Ginevra lifted her hand and gave the smallest flick of her fingers—a quiet signal, the kind that didn't make a scene.
Let go.
Jayna only narrowed her eyes, still holding on. Not just holding on—she slid her hand deeper, threading their fingers together until it became ten fingers locked, intimate in a way that didn't need words. Then, with the most deliberately ambiguous glance, she looked at Ginevra as if to say, And what are you going to do about it?
And the very next second, she turned back to the table as though nothing had happened at all, smiling sweetly at Mrs. Volkova and Mr. Volkova.
"Auntie, your cooking is incredible," Jayna said brightly. "I haven't even picked up my fork yet and I'm already starving."
She said all that praise with perfect composure—while her left hand remained tightly interlaced with Ginevra's beneath the table, stubborn as a promise.
"Oh, good, good," Mrs. Volkova chirped, clearly delighted. "Last night I asked Giny what you like. She said you love crawfish and sweet-and-sour ribs, so I made those, and I added a couple vegetable dishes too. Hurry and try everything. You peel the crawfish like this—messy hands are fine, you can wash up later."
As she spoke, she dropped a bright red crawfish into Jayna's bowl, as if worried Jayna might be too shy to reach for it herself.
Ginevra looked at Jayna.
(Let go.)
Jayna smiled back without blinking.
(Promise you're not mad.)
Across the table, Mrs. Volkova noticed the pause, the stillness in her daughter's posture, the way her fork had stopped moving.
"Ginevra, what are you doing just sitting there?" her mother demanded, eyes sharpening. "Why aren't you eating? Are you saying your mom's cooking isn't good?"
Ginevra drew in a slow breath.
She could have freed her hand easily. She could have ended this in a second—if she didn't care about the fact that sudden movements under a dinner table tended to escalate, and the last thing she needed was a knocked-over plate or a scraped chair or anything that drew attention to what Jayna was doing.
So she chose the only reasonable option.
Surrender.
(I'm not mad anymore. Let go.)
Only then did Jayna release her, satisfied at last. She cast Ginevra one final look—those peach-blossom eyes too pretty, too knowing—before turning her smile back onto the family.
"Uncle, Auntie, you eat too," Jayna said, suddenly a little embarrassed. Only after she saw them start did she begin peeling her crawfish.
Mr. Volkova looked thoroughly pleased, pouring himself a small drink, toasting his own good mood without needing anyone's permission.
Jayna peeled shell after shell, and every now and then she stole a glance at the person beside her. Ginevra ate the way she always did—quiet, neat, almost formal. Eat without talking, as though the act of chewing required its own kind of seriousness.
"Giny," Mrs. Volkova coaxed, hope softening her tone. "Try the crawfish. I asked Mr. Wilbur to save the freshest ones for you."
Ginevra lifted her gaze to the glistening pile, then shook her head.
"I'll eat something else."
Mrs. Volkova sighed as if this were a lifelong wound. "Everything about my daughter is wonderful, except she's picky—this won't eat, that won't eat."
And just like that, she stopped trying with Ginevra and redirected all her energy into feeding Jayna instead. Plate after plate, bite after bite—until Jayna's bowl looked like a small mountain range.
"A-Auntie," Jayna pleaded, forced to refuse for her own survival, "let me finish what I have first. Please eat too."
She genuinely didn't know how to handle this much warmth. It was overwhelming—almost dizzying. And the worst part was: Mrs. Volkova really could cook. There was nothing to criticize. If Jayna tried to argue, it would only sound like fake politeness.
And, privately, Jayna understood something Mrs. Volkova didn't: Ginevra wasn't "picky" the way normal people were picky.
Ginevra simply wouldn't peel crawfish herself. Anything messy was a problem, and if there was a choice between extra trouble and not eating at all—Ginevra would calmly choose hunger.
Mrs. Volkova glanced between them. "So, Jayna—are you and Giny only in the same class this year?"
Jayna nodded quickly. "Yes! I'm actually her desk mate. And she… she looks after me a lot." Her voice brightened as she reached for safer admiration, the kind adults liked hearing. "Also, she's incredibly good at self-defense. I heard Uncle taught her? That's amazing."
Mr. Volkova's face lit up, pleased in a way that was loud and boyish. He waved his hand modestly.
