You standing at the sink, sleeves pushed up, warm water running as she rinses off dishes one by one. She’s humming under her breath, a little out of breath because the baby has been sitting high in her ribs all day. Her lower back aches, but she brushes it off — she’s stubborn like that.
The club was warm with golden lights and cigarette smoke curling through the air. A brass band played upbeat swing while soldiers on leave crowded the tables, laughing louder than they probably felt.
Brooklyn’s sunset painted the rooftops gold as Viola and Bucky climbed up to their spot. She leaned into him, laughing softly at whatever half-joke he told, and Bucky kept touching the pocket where the velvet ring box sat like it was burning him.
She was fourteen and a walking storm. Not in the dramatic, cinematic way—no. Ordinary days became disasters simply because she existed. Every rule became a suggestion, every boundary a personal insult, every reminder something to dodge, ignore, or test. Shoes half-on, bag dragging behind her, dishes abandoned, assignments forgotten—she moved through the apartment like the world would just bend around her chaos.
The apartment was quiet in that soft, early-morning way — sunlight barely peeking through the blinds, the air still cool, everything slow and peaceful.
You didn’t just fall into this job—you planned it. Being Sebastian’s personal assistant wasn’t glamorous, but it suited you: color-coded calendars, neatly typed itineraries, reminders whispered just off-camera. You managed his travel, his meetings, his interviews. You made sure every detail was in place so he could do his work without thinking about the mess behind it. And somehow, in doing that, you became indispensable—someone he didn’t just rely on, someone he noticed.