Downstairs, she saw her mom having a meeting on her laptop. Zikora walked up to her and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
"Good afternoon , mama."
Her mother smiled, her eyes lighting up. "Good afternoon, baby." as she says facing her laptop *we'll continue later*, closing her it. "I was getting worried, you're waking up so late this days, " she continues looking worried.
Zikora shrugged, grabbing an apple from the table. "I know mama but I pulled an all nighter last night, I couldn't get enough sleep... also where's Zira? ."
Just then, a voice came from behind.
"Did someone summon me?"
Zikora turned to see Zirachi, her twin brother, strolling in with the smugness of a boy who always arrived at the exact wrong time.
She rolled her eyes. "Please."
Their mom shook her head fondly.
"Sorry, mama. I really have to go. I promised to pick up Layla, remember? and I'm already late, really shouldn't have pulled an all nighter." Zikora said quickly, already backing toward the door, apple in hand.
Zirachi suddenly piped up, mouth half-full. "Wait, wait. I'm coming with you."
Their mother turned toward him, arms crossed. "And where is your car, Zira?"
There was a beat of silence. Then:
"I...uh... gave it up for charity."
Zikora turned mid-step. "You what?"
Their mom narrowed her eyes. "Boy, you better quit lying before I turn that car into a donation to your backside."
Flashback to the weekend:
Zirachi, dressed in party clothes, stumbling out of a college rave with his keys in one hand and an energy drink in the other. He'd somehow driven the car into a garden fence and woke up the next day claiming it had "vanished like Cinderella's carriage."
"I knew it," Zikora muttered, pulling open the door. "I'm going to leave you, Zira!"
"Zikooo!" he whined, chasing after her with a banana in one hand and his hoodie in the other.
Their mother smiled to herself as the door slammed shut. "Mmhm. Those two will give me grey hairs before I'm fifty."
The car pulled up with a soft purr, sunlight gleaming off the windshield as Zikora slid her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and tapped the horn twice.
Layla stepped out of her gate in a flowy sundress, phone in one hand and iced coffee in the other. Her hair bounced with each impatient step as she swung the door open dramatically.
"Finally," she muttered, only to pause, brow raised. Her eyes flicked to the frontseat where Zirachi was lounging with his arms crossed and a smug expression that was already testing her peace. "Why is he here?"
Zikora didn't even blink. "Apparently, Mr. Nice Guy gave his car to charity. You're looking at his chauffeur for the week."
Layla gave an unimpressed scoff and looked back at Zirachi. "Back seat. This is my spot."
Zirachi didn't move. "Says who?"
"Says the girl who's not going to argue while wearing platform heels in ninety-degree heat." She narrowed her eyes.
He smirked like he was about to challenge her-but one sharp glare from Zikora shut it down. With a dramatic groan and a mumbled, "Y'all are so extra," Zirachi climbed into the back.
As they drove off, Layla popped her sunglasses on and sighed like she was finally able to breathe. "Anyway. So last night, I was watching this K-drama, and when I tell you I sobbed like full-on cried with snot and tissues and all I mean it."
Zikora smiled faintly, already sensing the ridiculousness to come. "I'm scared to ask. What happened this time?"
Layla turned to her, her voice already catching with emotion. "Okay, so this girl's getting married to her boyfriend of eight years-EIGHT years. They're all happy, the wedding's in two days, and then-boom! She finds out it's not actually her boyfriend. It's his TWIN BROTHER."
Zikora blinked. "What?"
Layla nodded dramatically. "The real one-her actual boyfriend-died SEVEN years ago. The twin took his place, thinking she'd never handle the grief."
A beat of silence.
Then-
Zirachi exploded with laughter from the back seat. "Brooo, what even? That's the most unhinged plot twist I've heard in my life!"
Layla whipped around and gave him a death glare sharp enough to cut through steel. "Nobody asked you."
Zikora, trying not to laugh herself, rolled her eyes and muttered, "This is exactly why I keep telling you to stop watching that nonsense."
