One More Favor

Selena, sitting on the barstool with one leg crossed over the other, paused mid-sip of her citrus spritzer. Her lashes lifted. Just slightly. Like she hadn’t quite heard me right.

I stood by the stove, arms folded, scarf knotted tighter than usual. “You have the money now. Enough to pay Marcus the full debt.”

Her lips curved. “And?”

“And I’m of no use to you anymore.”

She set the glass down gently, the lemon wedge bobbing from the ripple. “Oh, Liora. Don’t do this again.”

“I’m serious.” My voice didn’t rise. Not in her kitchen, with her crew just outside, filming b-roll of the dessert cart. “This marriage is of no use. He threw up on my face on our wedding night, remember? Threw up. And you—” I bit the word. “You fuck him.”

“Language,” she said, mock-scolding.

“You should be the wife.”

That made her laugh. That amused, tight laugh she used when she was holding back venom. She turned her head to the door. “Gerry? Take five. Everybody out.”

The camera crew shuffled, some confused, some eager to breathe. She waited until the door clicked shut before facing me again.

“I mean, look at him,” I said. “He fucks you. He never touches me. He only fucks you. I’m not the wife. I’m the leash. I am the reason you have all this. The charity to get him into politics.”

Selena tilted her head like a curious cat, eyes sparkling. “First off, don't ever think you are that important. Without you, I would still have these things? Secondly, he’s older, Liora. You know I don’t do older.”

“But you do him.” My chest ached. “So don’t pretend this wasn’t your idea. You were the one who offered me up. Told him I was the better option. Said I’d be more...manageable.”

Her smile didn't waver. “Of course it was. But you were always so… accommodating. If you were not, maybe you wouldn't have been married to him for the last four years.”

“Well things change, I want this to end.”

She blinked, as if the idea of ‘end’ didn’t quite compute.

“I’m tired,” I added. “I want to stop hiding. I want to stop cooking behind curtains and staying quiet while you get crowned queen of cuisine. I want to try… I don’t know—starting a family. Maybe even a baby. I want to live under my own name.”

Selena froze.

For just a second.

Then—click. There it was again. The perfect, pageant-ready smile. “Of course,” she cooed. “You’ve done so much already. Really. You deserve peace.”

I stared.

Waited.

The smile grew.

“But just one last favor.”

There it was. Always a favor. Always a string hidden in the sugar.

“No.”

She ignored that. “They’re doing a special segment this year. This would be my chance to go international. If you agree to this, I would make enough money to pay the debt we owe Marcus. And you would be free.”

“No.”

“It’ll be your goodbye,” she said softly. “You always wanted closure. Also, I would give you your mother's urn, her belongings and your cookbook. To start your life. Wouldn't you want that?”

She was so fucking convincing. Like always. Her voice honeyed, her posture relaxed. If someone walked in right now, they’d think she was reassuring a friend, not manipulating her prey.

“Do you love him?” I asked suddenly.

She blinked.

“Marcus.”

A beat passed.

“Of course not,” she said. “Love’s messy. Love ruins people. You of all people should know that. Do you love him?”

“No.” I answered quickly. “I do not love a man who finds joy in whipping me.”

Her expression didn't change. “That's none of my business. Many women enjoy it, your taste is just less…fun. Regardless, what do you say, would you do it?”

Her smile turned into a full grin. Selena, my elder stepsister. Only related because her father was my only legal guardian alive.

Sometimes I wished my mother never met that man. But oh well, she is dead and my life is a pit.

“As long as you give me my mother's things.”

“You have my word. Besides, you don't even have the money to start your life. You still need my help. Take it as a…favor. Bye Liora.”

That night, I stood in front of the mirror, half-mask in one hand, thumb running over the edge. The silk was soft. Cool. The color matched the kitchen's theme—white and gold.

I placed it against my burnt face, another cooking event. Another hiding. I removed it, looking at the skin, my red eyes. I looked like a demon. I wanted to destroy the mirror so bad but I couldn't.

The more I look at myself the more I see it.

I remembered the smell of burning skin.

The way she screamed louder than I did—screamed that it was my fault for “stealing” a boy’s attention.

I hadn’t even liked him.

But he said hi to me.

And that was enough.

She had cornered me in the backyard, during a summer party. Acid in a perfume bottle. I never saw it coming. Only felt it.

The pain. The Fire. Then cold. Then nothing.

She cried afterward. Not for me. For herself. Claimed it was an accident. Said she’d been trying to scare me, not ruin me.

Her father believed her. Her mother told me not to overreact. Remember you are just the charity case that we are taking care of.

She never apologized. Not once.

The next day, she told me it made me look “mysterious.” I want in the hospital bed when she gave me her so called gift.

A mask.

The mask became a “brand.”

And that brand became the hidden

gem behind the success of Selena. She became the most popular chef in all of New York. Whereas, I was a nobody.