Rita, Faro, and little Sulari step out of the elevator into the polished marble hallway of the new SouthBank apartment complex. Rita holds Sulari’s small hand tightly, while Faro follows behind with a single travel bag slung over his shoulder. The apartment door opens before they can knock.
Standing there is Ronda Riy with her wide round glasses, her hair pulled into a neat bun. At her side is her own daughter—
Mira Riy, a thin girl of 4 years old with the same pale complexion as her mother and curious, watchful eyes.
“Welcome, again!” Ronda says, lips curling into a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Rita bends down, hugging Ronda stiffly, her embrace cold and distant. Ronda barely pats her back before stepping away. Faro steps forward and wraps his arms around Ronda warmly, but then she surprises everyone—leaning in and planting a kiss directly on his lips. Sulari blinks in confusion. Rita’s green eyes flash sharply, though she says nothing at first.
Inside, the apartment is spacious, freshly painted, with four bedrooms spread down a long hallway.
Rita takes charge quickly. “Here is how it will be arranged,” she says firmly, her tone echoing through the walls. “I will take the second bedroom with Sulari & Faro. You, Ronda, will remain in the master with your daughter. The third and fourth can serve as spares if need be. As for rent—Faro will soon get a job and will pay my part and Sulari’s share. You will cover yours and Mira’s.”
Ronda stood with her arms crossed, her glasses catching the light as she spoke with quiet authority.
“Listen, Rita, this is my apartment. Here’s how it will be arranged,” she said firmly. “You, Sulari and Mira will take the second bedroom together. Faro stays with me in the master. The other two can stay as spares if anyone visits. As for rent—since you chose to stay here, you’ll cover your part and Sulari’s. Faro is my guest, so his place is with me and Mira.”
Ronda crosses her arms, her glasses sliding down her nose. Then, with a sharper edge, she adds: “You should find a job Rita.”
As for Faro—” she turns, placing a hand on his chest possessively, “he will help me here. In the house. With the children.”
Sulari tugs Rita’s skirt, sensing the tension. Rita’s jaw tightens as she glares at Ronda. “Why,” she asks icily, “does Faro not need to work like the rest of us? Is he your pet now?”
The room falls into silence, only broken by the ticking of the kitchen clock.
Rita’s eyes narrowed, her arms crossing beneath her chest as she stood firm. “Why, Ronda?” she asked again sharply, “should my husband be listed under your expenses, Ronda? He is not your burden to bear. Do not think I will let you claim him in the ledgers as well as the bed.”
The tension hung heavy, Ronda holding her ground, her jaw tight with authority. Before the argument could spiral further, Faro stepped forward, his voice calm but steady.
“Enough,” he said, raising a hand. “Ronda’s conditions stand. You, me and Sulari need shelter, Rita, and this roof of Ronda provides it. Pride doesn’t matter here—safety does.”
Rita opened her mouth to protest, but Faro cut her short by wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her close in front of Ronda. His lips pressed against Rita’s with sudden intensity, silencing her resistance.
Ronda stood still, her face betraying nothing, but her eyes—dark with jealousy—followed every second of the kiss. The sting of being sidelined in her own home lingered like a silent accusation.
Ronda, still trying to keep her pride intact despite the jealousy boiling inside her, crosses her arms and says firmly:
Ronda: “Let’s not forget something important. Here in Thundarr City, the law doesn’t recognize your… union. Which means, Faro, if anyone asks, I am your wife. Rita can stay here, but only as Sulari’s guardian. That way no officials will question why two women and a child live in my apartment with you.”
Rita’s eyes narrow at Ronda’s words, her tone sharp but not raising her voice in front of Sulari.
Rita: “Pretend, you say? How convenient for you, Ronda. You want the title of wife without the duties of one. Do you think I’ll accept being pushed into the shadows, called nothing more than a guardian?”
Faro quickly steps in, holding Rita’s hand and stroking Sulari’s hair with his other hand to calm the storm.
Faro: “No one here is in the shadows. Ronda is only thinking of survival, Rita. She’s right—this city plays by its own rules, and we need to be careful. Let her carry the name, if it keeps Sulari safe and us under one roof. It doesn’t change what you and I are.”
Rita softens slightly, but the tension lingers in her green eyes. Ronda smirks faintly, masking her jealousy with a sense of victory, though deep down she knows Rita’s bond with Faro runs deeper than any “pretend marriage.”
Later that evening at dinner time.
