She dragged the brush through Eloin’s hair, long hard strokes that tore at the tender scalp beneath. Each pass felt like claws. Eloin squeezed her eyes shut and dug her fingers into her knees.
“Your father expects you to be perfect,” Miss Calva said.
Another harsh stroke.
“You represent the Vale name. Perfection only.”
“I’m trying,” Eloin whispered.
“Trying is for poor people,” Miss Calva snapped. “You’re a Vale. You don’t try. You do.”
Another stroke. Pain flared bright, hot, and sharp. Eloin felt more hair give way. When Miss Calva finally stopped, Eloin’s scalp throbbed.
“Stand up.”
Eloin obeyed on shaky legs.
“You have dinner tonight,” Miss Calva said. “Smile. Sit straight. Don’t make noise. Don’t touch your hair.”
Elo nodded too fast.
“If you embarrass your father,” Miss Calva added, “there will be consequences.”
She left, closing the door with a soft click that sounded like a threat.
Eloin’s whole body trembled. Slowly she bent to pick up the fallen hair. That was when she saw it—a metallic glint among the blonde strands. Something thin and silver, not hair at all.
She froze.
She set the hair aside and carefully picked up the thing that had caught the light. It was cold in her fingers, thin as a wire, sharp along the edges. Tiny letters were etched into the metal, small enough she had to squint to read them.
VLab.
Her father’s company.
Why was there metal in her hair?
She wrapped the wire in tissue, hands shaking, and hid it under the sink behind a stack of folded towels. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it. Something was wrong. Something had been wrong for a long time.
Across town, in a cramped apartment that always smelled faintly of detergent and coffee, seven-year-old Sky Brooks bounced on the sagging couch. Her mom had just told her about a new job—cleaning for a very rich family.
“Can I come with you?” Sky asked.
She was a Black American girl with bright, curious eyes and braids threaded with colorful plastic beads that clacked softly when she moved. Her excitement filled the room.
Her mother, a Black American woman in her thirties with tired eyes and gentle hands, smiled wearily.
“Just tomorrow to see the place,” she said. “But you have to behave.”
“I will. I promise.”