"What's your brother gonna eat?" I asked, half out of concern, half out of boredom, and maybe a tiny bit just to irritate Mona.

"He's a grown-ass man. He'll survive," she deadpanned, not even sparing me a glance.

"Right, survival of the laziest," I muttered, flinging the blanket at her like I was serving karma in cotton form.

"I've got a party tonight. But congrats, Emily paid me to babysit your emotionally unstable ass."

Excuse me? I raised an eyebrow so high it almost touched God.

"Babysit?" I repeated, blinking. "Did she also pack you diapers and juice boxes for the full effect?"

Mona didn't even blink. "She was just worried about leaving you alone. Something about you being 'feral and untrained'."

Rude. Accurate. But rude.

"Relax. Don't overheat that pea-sized brain of yours. She was just worried about leaving you here alone," Mona said, still scrolling like she was more invested in cat memes than my emotional trauma.

Cool, cool. So I'm apparently that friend now—the one you can't leave unsupervised without a legal waiver.

Truth was... I was nervous being here alone. I wouldn't admit it out loud because pride is a thing I still pretend to have, but I was still new in this town, my dad's spies didn't know where I was (yet), and for the first time in forever, I wasn't trapped—but I wasn't free either.

"She didn't pay me enough for two days," Mona added, flipping onto her side. "So guess what, Princess Doom? You're coming to the party with me tomorrow."

"Absolutely not. I'd rather eat drywall."

"Shut up," she hissed.

Rude.

Mona's the kind of girl who looks like she walked out of a Netflix teen drama—glossy lips, killer eyeliner, attitude louder than her music. But plot twist: she's a top scorer, always on the honor roll, and secretly a nurturing queen when she's not threatening to shove me out a window.

She's a vibe.

Emily, on the other hand, is a whole different brand of chaos. Cunning, sarcastic, and everyone's favorite little sister. If Mona's a hurricane, Emily's the silent flood—you never see it coming till you're drowning.

And then there's me.

Not Daddy's little girl. Definitely not his anything, really.

My mother? She adored me. She still does. She convinced me I was more than someone's future wife. She wanted me to have a life outside of serving tea in a suffocating living room to men three times my age.

But my father? Oh no. According to him, girls didn't need education. He pulled me out of school after fifth grade and dumped me in a "sister's home" — a place run by women who believed obedience was holiness and eye contact with your future husband was borderline adultery.

Cute, right?

But my mom? She wasn't going down without a fight. She paid those sisters under the table to sneak in tutors for me. While the others learned how to hold silence like scripture, I was secretly learning algebra and literature behind locked doors. Not exactly a Disney movie, but it worked.

When I turned eighteen last year, my father paid to have me trained in the fine art of bearing children—because apparently, childbirth is something you need a certification for in hell. That's when my mother said, enough. She packed my bags, found me a real school, and smuggled me out like I was a contraband hope.

Now I'm here, technically free, practically broke, and emotionally unstable—but hey, at least I have sarcasm.

My father doesn't know where I am. He still thinks I'm in that house, learning how to "become a wife." He visits once in a blue moon, probably to check if I've turned into a baby-making robot yet. Thank God for poor communication and passive-aggressive family dynamics.

I do miss my mom, though. I hope she's okay. I hope Ian hasn't hit her again.

Yeah—that Ian. My 25-year-old brother who thinks he's the second coming of our dad but with worse hygiene and anger issues. He drinks too much, yells more than he listens, and once slapped our mom because she told him to stop chain-smoking indoors.

I've dreamed of taking over the business one day—with Mum by my side and Ian out of the damn picture. But dreams are delicate things. And mine? Mine are held together with mascara, stubbornness, and a wish that one day I'll have enough power to burn it all down and build something better.

"Stop thinking too much, you little shit," Mona groaned, yanking the blanket over her head like she was trying to disappear into another dimension.

I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. "You are so irritating, I swear I'm this close to shoving you out of my life and into traffic."

She didn't even flinch. Rude.

I turned away and curled under my blanket, finally letting my thoughts settle... until, of course, my phone decided to vibrate like a demon in heat. I groaned and reached over, squinting at the locked screen. One hidden notification.

Text message.
Unknown number.

"Fucking bitch."

Charming.

I unlocked the phone, already annoyed.

Me: Tf are you?

Unknown: The one you spat on and sprayed with pepper.