The candles on the dinner table flickered low, casting long shadows across the plates of roasted duck and spiced roots that Rita had prepared. The children had long since gone to bed, leaving the three adults alone in the quiet of the apartment.
Faro leaned back in his chair, arm draped lazily across the backrest as he studied Ronda. His tone was casual, but the weight behind his words was sharp:
Faro: “So, Ronda… what of Cal? Does he know about this arrangement of ours? You pretending as my wife, Rita as guardian, and me staying under your roof?”
Ronda placed her fork down carefully, her round glasses catching the faint shimmer of the candlelight. She exhaled softly before answering, her voice calm but carrying an undertone of unease.
Ronda: “Cal doesn’t know. And it’s better that way. He’s… complicated, Faro. If he were to find out that you and Rita were staying here—under my roof—he wouldn’t see it as a family necessity. He’d see it as betrayal. You know how he is.”
She paused, glancing briefly at Rita before continuing.
Ronda: “I’ve kept my distance from him for months. He’s drowning in his own secrets and women, pretending to be untouchable. If he knew about this, he’d use it against me—or worse, against you. He doesn’t understand the kind of bonds we’re trying to protect here.”
Rita crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair with narrowed eyes.
Rita: “So, you’re hiding this from Cal… not for us, but for yourself. To keep your pride intact.”
Ronda’s lips tightened, but she didn’t argue.
Faro, sensing the tension building again, tapped the table lightly with his fingers.
Faro: “Enough. We all know Cal isn’t the type to play family. He’s too busy playing the Clowns sidekick.”
At those words, Ronda stiffened, her eyes widening just slightly. Rita’s smirk said she had caught the reaction.
Rita: “So you do know about his little criminal life…”
Ronda quickly composed herself, pushing her glasses up her nose.
Ronda: “Knowing is one thing. Speaking of it is another. Cal’s choices are his own. But Faro, if you’re asking whether he’ll be a problem for us—then yes, he will. The less he knows, the safer we all are from him and the Clown.”
The table fell silent, the only sound the faint crackle of the candle. Faro’s eyes shifted between the two women—his jealous Ronda and his defiant Rita—knowing full well the storm of Cal Faros and the Clown loomed over all of them like a shadow.
The doorbell rang suddenly, its sharp chime breaking the quiet of the dinner table. Faro pushed back his chair and went to answer it, his face still half-focused on the conversation they had been having about Cal.
When the door swung open, Faro froze.
There stood Flint, his brother – grinning ear to ear, dressed in red and blue. In his hands he held two bouquets of roses—one lush red, the other bright yellow.
“Hey there, brother man!” Flint’s voice boomed with forced cheer, the kind that carried an undertone of mischief.
Faro’s eyes narrowed, his hand tightening on the doorframe. “Flint…” he muttered, suspicion and surprise mixing in his tone.
Flint extended the flowers forward with an exaggerated flourish. “One red bouquet for the lovely Mrs. Rita Faros, and the other yellow bouquet… well, you’ll just have to guess who it’s for.” He winked, shifting his gaze past Faro, clearly aware that Ronda and her daughter were inside.
From the dining table, Rita’s eyes darkened. She leaned slightly forward, already sensing trouble. Ronda sat stiffly, her hand brushing the edge of the tablecloth, unsure whether to smile politely or brace for something worse.
The silence at the doorway lingered heavy, the roses looking strangely out of place in Flint’s hands—like a mask for intentions no flower could sweeten.
From behind, Ronda’s voice broke the silence. “Flint? What a surprise!” she said, stepping closer. Her tone carried a playful astonishment, but as her eyes met Flint’s, she gave him a subtle wink—a silent signal to play along and not reveal too much.
“How on Sol did you find out about our new place?” she added, feigning ignorance as though the visit were a complete mystery to her.
Flint caught the wink instantly, his grin widening. “Ah, you know me,” he said, stepping forward with casual confidence. “Word gets around. A little bird must’ve chirped it into my ear.”
“Besides, I figured my little brother and his wife, who is also my aunty, deserved a proper housewarming visit—with roses for the ladies of the home.” he said smoothly.
He extended the red bouquet toward Rita and the yellow one toward Ronda, his eyes glinting mischievously as he waited for their reactions.
Rita narrowed her eyes at the doorway, already suspicious of the exchange, while Faro’s lips parted, unsure whether to feel anger, confusion, or wariness at Flint’s sudden intrusion.
