Wrong Mrs. Vale

Alora's Pov"Chris!" I hiss as my body stiffens under the sharp, blinding spike of agony shooting up my heel. Hopping on one foot and clutching my toes, I glare down at the culprit. It's the jagged, green plastic dinosaur. Of course, it had to be the one toy designed like a medieval weapon.“Fantastic,” I mutter, teeth clenched. “Nothing says career fulfilment like being taken out by a seven-year-old’s weaponized Lego collection.”"Chrisssssss!" I try again, louder this time, my voice tightening as I pry the toy off my foot.A tiny, breathless giggle echos from the balcony, immediately followed by the quick scuffle of sneakers running away. Mischievous and unapologetic, of course. I exhale sharply and bend to pick up the toy when I spot two more scattered across the kitchen tiles like landmines.I limp slightly as I gather them. "Who needs a pension plan when you can just die of septic shock from a stubborn toddler?"The television hums softly in the living room, its glow spilling i

Leyla's Pov By my fourth visit, I'm invisible. The secretary doesn't even look up; she just acknowledges my presence with a cold, silent stare before returning to her typing. I stand there a second too long, waiting for a "hello" that isn't coming. To her, I’m just the stripper sister of the man who killed Raymond Vale. I shift my weight, and a sharp, familiar pain shoots up my calves. My feet are still swollen from six hours on the main stage, and the skin around my ankles raw from the straps of seven-inch platforms. I reek of a life Lucien Vale wouldn't touch even with a gloved hand, yet here I am. George’s hearing is the morning after tomorrow. Somehow, his two million dollar bail was denied and even worse... his hearing pushed forward. So, if I don't get to Lucien today, my brother is as good as dead. I’m his only hope, and I’m running out of time. "Mr. Vale is in a meeting,” the secretary dismisses me. “I’ll wait.” She snaps, her patience breaking. "Look, I’ve told you a

Alora's Pov Our plan is already in motion by dawn. Unfortunately, so is my anxiety. I get lost twice trying to find Lucien's office. It's not the directions. In fact, Leyla is whispering them into my ear with the patience of a saint through our video call. It's the building. The glass corridors feel like a maze designed to unsettle you, reflections folding into one another until I didn't know which way was out. "Left now,” Leyla says through my earpiece. “The small door beside the massive one.” I turn right, and a sigh crackles through the speaker. "Your other left." "I knew that." "You absolutely did not." "I had a fifty-fifty chance." "Well, you failed the fifty." I roll my eyes. "Small door beside the giant one. That's the elevator." This time, I find it. "See?" I say. “I’ve got it,” I lie, wiping my damp palms on my dress. “Alora, if you want us to stop...” “I don’t.” The elevator opens onto the top floor. It’s actually quieter up here. "There

Alora's PovSleep refuses to come.I stare at the ceiling until the shadows start looking like faces. Then, I check my phone.10:17 PM.I groan. Leyla still isn't home, probably because of our riff earlier on or work. Either way, I just know it's going to be a long night. I throw the blanket aside and sit up.The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rush of traffic outside.Usually, I'd write. Writing always helps.I grab my laptop on the nightstand and open my manuscript.Read the same sentence once, twice. Six times.Nothing.The cursor blinks, waiting in mockery. After ten minutes, I've written exactly four words and deleted all four."Ughhhhh! Forget it," I slam the laptop shut.The problem is'nt writer's block, It's Lucien. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. His office, that contract.I grab a pillow and throw it across the room. It hits the wall, and I feel exactly zero percent better.Maybe fresh air will help. Or caffeine, or even

Leyla's Pov The worst part is the waiting. Not for George's trial or the cops. I'm waiting to find out if I ruined all of our lives in 10 seconds flat. I sit alone in the hospital room, staring at the clock mounted above the television. 1:18PM. The seconds tick by, and my stomach twists with every single beat. A nurse walks past the open door, glancing inside for a brief second. I immediately looked away, fixing my eyes on the floor. The police had already taken my statement. Twice even. The paramedics had asked their questions three different times. Yet, every single time footsteps approach the room, my pulse jumps into my throat. I stand and close the door. Then, my gaze drifts down to my hands. They're clean now, but if I close my eye I can still feel the weight of the vase. My phone vibrates. It's Alora, again. I just stare at her name until the screen starts to dim. A few hours ago, she had called me, sounding breathless and relieved, to tell me George was coming home