Chapter 5 The Soft Smile That Lied

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When I walked into Lang & Co., I didn't expect warmth. I expected glossy floors, clipped instructions, and the kind of tension that lived in the corners of spaces reserved for people who had money. People who had choices.

I had none.

The bell above the boutique door chimed delicately as I stepped inside-an elegant, birdlike trill that contrasted with the storm brewing in my chest. My secondhand handbag trembled against my shoulder with every nervous breath, and I resisted the urge to smooth down my blouse for the fifth time. It was ironed. I had made sure of it. Maria had sat beside me that morning with a weak smile, watching as I ran the iron over every wrinkle like I could flatten my future along with the fabric.

"Just do your best, my love," she had whispered, before coughing into the crook of her elbow.

Lang & Co. was nestled between a gourmet juice bar and a niche candle shop, in a part of town I had no business belonging to. Its floor-to-ceiling windows gleamed, and inside, everything was muted elegance-soft pastels, brushed gold fixtures, racks of silk and linen curated like art. For a heartbeat, I felt like I had wandered onto the set of a lifestyle commercial I would never afford to be in.

And then Rina Lang stepped into view.

She wasn't what I expected. I don't even know what I expected. Maybe someone older. Sterner. Instead, Rina looked like a walking magazine cover. She wore elegance like perfume-effortlessly, expensively. Her auburn hair was coiled in a sleek twist that caught the light when she moved. Her blouse-silk, I later learned-was the color of crushed lilac and tucked neatly into ivory slacks that made no sound when she walked. Her heels clicked with purpose.

And then she smiled.

It was a slow, measured thing. Not warmth exactly-but something that looked close enough that I clung to it like a buoy in open water.

"Let's get one thing clear," she said as we sat across from each other at the marble counter near the register. Her arms folded lightly across her chest, nails glossy and pale pink. "I don't hire slackers."

I opened my mouth to say I'm not a slacker, but the words tangled somewhere behind my tongue.

She tilted her head. "But you? You look like you've seen the worst and haven't blinked. I like that."

I didn't know what to say. My throat tightened around whatever gratitude I wanted to express. So I just nodded, clutching the thin strap of my bag like it was holding me together.

Rina's smile curved slightly at the edges, and she gestured casually behind her. "Let's give it a try. You start tomorrow."

Just like that.

I walked out of Lang & Co. that afternoon blinking in the sunlight, unsure whether the whole thing had been a dream.

And for a little while, it felt like one.

The boutique was everything I imagined the inside of a fashion magazine would be. Light floated through the windows like it had been trained. The air smelled like orange blossom and vanilla. Everything was curated-down to the angle of the hangers on the racks and the placement of a single fern beside the dressing room mirror.

Jazz played low in the background. Customers sipped tiny lattes from branded paper cups as they flipped through racks that cost more than our rent.

For the first few weeks, it was... peaceful.

Rina was more hands-on than I'd expected. She walked me through the layout with surprising patience. She taught me how to suggest an accessory without sounding pushy, how to let silence linger long enough to let a customer convince themselves.

She even complimented me once, after I spent thirty minutes steaming linen jumpsuits and organizing the jewelry case by color family. "You're a quick study," she said, lips curling slightly.

Sometimes she brought almond croissants in the morning. "Too many carbs for me," she'd say with a theatrical sigh, sliding the warm bag across the counter. "But you look like you could use it."

Once, I arrived to find a box on my chair. Inside was a deep emerald scarf with delicate hand-stitched edges. It was far too expensive, and I knew it. My fingers trembled as I unfolded it.

"You're the face of this brand now," Rina said from behind me. "You should look it."

The compliment lodged somewhere between my ribs and bloomed. I hadn't been complimented in so long it felt like sunlight after years in shadow. And like an idiot-like someone desperate to believe-I let myself trust it.

I let myself trust her.

At home, things were slipping fast.

Maria's cough had worsened. It wasn't hiding behind tea anymore. It echoed through the apartment walls at night, brittle and raw. She looked thinner every week, her eyes ringed in grey that no amount of makeup could cover.

