• BURN ME •

• 9 •

Just Pretend

~ Bad Omens

Flame

The tryouts dissolved like smoke, too easy, and the aftertaste on Carter's face, when the clock confirmed my triumph, was a dark nectar I swallowed slow. Satisfaction, cold and sharp, a shard of glass swallowed with pleasure. I rake a hand through my hair, a tangled mess reflecting the thoughts in my head, and finally sit up. My father summons. I know the summons, the unsaid weight it carries. Duty. I rise, a marionette pulled by strings unseen, and move towards the door. Passing Sophia's room, laughter spills out, a bright, brittle sound. Snowflake. Birthday boy. Sophia, ever the architect of chaos, secured him a stage, our father's club. I rap knuckles on the closed mahogany of my father's office, a sound swallowed by the heavy door, before entering. The ritual. Seat across from his empire of a desk, like an supplicant before a god carved from steel and shadow. He lifts his gaze from the cold glow of the screen, the light sculpting the harsh angles of his face. "You're late." A statement, my shrug is answer enough. Time is currency I spend as I choose, and his office is a poor investment. Annoyance flares in his eyes, he exhales, a sigh that holds the weight of empires. "King's special delivery. Airport. Personal pickup. I want you on it. He'll call." The words are clipped, efficient, a drill sergeant's cadence. I nod, a minimal concession. "Courier trip in two months. Nacho?" I reach for paper, the silent language we speak. With Nacho. I slide it across the polished expanse of the desk. He reads, nods, the acknowledgment curt. "Vipers are restless. Territory isn't enough anymore. Greed sharpens their teeth. Be careful." The warning, a rote phrase, worn thin with repetition. Careful is a luxury I can rarely afford, and danger, a constant companion. The door bursts open, shattering the tense quiet, and Sophia breezes in, Snowflake tethered in her wake, looking fragile. Like a snowdrop daring to bloom on volcanic rock. "Dad," Sophia begins in Spanish, the melodic lilt of our first language, while Snowflake's brow furrows. He probably thinks we're already divvying up his organs.

My father's frown carves deeper into his face as his gaze lands on Sophia. "Qué pasa, mi niña?" he rumbles, the Spanish words, heavy with familiar concern, wrapping around her. But my focus is a laser, fixed on Snow. He stands apart from our family's brewing storm, a figure bleached pale against the simmering heat, his expression a bewildered void as his eyes flick between Sophia and our father. "Aiden didn't know about the study trip," Sophia blurts, her voice strained, "It wasn't in his budget. Liv and I... we won't go without him." Snowflake turns to me, face pinched in that clueless way he has. Idiot, I think, a flicker of something sharp and possessive in my chest as I watch him. Father sighs, a breath heavy with practiced patience. "And what is the solution, then, Sophia?" he asks, the question a formality, her desire already screaming in the room. "We pay for him," she declares, "He'll pay it back. He needs a job anyway. He could work at the club—bartender, waiter, anything." Her lower lip juts out, pleading, as she turns those weaponized eyes to Father. He pinches the bridge of his nose, the familiar gesture when the stress claws too deep. "You want him to come," Father clarifies, a statement, not a question. Sophia's nod is sharp, eager. "Yes! He can just sleep in Flame's room, problem solved." My room. A jolt of something cold runs through me. I drag my eyes from Snowflake, a confused blink of my own mirroring his. Sleep in my room? Is she insane? My fingers rake through my hair as Father finally relents. "Okay," he concedes, turning to Snowflake. Inevitable. "Do you have any experience as a waiter?" Father asks, switching to English, the change in language snapping Snowflake out of his daze. "Uh... a little, yeah. Why?" Sophia beams, all sunshine and sweetness.

"Like I said, arranged. You're coming on the study trip, and you start work immediately." Snow – Snowflake – stares at her, a perfect blank. "Wait, what?" She just smiles wider, basking in his confusion. "Family business, remember? We always need bodies at the clubs." He shifts, glancing at Father, "That's... incredibly generous, sir, but you really don't have to. I understand if I can't go..." Father's laugh is a dry rasp that doesn't touch his eyes. "Don't worry about it. As long as my daughter is happy. And if she wants you there, you're going. Besides, we're always short-staffed." Aiden nods, the smile weak, hesitant. "Okay... Well, then I'm happy to help." He glances at Sophia, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "When is this trip, anyway?" Sophia's grin widens, predatory. "Friday next week. Didn't anyone tell you?" Snowflake exhales, a puff of resignation. "Probably sent to my uncle's. He hasn't mentioned it. Like most things lately." The words are soft, almost swallowed, but Sophia catches them. "Oh, come on," she purrs, seizing his arm, "I have to show you something." She tugs Snowflake from the room, leaving Father and me in the sudden vacuum. Father's gaze slams into mine, hard. "Keep an eye on him. I don't want her hurt." A curt nod is all I give him, but inside, I'm already rolling my eyes. Hurt? He's the one in danger, but not from her.