Hey, we are back to Ada's POV. Please through every part of this story, unless specified, we will take everything from Ada's point of view. Let's always remember our MC will always be an integral part of the story, so let's try to keep that in mind.
I walked across the wide, glossy-floored tarmac, a smile on my lips and dreamy eyes gazing ahead. Mrs. Betty, the translator, struggled to keep up, mumbling something under her breath in a language I couldn't understand.
Such a bitch. I was pretty sure those were cuss words. But hey, I wasn't one to make a fuss.
I was a good girl. Daddy taught me well.
She mumbled again, this time with my name thrown in among a long string of words I couldn't decipher.
This bitch…
I stopped walking toward the waiting jet and turned to face her, my grimace unhidden. "Shut your fat, annoying, smelly mouth, you overloaded and overfed bogus-looking lady."
She smiled at me and started rattling off something in Spanish, her tone irritatingly calm.
My eyebrow twitched.
"Miss Ada," Mr. Adams, one of my escorts, called from a few steps away. He must've sensed things were escalating—and he wasn't wrong.
If translators fluent in seven languages weren't so rare, I'd have dragged her by the hair and knocked her out. But Granny would give me an earful, and Daddy would be disappointed.
I flung my hair back with irritation and stomped toward the jet. Damn this woman for being so untouchable.
Still, I was a good girl.
I jogged toward the five men standing by the golden jet, my escorts for the journey. Some of them were cool. Most of them were annoying.
I was pretty sure they saw me as some rich brat they had to endure for the sake of their jobs—which, fine, was kinda true. But still, the vibe was irritating.
I knew I wasn't entirely right in the head, but it didn't mean I enjoyed being treated like a mental hospital runaway. Their quiet disdain stung my pride.
"May I assist you up the staircase, Miss?" Mr. Brown, the brown-haired, British escort, asked, his hand awkwardly outstretched.
I could tell by his fidgety hands he hated doing this. Protocol or not, it annoyed me today.
"How old are you? Fifty? Sixty? A hundred?" I narrowed my eyes at him.
"Huh?" His confusion was priceless.
Normally, I'd shove a dollar bill in his hand with a dismissive "manage this," which I knew was humiliating for him. But today, I wasn't feeling generous.
"Plastic surgery is incredible these days," I said, pretending to study him. "Your cheeks are uneven—one's bigger than the other. Ugly. Your nose? Long and even uglier. And those lips? Too large. Honestly, they're terrifying. If I were you, I'd demand a refund."
I didn't wait for a reply. Not that he could've given one—he looked too dazed, his hand still hanging midair as I walked away.
Inside the jet, I found Aisha sitting by the cabin window, sipping wine and staring outside. She looked lonely, though the view outside was stunning.
"Hey, bitch," I greeted, pouring myself a glass of wine and flopping onto the sofa beside her.
She didn't respond. Strange.
"Did a boy kiss you senseless or something?" I asked casually, though curiosity burned inside me.
Aisha turned to me with a weak smile. But her eyes—red and swollen—stole my attention.
Her neck bore faint marks, as if someone had...
The tumbler slipped from my hands, crashing to the floor. Rage, unfiltered and raw, surged through me.
"Who hurt you?" I asked, a sweet smile disguising the storm inside.
Aisha recognized the madness in my tone and quickly said what she thought would calm me, though today it wouldn't. "The boys are taking care of it."
My smile widened, and my body trembled slightly as I clenched my fists. "Do you think I'm stupid?" I asked, sitting closer to her. "For seven years, this repetitive bullshit is the best answer you can give me?"
The smile on my face grew gentler, but it was a lie. Inside, I was unraveling.
Ever since I'd known Aisha, she'd always shown up with mysterious bruises. As kids, I brushed it off as typical childhood clumsiness. But it never stopped.
And when I caught her like this, I knew it wasn't the full story. If this was what I saw, what had I missed?
The boys always claimed they'd take care of it. But they never did. And the boys I knew didn't let things slide. Whoever hurt Aisha—or me—would be better off dead. They weren't murderers, but they could ruin a person's life so thoroughly death would seem merciful.
The only explanation left was...
"Aisha," I asked again, my voice trembling with restrained fury, "who did this to you?"
An image of her parents came to mind, but I quickly dismissed it. Her parents were kind people. Her dad, especially, had nearly cried in front of me countless times over her injuries.
The thought of Aisha harming herself crossed my mind, but between the two of us, I was the unstable one. If anyone were self-destructive, it'd be me.
And the boys? They knew something, but they chose to keep me in the dark.
The sting of betrayal crept in. It was suffocating.
Aisha turned back to the window, her face expressionless. I knew her too well—this conversation was over.
That did it.
I stormed out of the cabin, my emotions on the verge of exploding.
"Get me a sledgehammer," I told Mr. Walker in the passageway, my voice unnervingly calm.
Something in my tone made him comply without hesitation.
I entered the lively kitchen, where bakers and cooks bustled about, chatting and laughing. Their joy grated against my nerves.
"You all should leave," I said flatly.
No one questioned me. My aura screamed danger.
The room cleared, and Mr. Walker returned, handing me the sledgehammer with trembling hands. "Please be careful," he murmured before leaving.
That was the trigger.
I gripped the sledgehammer tightly, feeling its weight, and with a swift motion, I swung it into the glass wall. The sound was deafening. Shards and particles of glass exploded outward, catching the light as they scattered across the floor.
But it wasn't enough. The sound, the destruction—it wasn't calming me. If anything, it made the storm inside me rage even harder.
I turned my attention to the dishes and pastries carefully arranged on the table. They were works of art, neatly lined up as though mocking my chaos. My grip tightened around the hammer, and I swung again.
The hammer collided with plates and bowls, smashing them into jagged pieces. Food splattered onto the walls, the floor, and my clothes. I didn't stop. I couldn't. I swung the hammer over and over, the loud crashes and splintering sounds feeding my screams.
I grabbed whatever I could reach—knives, utensils, pots—and flung them across the room with no aim, no care. I screamed until my voice was hoarse, until my arms felt heavy, until the room reflected the storm in my heart.
When the kitchen was nothing but a mess of broken glass, splattered food, and shattered crockery, I finally let go of the hammer. It hit the floor with a loud clang that echoed in the now-silent room. I slid down the wall, my knees giving way, until I was sitting on the cold floor amidst the destruction.
And I cried.
I hated crying. It was a weakness I rarely allowed myself. But this—this was too much.
I was hurting.
So few things could make me cry, but seeing my loved ones in danger, feeling so helpless and powerless to protect them—it was suffocating.
And what made it worse was that they didn't trust me.
The four of them were keeping secrets from me. Whatever was happening to Aisha, the boys knew about it. They had to. How else could they stay so calm?
But… but…
I just wanted answers. I wanted to know why. Wasn't I their friend too? Or was I the only one who felt that way?
No. That couldn't be true.
I hated them for lying to me, for keeping me in the dark. I hated myself even more for believing them, for letting it go on for so long. I was so stupid, so gullible.
It was humiliating.
I clenched my fists, trying to push the tears away, but they kept falling, hot and heavy. The emotions clawed at my chest, leaving me feeling raw and exposed.
I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead against my knees. I just wanted to be left alone. Alone with my thoughts, my anger, my pain.
For now, that was all I could handle.