The Sunshine

When the sun dipped below the jagged rooftops of Orawa and the last candy floss machine finally sputtered out, Madona Mirga returned to collect her booth, her son, and the leftover cash that wasn’t spent on coffee or energy drinks.

But what she found made her stop mid-step.

The booth’s front shelves were practically empty. Half the merchandise—gone. The toys, the plushies, the questionable robot spinners? Sold. All of it.

Of course, she knew better—this couldn’t have been the work of her son, who was destined for greatness but never responsibility. Without a hint of respect for social boundaries, she threw her arms around Stella, who met the embrace with both her arms and her smile.

As they packed up and drove off, Madona remained uncharacteristically cheerful.

When they finally pulled up outside Stella’s hotel, she followed the girl out of the car in order to slip a 1,000 crown note to Stella’s pocket. “This is your pay for today.”

But Stella dodged her hand masterfully with the grace of someone who’d sidestepped emotional manipulation before.

“I didn’t do it for money,” she said, backing away half a step. “I did it because it was fun.”

Madona narrowed her eyes like a woman testing whether sincerity had expiration dates. Seeing the honesty in the girl’s face—blue eyes clear, smile unpolished—she tucked the money back into her own pocket and nodded.

The ride home was quiet. Not tense. Just… suspended. But only until she raised a not so innocent question.

“Do you like the girl?”

“She’s not ugly…” Fifty replied dryly.

“I want you to know that… we wouldn’t mind if you dated her.”

“Is this because you plan to have her sell at the fairs for increased profit again?”

“That’s one part of it. She doubled our daily profits. Without needing to be bribed or yelled at.” Her poker face while saying that was almost respectable. “But… we talked about her with your finally-not-dying father today. We still believe that gypsies should stick to gypsies, but… We can’t close our eyes in front of the fact that she’s a genuinely amazing person.”

He stared out the window, unsure if he was smiling or panicking. “Yeah… she is.”

***

A week had passed since the logistics disaster. The AllyDepress had finally delivered the long-overdue crate of magical orbs on stock. With power fully restored to Madam of Maybes’ prophetic stockpile, the preliminary rounds of the Gypsy King competition were cleared to continue.

The first wave of contestants offered nothing but televised disappointment.

There were musclebound bodybuilders who could crack walnuts with their armpits, and mathematical Olympians who recited Pi to its 100th decimal and then burst into tears. Some breathed fire. One tried to summon an ex-girlfriend. The other was a successful manager in a huge corporation, which, to be honest, spoke volumes about how boring she was even by reciting her name.

By midday, the producer Fate was pacing in circles, chewing on his own lanyard.

“Not a single clip I can sell to the networks,” he groaned. “Even the disaster footage is boring.”

Then the doors creaked open… and everything changed.

A girl walked in.

Raven hair cascading down her shoulders like a shampoo commercial filmed in slow motion. Dark eyes that shimmered with a kind of accidental confidence. Her smile had that awkward-lip-bite combo that wasn’t trained, just… honest. And her figure? Fit in a way that made both Victor and Marshall sit up straighter before they even realized they had.

Victor’s foot tapped Madam of Maybes’ shin under the judges' table.

Marshall followed with a nudge of his own.

Madam of Maybes, thoroughly unamused, returned fire with a high heel jab to Victor’s ankle.

“Get it together, you two horny animals,” she hissed. “We’re searching for a King, not a flirtatious motivational poster. I have to fail her.”

“There’s no rule against female contestants,” Marshall offered, trying to sound thoughtful and woke, but the pink spreading up his ears betrayed otherwise. “I mean, sure, the tradition is strong, but… isn’t denying her based on gender a little, uh… superficial?”

Madam narrowed her eyes. “These guys…”

Victor leaned forward on his elbows, smiling like a prince. “What’s your name?”

The girl flinched, then bumped her two index fingers together like a child about to confess to drawing on the wall.

“M-my name is Billie Timberfake, sir.”

Victor let out a quiet, lovesick wheeze. “Aw. She’s so cute I’m gonna die.” He slapped his palm over his face like a dramatic theater kid.

“And what makes you believe you could be the next Gypsy King, sweetie?” Madam of Maybes asked, hovering her hand above the glowing orb like she was preparing to unleash judgment.

Billie shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I-I believe I’m a good person. People should listen to good people. I want everyone to have a nice life. Especially my two little boys. If I w-win this, I’ll be able to give them everything. A good school. Food that doesn’t come in packets. Even time and space to develop their talents.”

“You’re a mother?” Victor blinked.

Billie nodded quickly. “Y-yes! I had two beautiful boys with a convict. He’s never getting out of jail, though.”

She said it as casually as someone ordering fries without salt.

There was a pause.

“Oh! Right, uh…” Marshall cleared his throat and laughed nervously. “Life’s… hard. Can’t defy fate, huh?”

“Can’t defy IQ levels either,” Madam muttered under her breath. “Get it together, this girl is not royalty material!” Madam was the one who kicked Marshall’s shin for a change.

Victor opened his mouth, likely to contribute something meaningful—then promptly forgot how words worked. He just stared at Billie Timberfake like a teenager daydreaming lyrics on the back of a history test.

Marshall straightened in his seat, trying to claw back some form of professionalism. “And what would you do with the main prize—our Stella?”

Billie tilted her head sweetly, all sunshine and warm stuff. “Oh, I think we could be very good friends! She looks nice and clever, she’s a daughter of that tycoon so I guess she can teach my boys b-business or something…”

“Aren’t you the cutest…” Victor mumbled, starry-eyed.

Marshall leaned across the table and stage-whispered, “Let’s pass her.”

The crystal ball didn’t even flicker. Madam just rolled her eyes.

“Jeez… okay, why should I even care.” Madam groaned, grabbing the ‘Accepted’ paddle without even putting up any kind of a show. “The weaker the competition, the better for Mirga anyway.”

Chapter 12: END