Layla gasped. "So what-you want me to watch cartoons instead?"
Zikora flicked her eyes to Layla with mock warning. "Say that again and I'll pull over. It's not cartoons. It's anime. Anime, Layla."
"Tomato, tomahto."
"Walk or watch?"
Layla raised her hands in surrender, grinning. "Okay, okay. Anime. My bad."
From the back, Zirachi had already slipped in his AirPods and was bobbing his head to a beat none of them could hear. Zikora glanced at him through the mirror.
"If you really want romance," she continued, "watch dark romance. Or horror. Or both. At least they won't end up kissing the twin of a dead fiancé."
Layla giggled, sipping her drink. "So you want me traumatized instead?"
"I want you sane," Zikora said flatly.
"Same difference," Layla muttered with a wink.
Zikora chuckled under her breath, turning the wheel with one hand as the music shifted in the background and the city stretched wide before them-warm skies, slow breeze, laughter, and everything that made being twenty feel like freedom.
The inside of the car felt like a safe bubble-music spilling softly from the speakers, the scent of Zikora's vanilla air freshener lingering faintly, and the warmth of the late morning sun pouring through the windows.
Zikora and Layla harmonized to "Eternity" by Alex Warren, voices blending over the soft acoustic guitar and mournful lyrics. There was a shared ache in the way they sang-two girls holding onto a feeling neither wanted to name. It wasn't just about the song. It was about everything. School, the weight of expectations, love they couldn't speak out loud, and futures they were still too young to plan but too old to ignore.
Zirachi, seated in the backseat behind Layla, barely looked up from his phone. His brows furrowed in frustration, thumbs tapping away. He wasn't the type to interrupt a vibe, but his silence was its own presence. Every now and then, he exhaled through his nose like someone biting back a retort from a text argument.
Zikora glanced at him through the rearview mirror, adjusting it subtly. "Where exactly are you going again?" she asked, fingers light on the steering wheel as she slowed at an intersection.
"Country Club," Zirachi muttered, not looking up.
She raised a brow. "And where is this mysterious 'Country Club' of yours?"
He sighed and finally looked up, brushing one of his long braids behind his ear. "We're almost there." A pause. Then he nodded toward the windshield. "We're here."
Zikora pulled over in front of a tall gate with polished signs and a winding driveway beyond it. The guard gave a small salute, recognizing the car.
Zirachi opened the door and stepped out. Layla crossed her arms, watching him with narrowed eyes. "You better keep that attitude of yours in check and never sit in my seat again. Ever."
He smirked slightly and replied without heat, "Ion got your time."
"Bye, Zira," Zikora said, leaning toward the window.
He gave her a peace sign-two fingers, casual and cool-before heading up the driveway, phone already back in his hand.
As the car pulled away, Zikora shook her head with a small laugh. "Honestly, the way you guys argue? Someone would think you're married."
Layla gave her a dramatic look of horror. "Babe, no offense to your twin-because technically you two are genetically the same person-but please, never say that again."
Zikora snorted. "We are not the same person."
"Of course not," Layla said in a mock-serious tone, eyes twinkling. "He's a dumb dumb and you're a smarty anime girl who cries during Studio Ghibli movies."
Zikora smiled, keeping her eyes on the road. "Well, not really a dumbass if he's about to graduate and collect a BSc, though."
Layla made a face and slumped dramatically in her seat. "Ughhh, no need to rub it in. I don't know how you people are so academically gifted. It's like... it runs in your blood or something."
There was a brief pause. The music faded into a softer track.
Then Layla looked at her. "But can we please stop talking about your brother and go to the boutique before all the cute tops are gone?"
Zikora smirked. "Never tell him I said any of that."
Layla raised a hand in mock solemnity. "Cross my heart. Lips sealed."