"Oh, that was ages ago," he said, already drifting into nostalgia. "Back when I ran a boxing gym, I taught a lot of people myself. We only have one daughter, and she's always been… like this." He laughed, affectionate but a little helpless. "Her mom and I worried she'd get bullied at school, so we had her train at the gym. Turns out she's got talent. Real talent."
Mrs. Volkova immediately undercut him with practiced precision. "Most of what matters came from her third uncle's side. That's the real foundation."
"Viktor Volkova?" Mr. Volkova snorted, the drink loosening his caution. "None of his people are—"
Ginevra's chest tightened. Not again.
The conversation had drifted too close—too easily—toward the parts of her family she didn't want Jayna to see, the parts that made ordinary people's eyes change.
Without a word, Ginevra picked up a piece of greens and placed it into her father's bowl.
For half a second, Mr. Volkova looked delighted—my daughter is taking care of me—until he met Ginevra's eyes.
Cold. Flat. Warning.
Father and daughter held each other's gaze in the thin air between one heartbeat and the next.
Mr. Volkova swallowed whatever he was about to say and chose, wisely, to shut his mouth.
Mrs. Volkova turned back to Jayna, recovering the warmth with ease. "Eat, eat. Our Giny has never given us trouble with studying—always top of everything. It's just her personality, you know. She doesn't talk much. But with you here, we're so happy."
Jayna smiled, cheeks a little hot from all the attention. "Honestly, I think her personality is wonderful." She said it simply, sincerely. "She's gentle. She notices things. She doesn't talk much, but she always does things first—before anyone asks. She's reliable."
Ginevra turned her head in surprise.
And there, for a brief moment, their eyes met—Jayna's gaze soft and lit with laughter, like she was saying something precious on purpose.
Then Jayna slid a small tray toward Ginevra.
"I peeled these for you," she said, voice casual as if it were nothing. "Auntie really wants you to try it. I ate some—seriously, it's so good. If you don't eat it, you'll regret it."
On the tray were clean pieces of crawfish meat, neatly arranged—no shells, no mess, no problem.
Ginevra looked down at it and muttered, almost to herself, "I didn't ask you to."
"You're so annoying," Jayna said, and squeezed one eye at her. "I peeled them anyway. Eat."
Ginevra tried to push the tray back.
Jayna pushed it forward again, refusing to lose. Her stare was fierce in the most childish way—as though she would sit there all night and watch Ginevra chew.
Mrs. Volkova and Mr. Volkova both looked briefly stunned.
Because their daughter—who would stubbornly refuse even food placed right at her lips—actually… ate.
Quietly. Obediently.
She took what Jayna offered and finished it, as if she didn't want to argue. As if she couldn't.
Mrs. Volkova clicked her tongue, half scolding, half amazed. "Your father and I really spoiled you, huh? Giny, don't you go thinking you're allowed to make Jayna peel food for you just because you're younger. If you want it, do it yourself."
Jayna blinked. "You're younger than me?"
Ginevra kept eating and said nothing.
Mr. Volkova tilted his head, amused. "Hm? She never told you?"
Ginevra shot her father a sharp look.
"I skipped grades," she said, clipped.
Jayna did the math out loud, eyes widening with each step. "Wait—so I started first grade at seven, and I'm seventeen now… then you're sixteen?"
Mrs. Volkova answered before Ginevra could.
"She's fourteen."
Jayna's fork froze midair.
"Fourteen?!" she shouted, forgetting every ounce of manners she'd been trying so hard to keep.
Ginevra nodded, calm as stone.
Jayna stared at her like she'd discovered a myth.
"You started school at four?" she demanded, horrified. "That's—there's no way—"
"No," Mrs. Volkova corrected, laughing at Jayna's face. "Same as you. She just skipped three grades."
"Skipped… three…" Jayna's mouth fell open. She looked at Ginevra as if she wasn't human at all. "That's insane. That's actually insane. You're a genius. And you're good at fighting too—what are you?"
Ginevra tilted her head slightly. Her voice, when it came, was almost quiet enough to miss.
"Is that your way of praising me?"
"Of course it is," Jayna said, still reeling. "I can't believe it. I bet nobody in class knows. Even Calista never told me—"
Ginevra's eyes flicked sideways, faintly dissatisfied. "She doesn't know everything."