Oh.

Me: Amazing.

Unknown: Fuck you.

Me: Okay.
Blocked.

Like, congratulations. You just texted me a verbal tantrum like a middle-school boy who just lost a video game. Gold star for maturity, Jungkook.

But here's the thing—I'm not the girl he thinks I am. I'm not the weak one. Not the "easy target." Not the scared little pet his ego needs to leash.

He called me a whore.
He tried to hurt me.
He failed.

And this—this rage in my chest? That's not fear. That's the match being lit.

He wanted to break me?

Baby, he just gave me a reason to build myself into something he should be afraid of.

I'm done surviving.

Now I start fighting.

Next morning

The very first thing I heard after waking up was Mona ranting about that party again. Like, girl, let me open my eyes before you throw glitter and loud music into my subconscious.

I groaned and buried my face in the pillow. "Mona, not happening. I need rest. I have a life, okay? Sapphire Club isn't going to run itself."
And by 'life,' I meant Googling places for club trips, copying Pinterest aesthetics, and pretending to be organized.

But Mona, being Mona, wasn't giving up. "Babe, come on. Genuinely—I wanna see you have fun for once," she said, dramatically unpacking her artillery of makeup like we were going into war. Honestly, we kinda were.

"Can't fun wait till tomorrow? It's Sunday. Movie marathon, snacks, blankets, no pants?" I tried. My idea of a party? A quiet couch and emotionally unavailable fictional men.

"I get it," she said softly, brushing her fingers through her makeup like it was a baby she birthed. "But Nina, you're here now. You should experience everything. With what you've been through, you deserve it. You're growing up, stepping into your own life—don't let it pass you by because you're too scared or stuck in old rules."

Ouch. That landed.

She wasn't wrong. I was tired of being the girl stuck behind gates and whispers. I wanted to experience the world... I was just scared it would swallow me whole.

I sat up slowly. "Okay. I'll go with you."

Her eyes lit up like Christmas morning. "YES! I swear, you won't regret this. I'll even take you to a movie tomorrow—double fun."

"Actually..." I winced. "Maybe we should watch the movie today? Because I literally don't have anything decent to wear to a party. Unless the theme is 'Cottagecore Nun Escapes the Convent.'"

Mona gasped like I just slapped her grandma. "Oh my god. How did I forget about that? We're going shopping right now."

After brunch and a minor emotional hostage situation (I paid, she emotionally manipulated), we reached the mall. Honestly, I could buy out half the store with the cash I've saved.

Thanks to my mum secretly wiring me money from her share of my grandfather's company... and thanks, I guess, to my delightful father, who occasionally sends cash under the assumption I'll use it to inflate my chest and butt.

No, Dad. I will not be surgically modifying myself for your twisted pride.

We entered the clothing store, and I was instantly overwhelmed. Everything sparkled, shimmered, or screamed "LOOK AT ME."

"What kind of dress should I even be looking for?" I asked, nervously eyeing a mannequin that looked like she sold moonlight for a living.

"Don't worry," Mona said, already power-walking through aisles like a woman on a mission. "Go to the changing room. I'll bring you everything you need."

And just like that, I was handed the Fashion Fate of the Night.

Let the makeover begin.

After our impulsive shopping spree—which ended with Mona buying me a dress that screamed "sin, but make it elegant"—we bossed our way back home to get ready for the party.

And by "bossed," I mean we practically sprinted up the stairs like there was a sale on self-respect.

By the time we pulled up to the bar, it was already 10 p.m. A whole five-minute drive from my apartment. Groundbreaking.

Mona's brother, Owen, being the unexpectedly responsible man that he is, insisted on dropping us off. "Just send me a text if you need anything," he said. He even offered to pick us up afterward.

A guy who can abandon his job without whining to make sure his sister and her friend get home safe? Yeah. That's the kind of brother I wish I had. Not the alcoholic, emotionally stunted, tantrum-throwing asshat I share DNA with.

Before we walked in, Mona shoved a paper in my hand. "Here's his number. Just in case I get wasted and you feel like leaving me in a ditch. Call him."

How considerate.

As we reached the entrance, I glanced up at the neon lights flashing like they were trying to trigger an episode. "They serve alcohol here?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

Everyone nearby turned to look at me like I'd just asked if water was wet.

Right. Newbie alert.

