I returned to Sasha, finding her still deep in conversation with Joel. His hands gripped her shoulders a little too tightly—possessive, like he was staking a claim.
Sasha plastered a smile but there was something forced about it. Subtle, but there. She shifted slightly, nudging his hand away under the guise of adjusting her sleeve.
"Sir, you can join us for lunch," she offered, her tone overly casual, like she was trying to dispel the awkwardness hanging in the air.
I barely heard her. My focus was elsewhere.
Cola stood a few feet away, tangled in a heated argument with an older man. His grip shot out, closing around her wrist, fingers digging in. She yanked back, shoving him hard enough that he stumbled. Her silver jewelry caught the light as she squared her shoulders, standing her ground.
I didn't even know her real name. Maybe I never would.
But for some reason, I felt responsible for her.
Like a guardian. Like an older brother.
Like a hypocrite.
"I have someone to take care of," I said, my tone final. "You two go ahead—have lunch, then head back to the office."
Sasha frowned, confused by my sudden shift in focus, but she didn't question it.
"Alright…" she said slowly. "If you're sure."
I nodded once, already stepping away.
Joel muttered something, but I wasn't listening.
My attention was on Cola.
I stepped closer, catching Cola mid-curse, her voice sharp and biting.
"You sick pervert," she spat, her words dripping with fury. "You have the guts to pay me only fifty dollars after dragging me this far?"
The old man raised his hands in mock innocence, his expression twisted with irritation. "What are you talking about? The hotel fees were expensive too."
Cola's eyes burned with rage. "Give me two hundred dollars," she demanded, her stance rigid, her fingers curled into fists.
The man scoffed. "You won't get a penny more from me."
Cola moved fast, grabbing his collar with both hands and yanking him forward. "You think you can do whatever you want to me just because I'm a whore?" she hissed, her voice venomous. "If I wasn't one, I wouldn't even look at a dick like yours."
The crack of the slap echoed through the street.
Cola's head snapped to the side, her cheek flushing red from the impact.
"Filthy whore," the old man sneered, his voice thick with contempt.
He pulled a crumpled hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and flung it at her face. The money fluttered to the ground, landing at her feet like an insult.
Then, without another word, he climbed into his car, slammed the door, and gunned the engine.
The tires screeched as he sped off, leaving a trail of exhaust and the bitter aftertaste of humiliation in the air.
Cola didn't move.
She stood there, fists clenched, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths. The sun light cast a glow over her, highlighting the tension in her jaw, the slight tremor in her fingers.
I exhaled slowly.
Trouble had a way of finding her.
And I had a way of not walking away.
I glanced in her direction—her eyes burned red with resentment and hatred.
Something about her expression made my steps falter, but I still approached. She sat on the ground, gathering the crumpled bills that had been tossed at her.
Her movements were mechanical, devoid of emotion, as if she were simply going through the motions of existence rather than truly living. When she finally looked up, I was just a foot away, staring down at her.
She rolled her eyes. "What do you want?"
"Nothing," I replied.
She didn't bother standing, just turned her gaze toward the road, staring into the distance.
I had no idea what was running through her mind. Silence stretched between us, thick and unmoving—until her stomach growled, cutting through the tension like a blade.
"You sure?" I asked, suppressing a smirk.
Her frown deepened, and for a second, she reminded me of Sonia—especially those electric blue eyes, glowing under the harsh sunlight.
She sat there like a stubborn child, arms crossed, refusing to give in.
"Fine," she muttered, finally pushing herself up.
"Take me somewhere decent."
I couldn't help but smile.
There was something oddly endearing about her defiance, like a lost kid pretending she didn't need help.
"I'm not in the mood for your moral science lesson," she warned, shooting me a sharp glance.
"I'll be careful," I said lightly, falling into step beside her.
The heat was relentless—an unusual kind of scorching for January.
When we reached the car, I pulled open the door for her, a small act of courtesy. She barely acknowledged it, walking past me with a sigh, unimpressed.
Heartless.