Girls Day.

Girls Day.
Isla

I’ve known Dimitri Orlov since I was a kid. Not well, thank God, but enough. He was always around in passing, showing up at meetings with my father, shaking hands, smiling that slick politician smile that never once reached his eyes. I wasn’t allowed to sit in on the important stuff back then, but I didn’t need to. You could learn a lot about a man just by how other men talked about him when they thought you weren’t listening. And Dimitri? He’s the kind of man who’s always wanting. Always reaching.
My father used to come home fuming after meetings with him. “He’s like a snake in the grass,” he’d say. “Always sliding closer, wanting more land, more control, more access.” The docks. The shipping routes. The money that moved through them. Dimitri wanted all of it, but he never did the work himself. No, he’d just latch on to someone else’s success, take a piece for himself, and dress it up in a tailored suit and polished shoes like that made him royalty. And now, sitting here, watching him tear into his only daughter like she’s a burden instead of the best thing he ever made, it’s pissing me the fuck off.

I always assumed Alina grew up like me. Perfect clothes. Perfect posture. The kind of girl born to be looked at, never heard. I thought she had it easier. That her father spoiled her, loved her, gave her the world. But watching them now? I can see it written all over her face, that tightness in her jaw, the way she shrinks and stands taller all at once. That’s not a spoiled girl. That’s someone who’s had to fight for every inch of freedom she’s ever had. When we were kids, I used to be jealous of her. Every time Dimitri brought her around to meet with my father, my mother would dote on her. They'd spend hours together training or talking in the gardens. I hated it. Couldn’t understand why the girl who had everything needed my mother’s attention too. But I get it now. She didn’t have everything. She had nothing that mattered. She wasn’t raised to be loved. She was raised to be used. A pretty pawn in one of Dimitri’s endless power games. Forced to smile, wear the dresses, play the part of the perfect little bride he could trade off for more influence. I feel sick just thinking about it. And watching him now, his voice sharp, his hands slicing through the air while she sits there trying to keep her ground, it hits something in me I didn’t know I still had. I feel bad for her. But more than that? I’m furious for her. Because I’ve spent my whole damn life learning how to stand toe-to-toe with men like him, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here and watch this self-righteous bastard talk to her like she’s his property. Not today. Not ever again.

“We’re leaving.”
I don’t bother looking at him when I say it. I’m already on my feet, brushing imaginary dust off my pants like I can wipe his arrogance off me, too. I nod toward Alina, and she stands, hesitant at first, but taller the moment she decides she’s done playing his little game.
Dimitri sputters, scrambling for control. “No, wait—wait. We need more time, Alina. This is very important. You’re going to have a Donatello heir, we need to plan, to—”
I hold up my hand in his face. “Exactly. A Donatello heir. Not an Orlov.”
He freezes, mouth open mid-sentence.
“Which means,” I continue smoothly, “it’s not really your concern. At all, actually. Thanks for the hospitality, but my brothers will be missing Alina by now. So we really must go.”
His jaw tightens, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of another glance. Instead, I do exactly what Mia would’ve done, I hook my arm through Alina’s, flick my hair over my shoulder like the goddess I am, and strut our asses straight out the front door without another word. The sound of my heels and her boots hitting the marble is the only goodbye he’s getting. Once outside, Alina exhales shakily, like she’s been holding her breath for years. I squeeze her arm.
“Girl power,” I mutter with a smirk, and I swear, just for a second, I hear Mia’s laugh in my head, agreeing with me. Yeah, she would have wanted this, for me to protect her, even if it's just by saying a few sharp words and showing her where the door is.

“Sorry you had to see that,” she mutters, voice low, almost ashamed, like she’d just apologised for existing.
I snort, turning to stare at her. “Don’t go soft on me now. I was liking that fire that was up your ass before.”
That gets me a laugh. It’s good to hear. She’s clearly had too many people in her life trying to snuff that spark out.
I hold out a hand. “Give me the keys. I’m driving.”
She blinks, surprised, then grins and tosses them my way. “Fine, but we’re stopping for coffee. Real coffee. None of that decaf shit.”
“Fuck yes, we are.”
I slide into the driver’s seat, and for a moment, it’s quiet, just the two of us, two daughters of powerful men who never let us breathe, rolling our eyes at the world and reclaiming a tiny bit of it for ourselves.
“Girl’s day,” I say as I turn the ignition.
“Girl’s day,” she echoes with a smirk. "What...what is a girl's day?" She asks with a little laugh, and I shake my head.

So here’s the thing — when I said girl’s day, I meant my version of it. Not the manicured, spa-day, cucumber-water kind of bullshit most people think of. No, no. Ours started with real coffee, strong enough to make your hands shake and your soul vibrate. We sat in the corner of this dingy café that probably violated six health codes, laughing about her father and the look on his face when we walked out like the badass bitches we are. Then, because I’m me and she clearly needed a crash course in freedom, I took her lingerie shopping. Not the practical kind, I’m talking lace, straps, garters, a whole lot of leather, the works. She blushed so hard I thought she’d combust. After that, a stop at a sex shop because, well, education matters. We nearly got kicked out for laughing too loudly at a feather tickler that looked like a bird on steroids, but I bought it anyway because fuck yes I'm using that on my guys later. And finally, the strip club. I paid for two barely dressed girls with glitter everywhere to dance for us, and we giggled like schoolgirls, hollered like teenage boys at a football game, and she relaxed, loosened up and lived a little.

That’s a girl’s day, a real one, not the kind that fixes your nails but the kind that fixes your damn soul and the kind Mia would have been proud of.