You've given us all bad PR, querida
1212 Words
Kellan's POV
The morning sun spilled through the café's wide front windows in long golden stripes, dust motes swirling lazily in the light. The scent of fresh pastries, flaky croissants, sugared donuts, cinnamon rolls wrapped around us like an embrace.
Today we decided to celebrate, breakfast was on me while we waited for an agent Zara swore knew her onions to show us around.
Even though we chose the cafe Zara waitresses for our meal, she could not refrain from a juicy gossip going on in the kitchen with her work colleagues so even though it was her off day, she found a way to shuffle between us.
I stirred my cappuccino slowly, letting the foam settle while I watched Kellan across the table. His legs swung under his chair, not quite reaching the floor, and his hair stuck up at the back in a way I'd failed to fix before we left.
"Ready to start your new school next week?" I asked, chin resting in my hand.
Kellan grinned, the same grin that had been melting my heart since he was missing his front teeth. "I guess, but will the other kids be nice?"
"They will be," I promised. "And if they're not, you know what to do."
"Kick them in the shins?" he said with a mischievous spark.
I rolled my eyes, laughing. "No. You talk to me first. Or Zara. Or maybe a teacher before you start a fight, okay?"
He gave me that "sure, but we both know I'm keeping that shin-kick option" shrug.
I reached over to ruffle his hair. "Alright, mister soon-to-be-popular, what will you need? School supplies, clothes... and your room—since we're moving, you get to decorate it however you want."
His eyes lit up. "Even posters?"
"Even posters. As long as they're not nightmare fuel."
He smirked. "Then I want a soccer poster and Spiderman. And a huge bookshelf."
I smiled, picturing his little world finally feeling safe and his own.
"Done. We'll make your room the coolest one in Brooklyn."
The waitress slid our breakfast onto the table, pancakes drowning in syrup for him, a veggie omelet for me. I cut into mine, but my mind wandered.
Last night's dinner kept replaying in flashes—Marcus Everleigh's laughter, his wife's dreamy smile, Luca's hand warm at the small of my back. His lips on mine.
I hated that I'd liked it. That I could still feel it. That even pretending had felt too real.
Kellan broke my thoughts with a pancake moustache, making me snort into my coffee. We were still giggling when I heard the sharp scrape of a chair dragged hard across tile.
"Well, well, well... look who it is."
The voice sliced through the café's gentle hum. My spine went rigid.
I turned, and there she was. Jodie, my cousin who begged me to stand in for her at the manor.
Her hair was yanked into a careless bun, her face tight and sharp. A paper coffee cup dangled from one hand, her phone from the other. But it was her glare, the kind that could strip paint—that hit me hardest.
"Oh, don't let me interrupt," she said, smiling in the way knives smile. "Brooklyn's newest gold-digger out celebrating. How sweet."
Kellan froze mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air.
"Jodie," I said evenly. "When did you arrive? Sit down, girl, you are making a scene!”
“I'm making a scene?" She laughed without humor. "Maybe for you to stop making the rest of us look like putas. You think you're special because you are now the fiancée to Mr. Billionaire? All you've done is make every girl from our neighborhood look cheap, easy little whores climbing into rich men's beds for champagne."
A ripple of attention moved through the café. Conversations dimmed.
I set my fork down. "You don't know anything about me so shut up and let me fill you in.”
I never told Jodie about my marriage contract, it was supposed to be a secret and she probably found out when I went viral for stealing that jewellery.
"I know enough," she snapped, stepping closer. "People at the manor see you parading around in designer gowns like you earned it. You think Luca Anderson picked you because you are beautiful or iconic?"
Kellan's voice was small. "Leila—"
"It's fine," I told him, though my pulse was pounding.
Jodie leaned in, voice low but cutting. "You're the reason they think girls from Brooklyn are trash. You've given us all bad PR, querida." The Spanish rolled off her tongue like a curse. "And you're too blinded by your shiny new life to care."
My temper flared, not hot and loud, but cold and precise. "If you're so worried about Brooklyn's image, maybe stop screaming in public and dragging other women down just because you're jealous."
Her eyes narrowed. "Jealous?"
"Yes," I said. "You asked me to take your job. I did. I've worked my ass off since I was fifteen to keep a roof over Kellan's head. You think I planned this? You think I asked for—" I cut myself off, breathing hard. "You have no idea what my deal with Luca even is."
"Maybe not," she said, "but I know enough to be disgusted."
She slammed her purse onto our table, rattling Kellan's juice glass. Then, in rapid-fire Spanish, she spat a curse I hadn't heard since my mother's ugliest days.
Zara's voice echoed in my head—People like her feed off your reaction.
So I didn't give her one.
I stood, pulling bills from my wallet and dropping them onto the table. "Come on, Kellan."
But Jodie wasn't done.
"Oh, running away? That's what you do best, isn't it?" She grabbed a croissant from the counter display and hurled it. It smacked my shoulder, bounced to the floor.
The café murmured—some shocked, some entertained.
I took Kellan's hand and walked toward the door. My face burned. My jaw ached from clenching.
Behind us, Jodie shouted, "Don't forget, querida—money can buy you silk dresses, but it can't buy you class!"
The bell over the door jingled as we stepped into the cold. The fall air slapped my cheeks, but I didn't release Kellan's hand until we'd gone a block.
He looked up at me, brow creased. "Why was she so mad at you?"
I swallowed. "Because some people hate seeing others get chances they didn't."
Kellan was quiet for a moment. Then. “She's wrong, you know. You're not trash."
And just like that, my throat closed up. I crouched down on the sidewalk, wrapping him in my arms. "I know, baby. But thank you for saying it."
He hugged me back, warm and small, and when I pulled away, he was smiling again—untouched by Jodie's bitterness.
We still had a day ahead—meeting the real estate agent, looking at apartments we'd only dreamed of. But right then, all I cared about was keeping his hand in mine.
No matter what Jodie thought.
No matter what the whispers said.
Because this, Kellan, Zara, and the life we were building was worth every second of it.
Screw my f*****g cousin, Jodie!
- Writer
