Blinded

Chapter 2

Kayla POV

I woke up wrapped in silk sheets and sunlight, my curls still soft under my bonnet. The house was quiet, which meant only one thing—my mom was already gone.

I slipped into the kitchen, grabbed a banana, and found her note on the island:

Caught a 6AM flight. Back Friday. Be safe. No dumb decisions. Love you — Mami.

She was always in and out, working across oceans like she didn't have a daughter back home. But honestly, I liked the freedom. I didn't need her to hold my hand. I just needed space.

After breakfast, I headed straight to the bathroom to get myself together. Even alone, I liked to look good. It wasn't about impressing anybody—it was just who I was.

I took off my bonnet and shook my curls loose. My 3C hair bounced into place, still soft from yesterday's routine. I misted it with water, worked in a little leave-in, curl cream, and oil, then scrunched the ends. Fluffy. Defined. Loud and pretty—just like me.

Then came skincare. Cleanser. Toner. Brightening serum. Moisturizer. SPF, always. My green-hazel eyes stared back at me through the mirror, sharp and unreadable. My skin glowed in that golden LA light, but my reflection made me pause.

People love to talk about pretty privilege like it's some fairytale.

Yeah, it opens doors. Gets you the job. The discount. The attention. But nobody tells you how it also makes you a target. How men look at you like you're a product they're entitled to.

They don't see me. They see a girl who fits the aesthetic—light skin, big curls, small waist, thick thighs, pouty lips, baby voice if I feel like using it. I know I check the boxes. The "IG baddie" starter pack.

But it gets exhausting.

Sometimes I wonder if any guy will ever actually want me for something other than how I look bent over.

Because let's be real—men don't hide it well. All they see is sex. All they want is to say they had me. I've learned how to play it, though. I could take advantage of them so easily if I wanted to. Sweet talk them into cash apps, favors, gifts, whatever. And some days, I'm tempted.

But deep down? I want something real. Not another dude who only cares about what's under my clothes.

Still... that doesn't mean I'm gonna stop looking like this. That's their problem, not mine.

I threw on a black cropped tank and jeans that hugged every curve. Light gloss. Gold hoops. My pink hoodie slid off one shoulder as I stepped into the garage and stared at my mom's black Range Rover.

She told me not to drive without her.

I heard her. I just didn't care.

The car purred as I pulled out and rolled through the neighborhood. Everything around me was manicured and perfect. Old money vibes. The kind of quiet that made you think nobody ever screamed here. But I didn't want perfect. I wanted real.

So I drove downtown.

That's where the noise lived—sirens, music, voices spilling out of shop doors. People selling fruit on the corner. Girls with acrylics and attitude. I felt more myself down here.

I parked by a sneaker shop, stepped out, and let the sun kiss my shoulders. I was walking past a corner store when I heard it:

"Ay, shorty... Yo, light skin. What's good?"

I stopped.

I turned slowly and saw him—tall, brown-skinned, tatted up, pants sagging just enough to prove a point. Black tee, gold chain, eyes too bold for a stranger. Leaning against a silver Charger like he owned the block.