Chapter 15: Elizabeth

"Thank God, Tiffany, you're finally here! George and I were so worried," Elizabeth exclaimed when Tiffany stepped through the door.

Tiffany rolled her eyes, barely glancing at her assistant. She had grown to despise Elizabeth's shrill tone and the gaudy outfits she insisted on wearing—always clashing colors and ridiculous patterns. Elizabeth claimed her fashion sense was a way of asserting her individuality, some rebellion against the polished life they all pretended to lead. However, Tiffany didn't care enough to argue; she let her assistant indulge in her eccentricities.

"I can take care of myself, Elizabeth," Tiffany muttered, her disinterest palpable.

Elizabeth Enriga—known formally as Engineer Rivera in their circles—ignored the remark and pulled Tiffany into a quick hug. Tiffany stiffened at the contact. She wasn't a fan of Elizabeth's overly affectionate nature, but getting rid of her wasn't an option.

Ever since Tiffany's mother had passed, Elizabeth had hovered around her like an unshakeable shadow. After all, she was also her mother's best friend. Elizabeth had taken on an almost maternal role, though Tiffany had never fully welcomed it. It didn't help that Tiffany suspected her father had other motives for keeping Elizabeth so close.

After her mother's death, he hired Elizabeth to be her assistant and moved her into their home almost immediately. Tiffany couldn't ignore the suspicious timing—or the way her father and Elizabeth seemed unusually comfortable around each other. She had no proof, but she was certain their "relationship" had started long before her mother passed.

Still, Elizabeth was useful. To her, she was more of a maid than an assistant. And Tiffany took a certain satisfaction in making her earn her keep.

"Where's George?" Tiffany asked, brushing past her to toss her bag onto the couch.

"Your father called. There's an important job at the casino," Elizabeth replied, wringing her hands. "He'll be gone for a couple of days."

'Perfect'. With George gone, Tiffany would have control of the car—a rare freedom she relished.

"Did you take care of the target?" Elizabeth asked, lowering her voice.

"No. I went to a bar," Tiffany said nonchalantly, striding into the living room.

Elizabeth gasped, horrified. "What? You should've told me! I can't be responsible for your recklessness, Tiffany. What if someone recognized you? George and I wouldn't be able to protect you!"

Tiffany's irritation flared. "And yet, here I am, alive and well," she replied in a sharp tone.

Elizabeth's face tightened with worry. "Tiffany, you can't keep doing this. Back in the city, whenever you went out, you'd come home with bruises. This place is even more dangerous. I don't even know who you were with tonight!"

"What are you—my mother?" Tiffany snapped, the words coming out harsher than she intended.

Elizabeth's expression softened, but her voice wavered. "I… I just want you to be careful, that's all."

For a fleeting moment, Tiffany felt a pang of guilt. Elizabeth's concern sounded genuine, even if it annoyed her. But Tiffany wasn't about to let her guard down—not with someone who might have played a role in her mother's misery.

"Look, Tiffany," Elizabeth continued hesitantly, "I know I didn't bring you into this world, but I still care about you. Besides, it's my job to keep tabs on you. Your dad would kill me if anything happened to you."

Tiffany let out a mocking laugh. "I doubt that."

Elizabeth froze. "W-what do you mean by that?"

"Nothing, Elizabeth."

"No, tell me," she pressed, her voice shaking. "What do you mean?"

Tiffany sighed, suddenly tired of the conversation. "It's midnight. Let's just go to bed."

An awkward silence hung between them for a while.

"Do you want me to bring you a glass of milk?" Elizabeth offered quietly, breaking the tension.

Tiffany shook her head, already climbing the stairs. "I've had enough whiskey tonight, but thanks."

Shutting her bedroom door behind her, Tiffany let out a long breath. She collapsed onto her bed, the scent of freshly laundered sheets calming her nerves.

Elizabeth had been a constant in her life for years, and while Tiffany respected her even less than she respected George, she still couldn't deny that a small part of her cared for the woman. And yet, those feelings didn't erase her resentment.

Pushing the thought aside, Tiffany let her mind wander to more entertaining matters—like her wild "date" with Teacher Greg earlier that night.

She chuckled, replaying the absurdity of it all. "Stupid guy," she muttered, drifting off to sleep while wondering how Greg had survived the chaos she'd left in her wake.

***

Greg muttered a curse under his breath, shaking his head as the realization dawned on him: Steffy had played him. Completely.

"I should've known," he growled, glancing around the bar. She had ditched him.

He'd gone to check the powder room, only to stumble upon two drunken couples making out in one of the stalls. The memory made his stomach turn.

The fury simmering inside him wasn't just about her disappearance. It was the fact that she'd manipulated him so easily, dragging him into her game without a second thought.

What she did only stirred up memories of his past—the streets, the hustling, the schemes he'd tried so hard to leave behind.

"I hate being played," he muttered darkly, heading toward his motorcycle parked outside. Steffy's little stunt tonight had lit a fire in him, one that was both frustrating and oddly exhilarating.

He climbed onto the bike, gripping the handlebars as the engine roared to life. The sound cut through the haze of his thoughts. "I'll let it slide this once, Steffy Rivera," he murmured to himself. "But just this once."

With that, he tore off into the night, leaving behind the bar—and whatever strange spell she'd cast on him.