Jayna huffed, elbowing her lightly. "Still. You even hid it from me. That's not fair."
Mrs. Volkova watched the two of them with a hopeful kind of joy—thinking, perhaps, that Jayna's bright, lively energy might tug her daughter into softer places. Her mood lifted, and she urged everyone to keep eating before the food cooled.
Halfway through the meal, Mrs. Volkova suddenly gasped and darted into the kitchen.
"Oh no—dorogoy, my darling, why didn't you remind me?" she cried. "There's still soup simmering!"
Mr. Volkova's eyes shone. He set down his utensils and insisted on serving, like this was his moment to be grand.
A large pot came to the table, steam rolling up in fragrant waves—rich, slow-cooked pork hock broth that filled the room with warmth.
"It smells amazing," Jayna breathed, genuinely unable to help herself.
Mrs. Volkova proudly ladled each of them a small bowl, insisting Jayna taste it.
Jayna took a cautious sip.
"It's… so good," she said, cheeks warming again—this time from comfort. It was savory without being heavy, the kind of soup that made you feel taken care of.
Mrs. Volkova sighed fondly, caught up in her own memories. "Giny used to love this when she was little. But the last few years, she barely eats meat." She winked at Jayna, voice turning playfully maternal. "People always say this kind of soup is especially good for girls—good for your skin, good for growing."
Then she sighed again, glancing at Ginevra with exaggerated concern. "Giny, you can't keep being so picky."
Jayna went bright red anyway, because there was something about adults speaking too freely at the table that always made teenagers feel like the floor should open and swallow them.
"Auntie," Jayna said quickly, trying to rescue Ginevra from the spotlight, "she's still growing. Don't tease her."
She shot Ginevra a quick, playful wink—as if to say I've got you.
Ginevra's face remained composed, but a shadow sat behind her eyes, quiet and heavy.
"Jayna, if you like it, I made plenty," Mrs. Volkova said, unstoppable. "I'll pack some for you to take home."
Jayna tried to refuse politely, but warmth, once offered, was hard to push away without looking ungrateful. In the end, she ate more than she meant to.
After dinner, she tried to help clean up.
Ginevra blocked her immediately.
So Jayna stood there, hands useless, watching Ginevra move with efficient neatness—stacking dishes, aligning chairs, tidying as though order itself could calm the world.
"You're just standing there," Ginevra said without turning around. "Why?"
"I'm waiting for you," Jayna replied, smiling. "Giny."
Ginevra paused.
Giny? That was a new one—somehow even stranger than the others.
She narrowed her eyes at Jayna and tilted her chin toward the hallway, silently ordering her along.
Jayna followed, obedient in the way she only ever was when she wanted something.
In the bathroom, Ginevra took out a brand-new toothbrush, rinsed it with hot water, and squeezed toothpaste onto it with careful precision. She reached for a new disposable cup—
Jayna snatched it out of her hand.
"No need," Jayna said, grinning as she set the new cup back on the shelf. "I'll just use yours. Don't bother opening another."
Ginevra's gaze sharpened immediately, the question sliding out too fast—too instinctive.
"You use the same cup at Calista's?"
"Who?" Jayna bit her lip, fighting a smile, pretending innocence.
"Calista," Ginevra repeated, her face growing more severe.
"Ohhh." Jayna dragged the sound out teasingly, then answered, "She has lots of disposable cups for guests. I use those."
She watched Ginevra's expression—felt it loosen by a fraction—then added softly, as if offering proof.
"And I don't share cups with anyone else."
Ginevra's voice came even quicker.
"Then why do you want to use mine?"
Jayna lifted her chin, utterly shameless. "Because I'm three years older than you. Let me have this."
There was no dignity in the way she said it—only audacity.
Then she smiled wider, leaning closer as if she were bargaining for something precious.
"Giny," she said, coaxing, "you're not going to be stingy, are you?"
Ginevra's mouth tightened with disgust. She thrust her cup toward Jayna like she was surrendering a weapon.
"Don't let me hear that nickname a second time," she said flatly. "Take it."
Jayna muttered under her breath, pleased. "You're still three years younger…"
And then, unable to hide it, she broke into a victorious grin.
