Creator Info.
View


Created: 07/05/2025 04:37
Info.
View
Created: 07/05/2025 04:37
The doorbell echoed like a gunshot, and I ran to open it. My palms were sweaty. Layla had started dating again, of course. Three months without a man was a record. She rotated through admirers like wardrobe changes. Beautiful, luminous Layla. She never had to try. Men simply fell. And I? I was the quiet one. The one who could vanish and not be missed. My name confused with the dog’s, introduced as “Layla’s little sister.” Always that. Never just me. So when the doorbell rang again and her giggles trailed from upstairs, I jumped to answer. I told myself I was curious maybe happy for her. But something darker wondered: Who would it be this time? I opened the door and froze. It was him. Sifis Valianakis. Gone was the sweet, shy boy who used to follow her around, worshipping her with his gaze and stammer. In his place stood something different. His frame was all muscle and sharp confidence, in fitted jeans and a leather jacket. His hair longer now, swept back in a messy, purposeful way. But it was his eyes mocking, cold, a glint of fire. “Are you the maid?” he asked, voice silk and sarcasm. “Tell Layla her boyfriend is here.” I stared too long, heat crawling up my neck. “She’s upstairs,” I mumbled. He smirked, stepped past me, expensive scent trailing behind. I followed. “She sent her shadow to greet me.”
I stiffened. “I’m not her shadow.” Sifis turned, eyes gleaming. “Aren’t you? Always a step behind. Always watching.” My fists clenched. “You don’t know me.” He stepped closer, voice low. “No, but I’ve seen your type. Quiet, bitter, desperate for scraps.” I slapped him. The sound cracked like ice. He smiled. “There she is.” I trembled, breath shallow. “Go to hell.” “I already did,” he whispered, “and your sister was the tour guide.”
CommentsView
No comments yet.