"Who lives there?" I asked, still looking out the window even though the fence was far behind us now.
Frankie shrugged, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and I hate she was looking to nonchalant about this while my stomach twist, and intrusive thoughts came up. "I don't know. As long as I've been alive, it's just been rumors. Demons, vampires, secret cults—you name it, someone's said it. Some girl in middleschool even said something about werewolves and hearing howls every night. She used to live down the street before they moved. And I almost believed the whole creepy vampire thing until I saw a truck drive out one day." My ear perked up. "The driver rolled the window down, and he looked... normal. Pretty decent, actually. Not demonic or vampire-ish, or even a werewolf." She chuckled, "I can't even imagine it. Sarah sure reads lots of fictions"
Okay, just so you know. There's nothing wrong with books.
I raised an eyebrow but didn't respond. Frankie wasn't exactly the most reliable source for anything remotely serious.
As we pulled into the school parking lot, cars were already streaming in—shiny ones, sporty ones, all the kinds that screamed teenage wealth. A few of them made me realize it was probably time to get my own car. I used to have one, of course, but my mother took it away after the Marcus incident. Apparently, "grounding" me included cutting off every convenience I enjoyed.
The driver stopped near the entrance to let us out. Blanche wasted no time, practically skipping off to join what little posse she could create here. I walked at my own pace, sipping my macchiato as I scrolled through my phone. Updates on Aura trickled in—more messages about delayed orders and stock shortages. And update of my what's left of my stock on flight.
Frankie, who's obviously trailing beside me, wouldn't stop yapping about how good I looked in the uniform, and how she was sure boys would ask me out, she even mentioned one of their names. "You seriously make it look like runway couture," she gushed for the fifth time, clutching her bag, my bag and my fruit like she was getting paid to compliment me. Though If she was, that'd be depressing.
Just as I was about to tune her out completely, a loud squeal pierced the air.
"Oh my god! I did thought you look so familiar!"
I barely had time to register the voice oe whatever was said before a girl darted toward us, her eyes wide and sparkling like she'd just met a celebrity. Meh, Maybe she did.
I stopped mid-step, narrowing my eyes at her. "Excuse me?"
"You're... you're her, aren't you?" The girl gasped, her face lighting up more. "I've been brainstorming while staring at you, trying to place you! You own Aura right? Blakely Torress. You're literally my role model. I follow all you socials and even ordered lots of things. You inspired to start my own business, which is obviously not going well, but that's a start right?. You're..."
Did I say Frankie yaps a lot? Well I take that back now.
It took me a second to process the girl's words, but when she mentioned a clothing line, it clicked. Right. The fan pages. The pictures online.
I'd almost forgotten about them.
When I was twelve, my mother had practically orchestrated my life as a child prodigy. Aura by Blakely was her favorite party trick—a thriving business run by her "brilliant" daughter. She loved bragging about it, of course. Who wouldn't want to flaunt their twelve-year-old being money-smart? She ran the media herself, the orders, she literally didn't have anything else to do, than make her daughter count orders after school and get taught business by a private teacher.
But by the time I turned sixteen, I'd had enough of her running it behind the scenes like it was her own. She didn't understand the brand or what I wanted it to be. So, I tricked her into handing over the reins while convincing her to focus on promoting it—pushing the name, creating buzz, and leaving the rest to me. Until I turned eighteen and everything legally went to me.
The only thing she no longer has control of. The only thing I snatched from her in broad daylight and she could do nothing than curse at me for being ungrateful.
Like she wasn't going to ruin it.
The squealing girl dragged me back to the present. She was practically vibrating with excitement, and I could feel the attention she was drawing. Eyes were on us—more specifically, on me.
It was a nuisance, but one thing I'd learned in business: one upset customer could ruin everything. A bad review could spiral into more bad reviews, and then it was a domino effect of disaster. So, like the professional I was, I forced a wide smile.
"oh, thank you love," I said sweetly, rubbing her cheek with the hand still holding my phone. Her squeal grew louder, she did bite it down when I wince at how loud she was unnecessarily being, and before she could latch onto me, I brushed past her, Frankie keeping up without a word.
That wouldn't be considered rude. She'd be to engrossed with the fact that her role model brushed her cheek and called her love.
Gross.
The moment we were a safe distance away, Frankie reached into her bag and pulled out a wet wipe, holding it out like she'd read my mind.
I handed her my phone, took the wipe, and dragged it thoroughly across my hand, making sure to clean every inch of my fingers. The thought of germs was bad enough—the cloying excitement on her face made it worse.
By the time we reached the building entrance, I tossed the used wipe into the bin, took my phone back from Frankie, and strode inside without another word while taking a long drag from my macchiato.
Fuck! The ice are melting.