𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙊𝙁 𝘿𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐀 [ 𝐥𝐢𝐞-𝐥𝐚𝐡 ]

Layla pinned her hair up into a bun with a claw-clip, the plastic clamping into her hair. Her dress was deep-red and came up to her upper thigh, and she was scared to sit down for fear of flashing of everyone. The low-swooping neck exposed her bra made of golden chains. She looked like a high-end prostitute, and she preferred it that way.

Her sexuality was a tool that only she could wield.

Another Saturday meant another dinner party. Another long night of sitting and drinking. This time it was at Stovenhall town hall.

She stared at her long legs in the mirror, tearing her eyes away as self-loathing crawled into her ear and whispered sweet-nothings.

The dress Ivan had gifted her exposed her back, and Layla felt a hint of insecurity at the ugly mess of scars on her back. The dress was a message, and the show of scars was deliberate.

There was a knock on the door as she was putting on her earrings. Rubies to match her dress.

"We are about to leave." Ivan's messenger said, their voice muffled through the wooden door. "Ivan is waiting outside."

Layla turned away from the mirror, slipping her feet into a different pair of heels. Ivan held countless banquets, most of them being a front for illegal activity. Tonight was no different.

Her heels clicked quietly as she climbed up the stairs and into the abandoned florist's. She did her best to ignore the wolf whistles coming from the men under the stairs, knowing that there was nothing she could do to stop them. She had no authority to harm them. She could scold them, but she'd done it a billion times and nothing ever came out of it. There was no point. Ivan stood outside on the cracked sidewalk, leaning against a sleek sports car. Two other men she did not recognise stood next to him, immersed in their own conversation. They looked greasier than her last meal.

"You took your time." Ivan grunted, checking the silver watch wrapped around his wrist.

"Apologies." She said smoothly, pulling her coat across her bare shoulders, the soft mink fur sliding across her skin.

"Thomas." The taller man greeted, stretching his hand out.

"I'm Leonard."

She nodded at the two men, turning her attention to Ivan.

"Shall we go?" Her word were as crisp as they were concise.

Ivan's driver was a portly man with a clean bandage covering his eye. He opened the door, allowing Ivan to take a seat in the front, leaving Layla with no choice but to sit in the back with Thomas and Leonard.

"Ladies first." Leonard grinned, gesturing towards the empty seats.

"I'll sit last." She said firmly, not wanting to flash the two men.

They sat obediently, and Layla slipped in behind them. She slammed the door shut, pressing herself against the door so she would not touch Leonard, who was sitting in the middle.

'Move in closer, there's plenty of space." He crooned.

"Don't talk to me, dog." She shut him down.

"I don't bite."

"I do."

The engine ignited with a purr, and they were on their way.

-

Layla stood at the top of the staircase, watching the party with a glass of water. She wanted to be clearheaded tonight. If Ivan needed her for something, she could not be inebriated. She had made that mistake before and paid for it dearly.