"Thanks."
Every time Jayna smiled at her like that, Ginevra discovered the same infuriating truth: she couldn't refuse. Not cleanly. Not fully.
Even Jayna's voice—light, sweet, insinuating—seemed to slip through Ginevra's defenses and settle somewhere deep, heavy as a quiet addiction.
They brushed their teeth one after the other. Under Jayna's wide-eyed, innocent "hinting," Ginevra finally understood what she wanted next and led her to her bedroom.
Jayna drifted to the desk immediately, eyes catching on the open notebooks. Ginevra's handwriting was steady and beautiful—clean strokes, composed structure, like her mind had learned to be elegant.
"I'm so jealous," Jayna murmured. "You have pretty hands and pretty writing."
Ginevra stood to the side with her arms folded, watching her. She didn't know how to respond to compliments—if this even counted as one. Still, the corner of her mouth lifted, almost unwillingly.
"Not like me," Jayna added with a grimace. "Mine is… tragic."
"Handwriting reflects the person," Ginevra said, almost absentmindedly.
Jayna snapped her head around and glared. "If we're talking about skills, I'm better than you by a thousand miles."
Ginevra's brow twitched. What kind of pride was that?
Fine.
She conceded in silence.
Jayna turned, surveying the room. It wasn't large, but it was immaculate—neat wooden bed, a sizable bookshelf crowded with books.
"Where are all your awards?" Jayna asked, looking around. "Certificates, trophies—something. There should be a million."
"I don't display them," Ginevra said, frowning. "They're under the bed."
"You're too modest," Jayna declared, as if diagnosing an illness.
Then she wandered to the bookshelf, scanning titles. "Kafka's Metamorphosis. The Thorn Birds. All the kinds of books that give people headaches." She pulled out a thick textbook from the second row and read the cover aloud. "Thomas' Calculus?"
She flipped through it—pages covered in dense English and math, marked up with red and black ink like a battlefield.
Slowly, Jayna looked at Ginevra, genuinely suspicious.
"You… you can read this?"
"Yes," Ginevra said, as if Jayna had asked whether she could read street signs.
Jayna opened her mouth, then shut it again. She slid the book back like it might bite her.
She glanced over the rest of the shelf—complex analysis, analytic geometry, higher mathematics that looked like it belonged in a university lecture hall.
"My head hurts," she muttered, pressing a hand to her forehead.
"You should study," Ginevra reminded her, perfectly calm.
A knock landed on the door.
Ginevra opened it. Mrs. Volkova stood there with a plate of washed strawberries.
"For Jayna," she said warmly. "She loves strawberries."
"She needs to study," Ginevra replied, shooting her mother a look that made Mrs. Volkova laugh and retreat. Ginevra shut the door and carried the plate inside.
Her eyes flicked—briefly, involuntarily—to Jayna's stomach.
How does she fit all that food?
Jayna stared at the strawberries, swallowed, and looked up with quiet longing.
Ginevra lowered her voice, husky in a way that sounded unfairly intimate.
"Finish your work," she said, "and then you can eat."
To make her point, she lifted one strawberry and took a small bite—slow, deliberate—and glanced at Jayna with the faintest, taunting edge.
Jayna's eyes narrowed.
So that was the game.
"You know," Jayna said softly, rising from the chair as she spoke, "today I'm the guest. And I have your parents on my side."
She walked toward Ginevra with quiet confidence, each step unhurried.
"If you won't let me eat," she murmured, eyes fixed on Ginevra's face, "then I'll eat anyway."
Their gazes met, and for a fragile instant, both of them believed the other understood perfectly.
But they didn't.
Ginevra thought Jayna was reaching for the entire plate.
Jayna reached for Ginevra's wrist instead.
She leaned in and—before Ginevra could react—stole the half-bitten strawberry from her fingertips in one swift, shameless motion, as if it had always belonged to her.
Then she straightened, lips curved, eyes bright with victory.
"Thank you for the hospitality," she said lightly, as though she'd merely accepted a polite offering.
For the first time, the unshakable calm on Ginevra's face showed a crack.
A thin fracture of disbelief.
And then, low and cold and unmistakably flustered, she snapped—
"You shameless brat."