Chapter Ten: The Lonely Friend

Seated on a mismatched chair in Caffè del Corso, A'isha absorbed the rustic charm of the small café. A Christmas tree flashed in one corner, exuding the scent of fresh pine, while tinsel sparkled from the rafters, and the Italian version of "Silent Night" meshed with the café's buzz and the espresso machine's rhythmic hum. But her attention was on Marik, who lounged across from her, skimming his menu. Her mind was a caffeinated hamster on a wheel, plotting ways to win him over and find his Achilles heel. All the while, she kept her eyes peeled for a place to plant her note or, better yet, a chance to make her escape.

Retreating behind her own menu, she decided on eggs benedict with salmon and a mochaccino - her usual order at Cardamom Café, her local where Dani waitered. A dose of the familiar sounded swell right now.

Suddenly, an idea hit her. As a semi-seasoned Catania tourist, she knew enough Italian to - hold your applause - order breakfast. But Marik didn't know that. She could dumb down her own skills and play the wide-eyed language novice. After all, what better way to build rapport with Mr Swollen Ego than to fuel his superiority complex? She could make him feel smart with her "quick" learning under his tutelage. And as a delightful cherry on top, it reinforced the idea that she was a Catania first-timer, a false fact she was more than happy for him to keep assuming.

"Marik, can you teach me how to order this in Italian?" she asked, her plastered finger marking the spot on the menu.

A near-authentic smile pulled at his lips as he sat up straighter, like someone had just declared him king for the day. "Certainly," he said, then effortlessly rattled off in Italian, his accent so silky that it was… not entirely unsexy. "A'isha?" Marik's impeccable Italian accent had the audacity to linger in his voice. "Daydreaming, are we?"

Yes. Daydreaming. About how that accent had absolutely no effect on her whatsoever. "Could you maybe repeat all of that? Slowly? Just to make sure I really nail that flawless pronunciation of yours." Was she laying the flattery on too thick? Most likely.

Yet, he adopted the role of Professor Italian with a dose of patience that was nothing short of unnerving. But, of course, this was Marik, the guy who could flawlessly fake an entire persona without batting an eye. It was almost easy to ignore the snake beneath the charmer's smile. Almost. And then he threw her a curveball. "Why don't you order for me as well?"

Mr Control Freak letting go of the reins? Oh, he was laying it on thick too. "Let me guess. Coffee, as dark and bitter as your soul?"

He snorted. "Close. An espresso, black as a moonless night, and a yoghurt parfait, if you please." And so, he resumed his role as the charismatic language coach, teaching her to order his own breakfast. Could he be bad at one thing please?

A'isha echoed his instructions, her accent a tad rough but passable, and once she felt ready, she flagged down a waiter, a young lad who hadn't quite grown into his uniform. Squaring her shoulders and flashing him a smile, she let the Italian flow, spurred on by Marik's small nods of approval.

The waiter grinned, his braces catching the morning sunlight. "Bravissima," he praised, bringing a tiny, triumphant smile to A'isha's face. Mission Italian Breakfast: Accomplished. And no teacups had died this time.

As their waiter returned to the kitchen, Marik spoke up, a smirk dancing on his lips. "You're a quick learner."

She played it cool with a shrug. "What can I say? Maybe there's an undercover Italian inside me just waiting to come out."

Just as the triumphant high of the linguistic victory was waning, Marik startled her with an unexpected question. "How's your finger?" A line of concern carved a furrow on his forehead.

A'isha hesitated, taken aback by this apparent bout of sympathy from The R.H. It was as if she'd stumbled into an alternate universe where he actually cared. "Uh, it's fine," she finally said, flexing her finger experimentally. "No gangrene yet, so I'd say I'm holding up pretty well."

"Good." His tone held onto that unnerving note of concern. Was he putting on a show? Playing the gentle captor to lull her into a false sense of security? Probably. He seemed to wear more masks than a Venetian at a masquerade ball. But something in his eyes nagged at her, a softness that looked suspiciously like the real deal.

A'isha peeled her gaze from his, letting it wander around the café. Eventually, it landed on a familiar slice of teenage drama.

A pair of boys, maybe a couple of years younger than her, were engaging in some light-hearted mischief. One with a mop of unruly curls kept stealing glances at a pretty waitress, while his friend played the boisterous sidekick, egging him on with a nudge and a cheeky whisper. She wasn't fluent enough to decipher their Italian, but teenage melodrama in a café was a language she spoke well. After all, it was in a café that she first met Dani.

Three years ago, fourteen-year-old A'isha had been in the midst of that awkward phase where boys seemed less like icky creatures and more like "hmm, interesting". In Cardamom Café, she'd sat across from her BFF, Julie Hughes, cradling mochaccinos topped with mounds of whipped cream that resembled jaunty berets.

Their heart-to-heart about her aunt from hell had been interrupted by their school's star jock, Dani Wyatt, all broad-shouldered and sharp jawed, with golden locks that, even now, made A'isha wonder if his hair gel was crafted by elves. "Ladies, have we decided on world domination or are we settling for eggs today?" he'd joked, with a bright smile that should have been illegal in several countries.

Until then, A'isha had merely considered him another face in the crowd, a typical popular kid, but his opening line made her unexpectedly smile. She'd always had a soft spot for humour. "Why not both?" she'd bantered. "Eggs today, world domination tomorrow. Always start your conquests with a balanced breakfast."

Dani's laughter had resonated through their café corner, infectious enough to draw giggles from her and Julie, her bestie's glasses inching down her freckle-dusted nose. "So, what can I get you future world rulers?"

After placing their orders, still basking in the echo of their laughter, A'isha had pushed the jests a little further. "Do you always crack jokes with your customers, or are we super special?"

