The scent of stale grease and burnt canola oil didn't just sit on my skin; it seemed to seep into my pores, becoming a part of my DNA.
I unfastened my apron, my fingers trembling slightly from exhaustion, and tossed it into my locker. It hit the back metal wall with a thwack that was louder than necessary, but I didn't care. My feet felt like they were being stabbed with hot needles, my lower back was a knot of fire from twelve hours of hunching over a deep fryer, and my patience? That had evaporated somewhere around hour four.
"Hey, Penny."
My spine stiffened. I knew that voice.
I turned slowly to see Greg, my manager, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes performed their usual routine—starting at my worn-out sneakers and dragging slowly, agonizingly, up to my face. It was a look that made me want to scrub my skin with steel wool.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked, his voice dripping with a sickly sweetness.
I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached, swallowing the scream that was clawing its way up my throat. I needed this job. God help me, I needed this job.
"Yeah," I muttered, forcing my voice to remain neutral. "I'll be here."
Greg's grin widened, oily and satisfied. "Good girl."
The two words hit me like a physical slap. Good girl. Like I was a golden retriever performing a trick, not a twenty-five-year-old woman working herself into an early grave.
"Thanks, Greg," I managed, though the words tasted like ash.
"You're a trooper, Penny. Real dedication. I don't know what this place would do without you."
You'd hire another desperate soul and underpay them, just like you do me, I thought bitterly. But I just nodded, grabbed my bag, and slammed my locker shut.
"See you bright and early. Don't be late."
I didn't look back. I couldn't. If I looked back, I might actually throw a stapler at his head.
Pushing through the heavy rear doors, I stepped into the night. The cold air bit at my exposed cheeks, a sharp contrast to the suffocating, humid heat of the kitchen. I inhaled greedily, letting the chill settle in my lungs. It was the first time I'd breathed properly all day.
I fished my phone out of my bag, the screen illuminating the gloom of the alleyway. Habit took over. My thumb hovered over the Instagram icon. I knew I shouldn't look. I knew it would ruin whatever sliver of peace I had left.
I clicked it anyway.
The first post on my feed was like a punch to the gut.
Madison Laurent.
My chest tightened, a familiar, toxic cocktail of envy and grief swirling in my stomach. The photo was high-definition perfection. My twin sister, Madison, stood on a rooftop terrace that looked over a sparkling city skyline. She was wearing a custom silk gown that probably cost more than my entire year's rent.
But it wasn't the dress I stared at. It was the arm she was holding.
Julien Laurent.
He stood beside her, looking like a dark prince from a storybook. Sharp jawline, sculpted cheekbones, and those piercing green eyes that could strip a person bare with a single glance. Even through a phone screen, his power was undeniable. He was the King of the fashion world, the CEO of Laurent Fashion Dream, and the man who dictated what the elite wore, ate, and thought.
The caption read: One year down, forever to go. Happy Anniversary, mon amour. ❤️ @JulienLaurentOfficial
I felt bile rise in my throat. Madison had it all. The wealth, the status, the adoration. And she had him.
I zoomed in on Julien's face. He wasn't smiling—he rarely did—but there was a possessiveness in the way he held her waist.
To the world, he was a tycoon. To me, he was a ghost.
A sharp pang of regret sliced through me, so vivid it nearly brought me to my knees.
FLASHBACK: Seven Years Ago
The high school hallway smelled of floor wax and teenage hormones. I stood by my locker, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. In my sweaty hands, I clutched a note folded into a tiny, intricate square.
I had spent three days writing it. Every word had been agonizingly chosen.
Julien Laurent was a senior. He was the golden boy, the untouchable god of our school. He didn't walk; he glided. He didn't speak; he commanded.
I saw him near the gym doors, laughing with a group of friends. He looked effortless, his blazer slung over one shoulder.
"Do it, Penelope," I whispered to myself. "Just do it."
I pushed off the lockers and walked toward him before my nerve could fail me. "Julien?"
He stopped mid-laugh, turning those intense green eyes on me. The noise of the hallway seemed to suck away, leaving only the thudding of my own pulse.
"Penelope," he said, acknowledging me with a nod. "What's up?"
I couldn't speak. I just thrust the note toward him.
He took it, his eyebrows raising in curiosity. Slowly, he unfolded the paper. I watched his eyes scan the lines where I had poured out my heart—confessing that I admired him, that I saw beneath the surface, that I wanted to know him.
He finished reading and looked at me. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Then, he sighed. A soft, pitying sound.
"Penelope..." His voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse. "You're a sweet girl. Really."
My stomach dropped.
"But... I don't see you that way," he said, handing the note back. "You're... you're just a kid, really. Too young."
"I'm only a year younger than you," I whispered, my face burning.
He offered a sympathetic, devastating smile. "It wouldn't work, Pen. Trust me. You'll find someone better suited for you."
He turned back to his friends, and just like that, I was dismissed.
PRESENT
I stared at the photo of him and Madison, a bitter, jagged laugh escaping my lips.
"Too young," I whispered to the empty alleyway.
He had told me I was too young. Yet, a few years later, when my twin sister Madison—who is exactly the same age as me—confessed to him, suddenly age wasn't a problem. Suddenly, she was perfect.
Madison hadn't just taken the life I could have fought for. She had taken the man I loved.