"It's probably stress," she said one morning, as I wrapped a scarf around her shoulders before heading out. "Or just age."

It wasn't. We both knew it.

But naming it made it real, and I wasn't ready for that.

Liam had stopped asking if she was okay. He simply sat near her more. Brought her water without being asked. Nia started leaving little folded drawings under her pillow-sketches of houses with hearts and stick figures holding hands.

It gutted me.

I started picking up extra shifts. Came home late. Cooked when I could. Slept when I could.

And when the exhaustion started bleeding through the cracks, Rina noticed.

"You alright, darling?" she asked one morning as I nearly scorched a blouse with the steamer. "You look a little out of sorts."

I hesitated before answering. "My mom's not well. I've just been... worried."

Rina's expression softened, and for a moment I saw the woman I'd believed in. She placed a manicured hand on my shoulder.

"You poor thing. Family first, of course."

And then, with the same breath, she asked if I could stay two extra hours that night to finish inventory.

I said yes. Because I needed the money. Because she had been kind. Because I couldn't afford to seem ungrateful.

But the longer I stayed, the more that kindness began to shift.

The first sign came when I forgot to lock a display cabinet one night. A pair of earrings-cheap ones, ironically-went missing.

The next morning, Rina's voice rang out sharp enough to slice marble.

"You're not at home now, Kira," she snapped. "We're running a business, not a charity."

My stomach knotted. I apologized. Profusely.

But the damage had been done.

From that point on, she stopped using my name. Stopped bringing croissants. The scarf vanished from my locker one day. I didn't ask.

When I turned down a weekend shift to take Maria to the clinic, Rina's smile was all teeth.

"Some people just aren't built for consistency," she said.

Still, I kept my head down. Smiled. Folded.

Because that was what survival looked like.

Maria's diagnosis came quietly. Like the last leaf falling before winter.

Chronic pulmonary complications. Long-term damage from untreated infections, from working in factories and kitchens and laundromats without breaks or rest.

She needed medication. Monitoring. Gentle care.

And I needed more money. More hours. More time.

But I couldn't have all three.

I went to Rina one quiet morning after my shift. My hands trembled around the counter's edge. The boutique was mostly empty, save for a teenage girl trying on sunglasses near the window.

"I wanted to ask," I began, "if I could adjust my schedule a little. My mom's been ill, and I'd like to take her to the hospital twice a week."

Rina didn't look up from her tablet.

"I'd make up the hours on weekends," I added quickly. "Or stay late more nights."

Silence.

Then, still without looking at me, she said, "You're not indispensable, Kira."

I froze.

"I-I didn't mean-"

She looked up slowly. Her eyes were no longer soft. "You think kindness is permission to slack?" Her voice was ice. "I brought you in because I saw potential. Don't make me regret that."

That was the first real crack. The first time I realized the smile had been a mask all along.

But I stayed.

Because quitting meant starting over. Again. And we couldn't survive another reset.

The slow unraveling happened in the spaces between breaths.

She no longer asked how I was. Her tone became clipped, brisk, passive-aggressive in ways that could never be called mean, just... cold. Like I'd gone from investment to inconvenience.

One afternoon, I overheard her on the phone with a supplier. I had gone to the back to restock hangers and paused at the doorway.

"My assistant? Oh, she's sweet, but a bit of a charity case. Barely keeping it together."

My chest caved inward.

That night, Maria coughed until she collapsed in the hallway.

I carried her to bed, sobbing into her shoulder.

And the next morning, I didn't go to work.

I sat at the kitchen table, heart pounding against my ribs, staring at the envelope of unpaid bills.

Then I picked up my phone and texted Rina:

I'm resigning. Effective immediately. I'll pick up my final pay this Friday.

No reply.

No questions.

No farewell.

I believed that was the end of it.

I believed she'd pay me what I had earned.

But I hadn't yet learned that not all betrayal comes loud and sudden.

Some of it waits in silence-until you're desperate enough to knock twice.

And when you do, it turns and laughs in your face.