of it, wrapping around a living room that overlooks the city like it’s something to be surveyed rather than lived in. It smells faintly of expensive perfume and something darker underneath: leather, wood polish, a hint of smoke.

“Finally!” Sofia’s mum sweeps towards them, all soft perfume and bright eyes, her hair pinned up in a way that makes her look far too young to have a twenty-year-old anywhere near her orbit. “My favourite girl,” she says, pulling Layla into a hug. “Happy birthday, love. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Layla says, flushing. “You look amazing.”

“She does,” Sofia grumbles. “It’s disgusting.”

“Oh, hush,” her mum says fondly. “Come in, both of you. And Layla, honestly, I feel like I already know you. These two never stop talking about you.”

Layla’s cheeks burn hotter. “Hopefully not in a bad way.”

“All good,” she assures her. “How clever you are. How you keep Sofia from making terrible choices. How you’re the only one she trusts completely.”

Layla laughs, embarrassed, unaware that the door behind her has just opened.