Jane was really, really loving her very first evening at work. The feeling was strange but also so exciting. She didn't know if it was because this was her first day, or if it was simply because everything felt so new and fresh and different, but oh well—whatever the reason was, she found herself smiling all through.
She greeted each customer warmly, cheerfully, respectfully, bowing slightly just like she had seen others do, and she carried herself with a brightness that seemed to spread into the air. It wasn't fake, it wasn't forced; it was genuine. She actually liked what she was doing. For every person that walked up to her counter, she gave her full attention, her full smile, her full energy—and from the way people looked at her, the way they smiled back, the way they sometimes even gave a little compliment, she could tell that they liked her too. The atmosphere around her felt almost lighthearted, almost magical.
But then, just as she was caught up in that flow of happiness, she heard it—
"Ooh… look who's here…"
Oh God. That voice. That utterly disgusting voice she knew too well.
Jane stiffened before she even turned. She already knew who it was.
"Hey there, Sabrina," she said finally, her lips curving into a smile but a smile without warmth, without humor. The instant her eyes met Sabrina's, her cheerful mood, her high spirits, everything she had been building through the day immediately cracked. Sabrina's presence was heavy. Toxic. A cloud that swallowed sunshine the second it entered a room.
Sabrina, daughter of a very rich man, loved parading herself as if she was the center of the world, a typical pick-me who couldn't breathe unless all eyes were on her. Since the very first day Jane had met her, she had done nothing but torment her, throwing little comments here and there, making her feel like she wasn't enough, like she didn't belong. Jane had long decided to call her behavior by the simplest name: childish.
"I see you're a worker at this…" Sabrina's eyes traveled slowly, slowly, around the café as if it were some strange artifact she had never seen before. She looked left, looked right, her nose wrinkling just slightly, until her eyes came back to Jane, "…place."
Jane stared, her patience thin, her expression flat, her voice carrying no interest at all. She looked bored, tired, unbothered, and most of all impatient.
"You want something?" she asked finally, cutting straight through the silence after Sabrina had finished her little act of observing.
"Not anymore." Sabrina's lips curved into a smirk. "Seeing you here in that uniform always satisfies my cravings… haha." She laughed, a laugh so dry, so empty, it made Jane's skin crawl. Then she dropped a twenty-dollar bill into the jar on the counter like she was doing charity work. "Ciao," she said in a singsong tone before turning dramatically and cat-walking out of the shop, her heels clicking against the tiled floor.
The moment the door closed, Jane let out a long breath. A sigh of pure relief mixed with irritation. That girl was full of herself. Completely.
Back at the mansion, tension was already brewing.
"Are you blind?" Ryan's sharp, cutting voice echoed across the dining table as he shot to his feet, staring down at the white shirt he wore. The white shirt that now had a deep, glaring red stain from the ketchup Britney had accidentally spilled.
"I'm sorry," Britney blurted immediately, her hands trembling as she reached for a tissue. Her eyes were wide, filled with guilt, her voice soft, small, almost breaking. "It was a mistake." She pressed the tissue onto the stain but instead of making it better, the red spread wider, blotching into the expensive fabric like a wound.
"Leave it!" Ryan's voice was like thunder. His face twisted with anger, his eyes sharp, merciless. "Do you even know how expensive this shirt is? You just ruined it! And you're just standing there saying sorry?" His words cut through her like glass, each one harsher than the last.
"I said it was a mistake," Britney repeated, her voice shaking now, her face flushing red, her hands still holding the tissue uselessly. "I'll clean it up for you—"
"A mistake," Ryan cut her off, his tone dripping with disgust. He leaned forward just slightly, his eyes burning into hers. "Exactly what you are."
And just like that, he stormed out, his footsteps loud and heavy, leaving a thick silence behind. The others at the table stared, stunned, shocked, frozen in their seats.
Britney stood there trembling, the tissue still in her hand, her throat closing in. Normally, normally, she never let Ryan's words get to her. He was sharp-tongued. He was cruel sometimes. Everyone knew that. She knew that. She always brushed it aside. But this… this wasn't something she could brush aside. That one sentence cut deeper than anything he had ever said before. That was too much.
The word "mistake" wasn't just a word to her. It was something that had haunted her for an entire year.
Because a year ago, she had made another mistake—she had accidentally broken a plate at her father's restaurant. Just a plate. But her father's words that day had been sharper than knives. They had stuck inside her ever since, echoing in her mind like a ghost she could never silence:
"Yes, you always make mistakes. Just like what you are… a mistake. You cause too much trouble all the time. Giving birth to you was a mistake."
Those words had buried themselves in her chest. And now Ryan had dug them back up with one cruel line.
"Hey… Bri, don't mind him," Taylor said quickly, his voice low, trying to calm her down, trying to soothe the shaking in her shoulders. "He's just—"
"Britney, stop," Alya cut in gently, standing and moving closer. "You know he's a jackass sometimes." She reached for her. So did Kiara. They both held her as her tears spilled silently, as her body shook with soft sobs she couldn't control.
Ivan had been sitting through all of it, his fists tightening slowly, his jaw clenching harder and harder with each second. He had had enough. Ryan wasn't just sharp-tongued. He wasn't just careless. He was cruel. He used people's weaknesses against them and he thought he could get away with it every time. Not this time.
"Ryan!" Ivan's voice boomed, filled with raw anger as he finally stood.
Ryan froze, turning, his expression a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "What?"
"What the actual fuck is wrong with you?" Ivan's voice shook with rage, his eyes like fire, his body trembling as if it was taking everything inside him not to explode. "Are you crazy? Why would you say something like that to her?"
Ryan smirked, still brushing it off. "Chill, man. You saw the shirt, didn't you?"
But before he could even finish the arrogance in his tone, Ivan's fist connected with his cheek. Hard. So hard that Ryan stumbled back, his lip splitting instantly, blood dripping down. The room went dead silent.
"If you ever," Ivan's voice was deadly calm now, low but sharp, like a knife, "say things like that to anyone in this house again—by anyone, I mean anyone—I will beat you so badly people will think you got hit by a truck."
He didn't wait for Ryan's response. Didn't look at him again. He turned, walked upstairs, his breathing heavy, his chest tight. He went straight to his room, closed the door, and finally, finally let the weight hit him.
His hands shook as he grabbed his phone. He pressed call.
"Mom…" his voice came out low, strained, almost broken. "I'm not okay."
"Oh dear, what's wrong?" came the warm, gentle voice of the one person he trusted most. His mother. She was his anchor, his safe place, his comfort. He told her everything. She had been his therapist ever since his father had died six months ago in that sudden, cruel plane crash.
"I don't know," Ivan whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "It's… it's a lot. I can't focus on anything. I can't control my anger. I miss you. I miss Dad."
"Oh dear…" His mother's voice trembled, and then he heard it—the small sobs breaking through. "I understand. I really do. You and your father were so close, and his death… his death shattered something in you. I know that. But listen to me, baby—he's still with us, in all we do. Remember that. And I'm with you too. I'll never leave you."
A single tear slipped from Ivan's eye, sliding down his cheek. He wiped it quickly, swallowing the pain. "Okay, Mom. I trust you."
For a moment, silence filled the line. Just the sound of breathing. Just the quiet, steady reminder that he wasn't alone.
Then, softly, she asked, "So… how's school? How's everyone?"
Ivan let out a shaky exhale. "Well, Mom… school's fine. Missed a few classes but… oh well. And everyone's good… I guess."