Page 10 of Cruel Fate

I’ll protect the women I love.

CHAPTER FIVE

Stella

Isnuggle in bed reading the Saturday afternoon away. Between commuting to and from work, attending online classes, and homework, I have very little time for myself. So when a text from an unknown number lights up my phone, I’m tempted to ignore it. It’s only a wrong number anyway, and I’m at a good part. By good part, I mean sex, and my hand has slowly been inching toward my panties for the past five minutes.

I’m not a virgin, but it’s been a while, and reading my steamy romance books I picked up at the thrift store has been my only source of that kind of pleasure for the past several months.

Coincidentally, the hero on the cover looks like Zane. Boyish charm and innocence. The innocence is fake, I know that, but everyone is willing to pet a puppy—right up until that puppy bites your hand off.

My sense of obligation wins, and reluctantly, I pick up my phone and open my messages.

This is Zarah. Can you come out with us tonight? Zane said to tell you it’s our treat. Wear something sparkly! ;) Meet you in the lobby at 9 PM Y/N?

Despite myself, I laugh. Yes or no? We’re not in high school anymore, though sometimes I feel like I still am. The uncertainty. The fear. The instability. I wonder when that will stop. If it ever will.

I reread her message. Their kind of going out isn’t mine. I picture a club downtown, dark, neon lights glowing, deafening music, and bottles of booze that cost as much as my rent.

Zane already knows me too well, and unease prickles my skin. He shouldn’t know me after only a kiss. A half kiss at that. Maybe Zarah told him about the conversation we had in her kitchen, but I was careful not to tell her too much about myself.

He’ll be there. And Zarah. Me. Who will be the fourth?

The night sounds exhausting, and I haven’t even crawled out of bed yet. I haven’t showered, and I’ll need to find something to wear. I don’t have a Hervé Léger or a Dolce and Gabbana. I don’t own a Chanel. All I have is a black lace Calvin Klein I bought at a high-scale second-hand shop downtown using a few dollars of high school graduation money.

It’s my only evening dress.

If they invite me out again, they’ll know.

I want to say no, but then Zarah will think I don’t want to be her friend. I like her, and I think deep down we have a lot in common. Or could. Two young women trying to find their way. She has more resources than I do, but that puts her at a disadvantage. There isn’t a greater motivator than not wanting to starve to death.

In the end, I accept, tamping down an icky feeling that curls in my stomach.

Zane Maddox is out of my league.

Zarah returns my message with a bunch of emojis, and I reevaluate her maturity level. Maybe what made her seem mature in Simon’s office wasn’t sophistication. Maybe it was fear. The more I get to know Zarah outside of Maddox Industries, the more I think she may have more little girl inside her than young woman.

She had been allowed a childhood.

I had not.

I pull my dress out of my small closet to make sure it’s still acceptable, though there isn’t much I can do if it’s not. Rent is coming up, and I’m not going to waste money on a different dress I’ll only wear once or twice. Despite the lace accents, the plain black is a little too staid for clubbing, the material too thin for a fall dress—everyone will know it’s old and out-of-season—and it’s not sparkly, but it will have to do.

Sometimes it’s not the dress—sometimes it’s the woman in it. I’ll use this night to my advantage and play Cinderella. Wear the dress, drink the champagne, and be home before midnight. For a girl like me, it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.

I soak in a long, hot bath, condition my hair, and twist the wet strands around foam curlers. It will need the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening to dry. After that, I change the paint on my toes and smear some on my normally bare fingernails. There are still several hours to wait, and I sip on coffee and eat dinner.

Using my refurbished laptop, I look up the downtown hotspots to get a feel for where we might go. King’s Crossing has several, of course, and I can only narrow them down by guessing the Maddoxes party at the best of the best.

Temptations’ drink menu is long, but I memorize the funny cocktail names and the extensive champagne selection. I haven’t heard of half the drinks on the menu, or the alcohol brands usedto make them, but if I’m asked my opinion, at least I’ll be able to express my preferences.

Maryanne glowers at me from her place on my bookshelf.

She’s the woman Zarah thought is my grandmother, but she’s the last foster care mother I had before I aged out of the system. She would disapprove of me going out. She would understand it, but she’d disapprove of it.

She taught me from the moment I moved into her house to worry about only myself, keep my eyes on my own paper, water my own grass, stay in my own lane. It doesn’t matter how you phrase it. Compassion has its place when you can afford to give it. She would remind me that I am not in that place yet, that I let Zarah and Zane under my skin. People my job depends on because of their parents’ deaths.

I should have been polite, thanked them for the invitation, and left it at that. Left them behind. Now I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. I can’t back out—that’s rude. All I can do is enjoy myself, try not to let my lack of experience offend anyone, and hope come Monday I still have a job.

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