Los Angeles, California.
The Ivory, Luxury Condominiums.
Around 9:30 in the morning, a sharp knock echoed through the front door.
Luca swung it open — and froze.
Standing there was a gorgeous young woman with skin like warm ebony satin, catching the light like she was dipped in honey. Her curls cascaded in vibrant spirals, her chocolate-brown eyes soft yet sharp enough to cut a man in half. She wore a breezy floral blouse, navy jeans, and black boots that said, I'm cute, but I will step on you.
Luca blinked at her — then grinned.
"I knew it," he declared triumphantly. "Did Foca call you in today?"
"Yeah. Said it was 'urgent.'" Tuesday replied — then did a double take.
Because Luca… was serving. Hard.
White fitted polo clinging to every muscle like it was in a committed relationship. Khaki trousers tailored to perfection. A designer belt and luxury sneakers (both courtesy of Foca). Hair styled — which he only did on rare events.
Before Tuesday could even comment, Foca stepped out from the living room, stunning her for a moment.
He was glowing rich.
Not nouveau-rich. Not influencer-rich.
Old-money-rich-who-eats-breakfast-on-china-rich.
Wine-red button-down, champagne oversized cardigan, black trousers, and sneakers from the same luxury brand as Luca's — his, in a soft beige. His hair was styled into that effortless "I woke up expensive" look, topped with gilded-framed glasses.
Tuesday blinked. "Oh. So it's that kind of day."
"Tuesday," Foca greeted warmly. "Perfect timing. Let's go."
"Go where? What's occasion? And why are you two looking like you're about to go golfing or something?" she demanded, utterly baffled.
"We'll explain everything in the car, on the way to my parents'."
Foca said it casually, like he wasn't dropping a bomb.
He slipped out of the condo; Luca followed, locking the door behind him.
Tuesday, now wearing the expression of a woman who walked into an unexpected side quest, could only frown and follow.
Minutes later, they were inside Foca's Mercedes-Benz S-Class.
Foca driving, Luca in the front, Tuesday sprawled across the back seat like royalty.
"Alright," she snapped. "Spill."
"Luca, if you please," Foca said, starting the engine like a man about to drive into destiny.
"Really?" Luca turned to him, deeply shocked. "You're making me explain?"
"I'm driving," Foca said primly. "And you're the better storyteller. Naturally, you tell it."
Luca stared at him for three seconds.
"I'm ninety-percent sure I'm being gaslit, but fine. I'll do it. Because I'm amazing that way."
"Thank you," Foca replied politely — with just the tiniest pinch of bitchy seasoning.
"Can we get on with it?" Tuesday cut in, voice dripping in her natural sass. "Some of us would like context before noon."
And so the ride unfolded:
Luca recounting the previous night's chaos,
Foca chiming in with clarifications and details,
and Tuesday listening in the back seat — equal parts amused, horrified, and ready to commit arson on someone's behalf.
By the time Luca wrapped up the story, the car went dead quiet. Tuesday just sat there, staring straight ahead like she needed a moment of prayer, therapy, and maybe a shot of tequila.
Finally, she inhaled.
"So… okay. Lemme get this straight," she said, waving a hand as if rearranging invisible puzzle pieces. "You two were watching the Genesis Project finale — obviously, because priorities. I watched it too, so I already had half the tea. However…" She leaned forward between the seats. "What I do not understand, babes, is why the hell I'm here. Foca — yes, you're starting your own entertainment company, and honestly? Slay. Love that for you. I'm proud. Clap clap. But why am I now in a car, dressed like 'errand girl chic,' on the way to meet your parents? And you couldn't give me a quick memo on the damn dress code?!"
She looked and sounded genuinely offended.
Foca glanced at her through the rearview mirror. "What nonsense. You look fine. You always dress beautifully. Unlike…"
He cut his eyes toward Luca.
Luca gasped. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."
"He right though," Tuesday said flatly.
"Tuesday! Not you too!" Luca groaned, sliding down in his seat like he'd been mortally wounded.
"We sayin' this for your own good, boo," Tuesday told him, patting the headrest like she was consoling a toddler. "So suck it up and stop whining."
Then she snapped back into business mode, eyes sharp, voice crisp:
"Anyway — back to the damn topic. Why am I here again?"
"To be completely honest… and I'm really sorry if I'm throwing everything at you at lightning speed," Foca began, voice softer than usual — almost hesitant. "But I want to ask if you'd be willing to help me build my entertainment company. Together with Luca. If Luca is my right hand, I'd be beyond ecstatic if you'd be my left hand. I want to build this with the two people I trust most in this world — besides my family."
He wasn't exaggerating; it was all heart, no fluff. The air in the car warmed instantly — like something sacred had just been handed over.
Foca continued, "Since you've got a master's in business, I'd really love for you to take charge of the business side — operations, finances, structure. Luca will handle the creative department. I'll be producing all the music, and maybe choreographing here and there. But overall, I'll be the main decision-maker, as I should be."
He glanced at her in the mirror.
"I can promise job security, a great salary, benefits tailored specifically for you, and… you know, you'd get to work with your best friend. I know it's a lot to take in. But — what do you think?"
Tuesday slumped back dramatically. "Why you gotta do me like this, boo?!"
"I know, I know. I'm sorry for putting you on the spot," Foca said immediately, guilt all over his face.
She inhaled deeply, making Foca fear she was about to turn him down. Then her lips curled into a slow smirk.
"Honestly? You had me at job security," she said. "In this economy? When getting a job is already Hungry Games and job security is basically a myth? Hell yes, I accept. I get great pay, customized benefits, AND I get to work with my boo? Where do I sign?!"
"We… don't actually have contracts yet," Foca laughed, the relief on his face brighter than the morning sun.
He was ecstatic. If she had said no, he absolutely would've bullied her into saying yes — but he never wanted to. He genuinely hoped she'd choose to stand beside him. And she did.
"Why does she get to choose whether she accepts or not?" Luca muttered.
"For the nth time, Luca," Foca sighed like a worn-out single parent, "we are a package deal. Why? Do you not want to work with me anymore? It's fine. I won't force you—"
Luca sat up so fast his seatbelt yanked him back. "Who said I didn't want it?! I'm literally the first person you asked— well, not asked asked, but still — to join your company! Because I'm your number one, bestest friend. I would've signed the contract last night, right then and there!"
"Yes, yes, you're right," Foca soothed, using the same tone one uses on emotional toddlers. "That position will never be taken away from you — even if you beg me to."
Tuesday watched them bicker like a married couple, amusement sparkling in her eyes. And, yeah, she was a little jealous — because even though she and Luca both held the title of Foca's best friends, everyone and their ancestors could see that Foca and Luca shared something deeper. Something old. Something carved into bone.
They were soulmates — the platonic kind, sure — but soulmates all the same.