IVY GALANIS' POV
Maya's first day at work is a disaster.
She shows up at my apartment at dawn, looking like a frizzy-haired ghost begging for help, pacing around my tiny room and panicking about her makeup. I fix her hair, calm her breathing, and send her off looking like a million dollars, even though she acts like she is going to war.
Turns out she was.
By the end of the shift, she calls me crying in the parking lot — eyeliner ruined, curls dead, heels wobbling. The boutique customers almost broke her spirit. Her manager keeps chanting creepy inspirational slogans; someone's pet monkey 'needed a softer aesthetic,' and she swears her dad emotionally blackmailed her into working for that apartment.
I try not to laugh. I really try. I fail.
To recover, she drags me straight to the mall for 'retail therapy,' because apparently, the only cure for workplace trauma is spending obscene amounts of her father's money.
She storms into the House of Sins boutique like she owns it, flinging clothes at me, forcing me into scandalous outfits, and threatening my life if I dare wear grey again. Somewhere between the shoes, the music, and the designer chaos, she comes alive again. Loud, dramatic, and impossible not to love.
And then I see a man dressed head-to-toe in black pass the boutique window — hood, mask, and cap pulled low. He does not even look at me, but something about him makes my skin prickle. Maya brushes it off, too focused on turning me into her Barbie doll for clubbing later.
By the time we finish, she is glowing again, I am carrying half the mall, and she is planning our entire night like she didn't almost quit her job two hours earlier.
When we get back to her place, we start preparing for our night out.
"Really, Maya? Am I supposed to wear this?" I stare at the scrap of fabric on my body like it just personally insulted me.
"Well, duh? You look amazing," she says, far too confident for someone committing a crime.
I give her a flat stare — the kind that screams, why are you lying, girl?
"Don't look at me like that!" she snaps, defensive already. "Okay, maybe it is not that good."
"Of course, it is not that good. Why the hell would I practically be wearing a bathing suit to a club?"
She rolls her eyes ever so casually, tossing her curls like she is auditioning for an ad. "You are exaggerating, Ivy. It is not a bathing suit. Just trust me. Try this instead."
She passes me another glossy shopping bag.
I peek inside, then frown. "Wait. . . where is the blue dress?"
"The one from House of Sins?"
"Yeah," I say, placing the bag on the floor and searching through our shopping haul by the corner. "The one I loved. The one I actually wanted to wear."
"Oh, that? I forgot to tell you. They didn't pack it," she says, like she is talking about a misplaced receipt, already smoothing lotion onto her legs. "I found out when you were in the kitchen making sandwiches. "But don't worry, boo. I will raise hell tomorrow. I paid for it after all."
"Really? That was my favourite, May," I groan, still checking through the other bags as if it would make the dress magically appear.
"You will live, bestie. Besides, it was just a mistake." She waves a hand, beckoning me over to her. "Focus on tonight. Big night! Fun night!"
She tosses me another outfit and smiles. "You will love this one too."
I sigh, but take the new dress anyway. She is not wrong — fighting Maya's momentum is like trying to stop a moving train. I strip off the earlier disaster of an outfit and slip into the one she just handed me.
The fabric hugs tighter than I expected, but when I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror, even I have to pause.
Maya's eyes go wide. "Damn. I'd turn gay for you, Ivy."
I snort. "You say that every time I wear mascara."
"Yeah, but tonight? I mean it, my love." She grabs my hand, twirling me in front of the mirror like she is showing off her creation. "You are giving femme fatale with a side of heart eater."
I laugh, but my cheeks burn red. I look again at the stranger in the glass wearing my face. I don't recognize her confidence, her posture. The dress does something I can't quite put into words; it carves new lines, drapes in all the right places, whispers things I never believed myself.
"This is. . . actually not bad," I admit, quietly.
"You look amazing, Ivy." There is something unreadable in Maya's gaze — admiration, pride, and a flicker of something else I can't pin down.
"Thanks," I smile, trying to lighten the air. "But let's be real, I still pale in comparison to you."
She scoffs, brushing that off with a flick of her manicured fingers, but I mean it. Maya's red jumpsuit looks like it was made for her — sleek, plunging neckline, diamond hoops, and those Louboutin heels she swore she would only wear on 'special nights'.
If anyone was born to be seen, it is Maya Morgan.
"Okay, stand still," she says, grabbing a perfume bottle. The jasmine-vanilla mist catches the light as she spritzes my wrists. "There. Perfect. Learn to weaponize your God-given assets, bestie."
Before I can react, her hand fondles my breasts so that they show past the neckline of my dress.
"Maya!" I gasp, my eyes going wide.
But she laughs like I am overreacting. "What? We can't waste potential, love. Let's get going."
By the time we make it downstairs, Maya calls out to her father, "Daddy, we are leaving!"
"Have fun!" Jordan Morgan's voice carries back faintly from somewhere deeper in the house.
Maya's Tesla Model 3 gleams in the driveway, smelling like her signature jasmine air freshener. We climb in, and before I even buckle up, she turns to me with that grin that always means trouble.
"One more surprise, babe."
"Oh no," I groan. "I can't deal with any more surprises today."
She is practically vibrating with excitement now."We are not going to SoMa. We are going to Marina District."
"Marina? Are you serious?" I ask, adjusting myself for the ride. "I can't even bring myself to scold you."
She casts me an incredulous glance. "After looking this hot, you expect me to waste it on that trashy bar in SoMa with fake neon signs and chicken-costume bartenders?"
I instantly cringe at the mention of that place. "Please don't remind me. I have scrubbed that night from my brain."
Maya cackles, steering onto the main road. "You did not seem to mind when that chicken costume guy gave you a lap dance."
I burst out laughing. "I was drunk!"
"You were enjoying yourself."
"Drunk!"
She waves a hand, smirking. "Details, details."
The music goes up, and Ariana Grande's vocals fill the car. Maya sings along like she is headlining Coachella. I clap my hands over my ears dramatically.
"You are going to make me deaf before we even get to the club!" I shout.
"Deaf but sexy!" she shouts back, bopping her head to the song."That is the only way to go!"
I roll my eyes with a smile, turning to the window. My eyes focus on the city's night life rolling past us — buildings lit up like constellations, cars weaving through the streets, the blur of motion that always makes San Francisco look like it is breathing.
My reflection stares back at me — curled lashes, deep wine lips, a version of me that barely exists. A girl who does not clean clinic floors or serve diner coffee. Just a girl heading out into the night with her best friend.
It is strange, the way gratitude sneaks up on you. How it fills your chest before you can name it.
I think back to the night Maya found me. To her saving me without asking who I was or why I wanted to disappear. To every time she made me laugh when breathing alone was work.
This part of me — the one that dresses up, smiles, feels alive — only exists because she refused to let me vanish. This side of me had the chance to be brought to light only because Maya pulled me out of the grave I was digging for myself.
I glance over. She is humming off-key, her lipstick too red, her confidence untouchable. She is my favourite kind of chaos.
Whatever happens tonight, whatever happens next. . . I owe her.