Sifis Valianakis

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.”