I Love My Husband's Brother (married a gay man)

*Layla's POV* The eviction notice had been sitting on my kitchen counter for three days. I hadn't thrown it away. I hadn't opened it fully either. I just let it sit there, pale yellow against the cracked linoleum, like a bad omen I could ignore if I didn't look at it directly. "You need to eat something," Dani said from my couch, scrolling through her phone with her legs thrown over the armrest like she owned the place. She kind of did, at this point. She'd been here every day this week, which I appreciated, even if her version of emotional support was telling me what to do every five minutes. "I ate," I said. "Coffee is not food, Layla." "It has calories." She gave me the look — the one that said I love you but you're being an i***t — and tossed a granola bar across the room. I caught it without thinking, which honestly felt like the most athletic thing I'd done since graduation. Four months out of college and this was my life. Twenty-three years old, a fashion degree I couldn't pay for, and an apartment that was about to stop being mine. I unwrapped the granola bar and leaned against the counter, careful not to touch the notice. "My mom called again," I said. Dani looked up. "How is she?" "She's fine. The home is fine." I paused. "They raised the monthly rate." The silence that followed was the kind that meant Dani understood exactly how bad that was. My mom's retirement home wasn't fancy — it was barely adequate — but it was safe and the staff knew her name and remembered that she didn't like the TV too loud. That mattered. Losing that spot because I couldn't cover the fees would break something in me I wasn't sure I could fix. "I applied to three more jobs this morning," I said, mostly to myself. "Two modeling agencies and a visual merchandising gig at a boutique downtown." I looked down at my arms — the roses climbing my left forearm, the geometric linework at my wrist. "The boutique already emailed back. Said my look wasn't on brand." "Their loss," Dani said flatly. "You're gorgeous." "I'm not what they want." And that was the truth of it, plain and simple. I wasn't thin in the way the industry liked. I wasn't polished. I had tattoos and natural hair and a face that people called striking when they were being kind and unconventional when they weren't. I'd spent four years in fashion school being told I had an incredible eye, incredible instincts, an incredible future — and then walked into the real world and found out that incredible didn't pay rent. My phone buzzed on the counter. I almost didn't check it. I'd been getting too many notifications lately — payment reminders, loan statements, a bank alert that never had good news. But something made me pick it up. It was an email. The sender name made me read it twice. Al-Nassar Fashion Group — Model Casting Invitation. "Dani." "Mm?" "Does Al-Nassar mean anything to you?" She sat up so fast her phone hit the floor. "The Al-Nassar? As in the Al-Nassar Group? The luxury house?" She was across the room in three seconds, reading over my shoulder. "You got an invitation from them?" "Apparently." "Layla." Her voice dropped. "They dress royalty. Like actual royalty. Their last runway was in Milan and the tickets cost more than your student loans." "That's not hard," I muttered, but I was already reading the email again. It wasn't a standard casting call. They weren't looking for standard measurements or a standard portfolio. They were looking for a story. Tell us who you are, the email said. Tell us what you believe fashion should feel like for women who don't fit the mold. I read that line three times. My whole senior thesis had been about exactly that — clothing for women like me. Curvy, tattooed, unconventional, tired of being told to dress to minimize. I had sketches. I had concepts. I had a brand idea I'd been quietly building in a notebook for two years, the kind of dream you keep small so it doesn't hurt too much when it doesn't happen. "You're going," Dani said. "I don't know—" "Layla." She put both hands on my shoulders and turned me to face her. "You are broke. You are about to be evicted. Your mother needs you. And a luxury fashion house just personally invited you to come pitch yourself." She raised both eyebrows. "What exactly is the debate here?" I looked at the eviction notice. Then at my phone. Then I started typing my response. Three days later, I walked into a room full of girls who looked like me. Not exactly like me — but close enough that I felt it in my chest the moment I stepped through the door. Girls with big hair and bold eyeliner and bodies that spilled beautifully out of clothes that actually fit them. Girls with shaved heads and lip rings and tattoos that crept up their necks. One girl had a prosthetic arm painted gold. Another wore a hijab with a leather jacket and combat boots. None of us looked like what fashion said we should look like. All of us looked incredible. I found a seat near the back and smoothed down my outfit — a wrap dress I'd altered myself, cinched at the waist, deep green against my brown skin. I'd done my own makeup. I'd written my story the night before, three drafts, until it felt honest without feeling desperate. The room buzzed with nervous energy. Someone was running the event — staff in all black moving efficiently, clipboards and earpieces — but I noticed almost immediately that there was a mezzanine level above us. Glass-fronted. Dark enough that you couldn't see clearly from below. I looked up once. I couldn't make out a face. But I had the distinct, unsettling feeling that whoever was up there had already been looking at me.