She turned the volume up, letting the next song flood the car. The wind danced through the windows. Zikora glanced at her best friend, then back to the road, heart a little lighter. There was something comforting about having Layla beside her-like no matter how chaotic life felt, some things were still soft and simple.
The boutique stood at the heart of Edenwalk District, a haven known for its discreet luxury and elite clientele. Maison Riche was carved in marble letters above the black-gold canopy that shaded the glass double doors, its design sleek and minimalistic - the kind that whispered wealth rather than screamed it. The matte walls of the exterior were lined with ivy roses and sculpted lanterns, casting soft amber glows even in daylight. The air smelled faintly of imported florals and the kind of confidence only old money exuded.
Zikora stepped out from the driver's side without ceremony, her sneakers touching the polished stone with the same grace she always carried - quiet, deliberate. Layla, already radiating that magnetic buzz she wore so well, adjusted her curls and smiled. A valet approached with a respectful nod as the doors parted silently ahead of them.
Inside, the boutique was a soft symphony of champagne golds and ivory. Everything was bathed in warm lighting - not bright, not dim, but exact. Velvet seating cubes were arranged like art pieces beside floor-length mirrors trimmed in brushed gold. The air-conditioning was nearly imperceptible, the kind of invisible comfort reserved for places that knew how to cater to a certain class. A low instrumental version of Lana Del Rey played in the background - haunting, elegant, non-intrusive.
Women browsed in soft murmurs, the type who wore sunglasses indoors not out of vanity, but because they could. Stylists whispered suggestions. A silver-haired woman with a Chanel pin sipped espresso while her assistant handed her dresses like sacred scrolls.
A woman in her late twenties walked toward them, her steps measured, her smile polished yet sincere. She was tall, poised, and wore a name tag: Megan - Lead Stylist.
"Good afternoon, ladies. Welcome to Maison Riche," she greeted, her voice smooth like the jazz undercurrent playing from the corner speakers. "What look are we going for today?"
Layla, already glowing from within, responded with a grin. "Something chic, elegant, and date-worthy."
Megan nodded approvingly. "We have just the collection."
She turned to Zikora with a professional smile. "And for you, miss?"
Zikora's hands slid into the pockets of her jacket. "What she said," she replied with a half-smile, motioning toward Layla.
Megan caught on to the rhythm quickly and led them in with the grace of someone who knew what she was doing. She introduced each section like it was a gallery, her hands dancing slightly over silks, satins, organzas, and chiffons. Layla was in her zone immediately - spinning into dressing rooms, emerging in one piece after the other, curating her own mini wardrobe of triumphs. In no time, she had five "maybes," three "definitelys," and two "I didn't come here for this but I need it."
Zikora, on the other hand, wasn't feeling any spark. She tried a few options - a lavender off-shoulder satin, a sleek rust-colored corset dress - but nothing felt...right.
Layla sighed dramatically from the ottoman where she was perched. "Ziko, pick already!"
Zikora's voice was dry. "I did. You said it wasn't date-worthy."
Layla made a face. "Girl, who wears a ribbed turtleneck two-piece on a date? You looked like you were going for a corporate pitch, not a double date."
Zikora shrugged, unbothered. "It was comfortable."
Megan returned, holding something wrapped in soft ivory silk. "Perhaps...you might consider this," she said, unveiling it like an offering.
It was a dusky rose midi dress - minimalist in design but stunning in detail. The neckline dipped gently, the sleeves draped over the arms like they had been poured on. A barely-there shimmer caught the light as Megan turned it.
Layla gasped. "Now that looks stunning. Chic. Subtle. Date-worthy!"
Zikora raised a brow, amused. "Alright. But this is the last."
Minutes later, she stepped out of the changing room.
Simple. Elegant. Effortlessly radiant.
Layla stood up like she had seen a vision. "Awwwwwwwwwwwwww," she breathed. "Look at my bestie getting ready for her first date. Somebody warn the boys."
Megan clapped softly. "It's perfect on you."
Layla didn't hesitate. "We'll take it, please."