"Yes, Nina," Mona hissed through clenched teeth. "It's a bar. Not a Sunday church bake sale. Now shut up and don't embarrass me."

She yanked me inside before I could bless the crowd with another innocent question.

Short-tempered psychopath. But in heels.

he disco lights were doing the absolute most — flashing straight into my retinas like they had a personal vendetta. The music? A full-blown assault on my brain cells. And the smell? A hellish mix of sweat, cheap vodka, and an identity crisis masked as room spray.

My diagnosis? This place was hazardous to public health. Honestly, someone should call the CDC.

I hadn't even been inside for ten minutes before Mona, in all her glitter-coated glory, made me sit on a questionable-looking sofa and said, "Stay here, I'll get you snacks." Because obviously, I scream snack girl and not shots girl.

She didn't even ask if I wanted alcohol. She just knew. Bless her sparkly, slightly chaotic heart.

We eventually danced — and let me tell you, Mona was shook. I mean, she stared at me like I had just performed CPR on the dance floor. Her eyes widened, mouth slightly agape. "You can dance?" they said.

I wanted to reply, "Girl, I'm homeschooled, not paralyzed."

But it was kind of fun, I won't lie. Maybe it was the music. Or maybe it was the fact that for once, I felt like a teenager and not some patriarch's pre-ordered housewife.

Then, we met some girls who were ridiculously sweet — Nari, with her pink eyeliner and confidence louder than the speakers, leaned in and shouted, "I love your dress!"

Before I could say a word, Mona beamed like she was the one wearing it. "Thanks!" she yelled back, proud as a stylist on fashion week.

And she should be. That dress? Black, with sharp cuts on the sides that made me feel like I could conquer a man's ego and then his credit card. Took hours to find, but totally worth it.

We'd been dancing for what felt like a whole damn Netflix season when the girls and I finally collapsed into a booth to breathe and maybe regain some oxygen in our brains.

"You guys seem younger than us," Hina smirked like it was a roast.

Girl, please.

"We're still in our final year of high school," I admitted with a giggle, trying not to sound like I snuck in through the backdoor of adulthood. Nari and Hina were college girls — the kind who wore winged eyeliner and talked about internships like therapy.

"How'd you guys even get in?" Hina raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't know we weren't allowed," I replied, giving Mona a pointed stare that screamed, hello?

"Security's trash, and the kid who owns this place is a friend," she shrugged like it was NBD.

Excuse me? The kid who owns this joint?

Before I could interrogate further, Nari and Hina bounced — clinging to their respective boyfriends like drunk koalas — and left me with Mona, who was already halfway across the room grinding on some rando like her life depended on pelvic friction.

I, meanwhile, sat there like a babysitter at a frat party, third-wheeling her chaos and watching her make out with one dude while dancing on another. Truly a moment of pride.

That's when I heard it.

"Hey."

I turned around, and — plot twist — there stood Namjoon.

And yes, I blinked like a deer in LED headlights.

He looked just as surprised to see me, his brows pulling into that cute little 'what the hell' frown. "Whoa. I didn't recognize you," he muttered, eyes scanning my face like I'd just reinvented myself.

Dude. It's literally lipstick and a side braid. Calm down.

"Hii," I said, awkwardly standing like a dork while he sat in the spot I was just occupying.

I chuckled — because what else do socially weird girls do? — then sat back down beside him, trying not to die inside. "Do... do you come here often?" I asked, offering him the fries I ordered for myself like I was hosting The Bachelor: Bar Edition.

"I guess? I stay here all the time," he said between bites. "I kinda work to help Jungkook."

Record scratch.

"You both work here? Aren't you, like, too young to do that?" I asked, half impressed, half skeptical.

He shrugged like it was no big deal. "He owns this place."

...

I blinked. I'm sorry, what now?

.........

How was the chapter? A little boring? Hmm... Wait for the next one, it is rough more like peachy rough. Confusing isn't it?

What do you think might happen in the next chapter?
A) Nina walks out of his bar
B) They both fight
C) Jungkook pulls another prank on Nina
D)?

And now, I'd like to thank @ii_mermxid for this wonderful cover!!!! Do check out her works on Rose-Gold_Community all her sample covers are remarkable. You gotta check it out, my babes!!!!❤🥰

Damn, I love it! I love it! It's like the cover of best-selling books. I hope this book becomes a bestseller one day 🌼🥰😍

Wc 1860