His sky-blue eyes twinkled playfully as they met hers. "Only the ones plotting world domination. I know to stay on their good side." He'd followed that gem with a wink, before strutting off as if an invisible band was playing his personal soundtrack. (He'd later confessed that if he could choose his own theme song, it'd be "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen.)

With some encouragement from Julie, which had somehow worked better in her native British accent, A'isha had scribbled her number on a napkin, and when Dani had returned with their orders, she'd slid it across the table to him, trying to be cool. "For, y'know, world domination stuff."

Fourteen-year-old Dani hadn't been much smoother than she.

He'd blinked, and A'isha could've sworn she'd heard the record screech in his brain.

Her heart had threatened cardiac arrest as the silence stretched on.

But then he'd made words happen. "I - uh, yeah! I'll be sure to reach out for a, um, strategy meeting." And like the sweet bean that he was, he'd almost toppled a neighbouring table on his departure.

Just as A'isha was immersing herself in the warmth of that cherished memory, Marik's voice sliced through her daydreams like a biting winter breeze. "I see Romeo's mustering the courage to approach Juliet," he remarked, his gaze resting where hers had just been. The teen boys remained, playing out an echo of her own past, reminding her of life's unforeseen turns.

She conjured a smile, hoping it seemed more sweet than sour. "Hey, we could be witnessing the meet-cute they'll tell on their wedding day."

It was then that their waiter returned with their drinks. Marik's espresso was a liquid black hole, packing an intensity only paralleled by its owner, while her mochaccino was as lively as a carnival, crowned with a whipped cream top hat and a confetti of cocoa. "Your food will be out shortly," the young man assured, a consummate professional.

After thanking him, A'isha was about to start a promising relationship with her creamy delight - only to be halted in her tracks by Marik's words.

"We need to decide on a backstory for our engagement." He reclined in his chair like a plotting villain sans his mandatory pet cat. "For the business dinner on Monday."

Caught off guard, she paused mid-reach for her drink. Monday? Her only plan on Monday was to be so far away from Marik that he'd need a super-powered telescope to find her. But even as her mental gears ground out escape plans, her curiosity piqued. What romantic epic would someone like him think up? No doubt one where he was a paragon of perfection and she, a swooning damsel, blinded by his otherworldly charm and unfairly handsome face.

"I'm all ears." A daring smirk teased her lips, her eyes challenging him. After all, it's not every day you get to spin a fictional love story with a crime boss.

Marik contemplated her for a moment, then turned to his espresso as though it held the mysteries of the universe. "We first met while hiking," he began, his understated tale taking a hatchet to her grand expectations, "on Mount Etna."

Hiking? That was... oddly believable. Like some whimsical alternate reality where Marik was a commoner and she a free woman, their paths colliding on a mountain trail - sharing a laugh, a water bottle, maybe some hiking tips.

"I was atrocious at it," he continued, his voice as smooth as the whipped cream slowly melting into her mochaccino. "Tripping and bumbling while you skipped along, as nimble as a mountain goat. When I slipped on a loose stone, you were there, offering a hand and adjusting your pace to mine."

The mental image of Marik, the mind-controlling mastermind, fumbling like a love-struck klutz was a plot twist she hadn't seen coming. For a moment, she indulged the narrative - a sun-drenched day on the mountain, the volcanic rocks crunching beneath their feet, Marik stumbling on the uneven path, her laughter echoing through the peaks as she extended a hand toward him. It was a pleasant daydream, like a forgotten memory from a different lifetime. "So, Mr I've Got It All Together, you fumbled on a hike?" She let her tone reflect her disbelief, hardly suppressing the amusement.

He simply shrugged, a smug half-smile curling his lips. "In the world of fiction, even I can afford to display vulnerability. Besides, it makes our story authentic. Perhaps even… endearing?" As his smirk fully formed, it was clear he knew exactly how ridiculous this all was.

Despite the absurdity of the situation, A'isha found herself chuckling. "Congratulations. You have a backup career writing corny romance novels."

Marik glanced at her plastered finger. "Don't you feel my first backup should be in medicine?" he ribbed, his eyes lighting up with a flicker of something. "Did my care not meet your expectations?"

"Your care to avoid looking at blood might make a career in medicine difficult," she countered, trying not to laugh out loud at him.

The corner of his own mouth twitched in reply.

"Alright," A'isha agreed with his plan. "We met while hiking. Done." And hopefully with her agreeability, he'd afford her a little agreeability in turn. "I need to use the restroom." She pushed away from the table, bracing herself for the inevitable reminder of her captive status, but to her great surprise, it didn't come.

"Don't be long, A'isha. Your eggs benedict won't eat itself."

Hold the phone. No reprimands, no threats. Just an almost normal chit-chat. Was she making headway, or was he messing with her? Or a combo of the two? Could that be a thing? Pushing her chair in, she shot him a nod, and navigated her way through the maze of tables toward the restroom. Now was not the time for overthinking or getting comfortable. No matter how tolerable he was being, Marik was her captor.

She could feel his gaze tracking her, not threatening, just there; a stark reminder of the bizarre predicament she found herself in. But for the first time in what felt like forever, she felt a tiny bit in control. And that was something to hold onto.

Marik held his cup, savouring the near-scalding dark roast, while subtly observing the restroom door. His eyes betrayed nothing of the analytical machine working behind them - observing, calculating, spinning threads of possible futures from the loom of present facts. A'isha's abrupt departure hadn't surprised him; using the restroom was fairly placid as excuses went and he was unperturbed. His coffee had the right bitterness, the morning was unfolding smoothly, and their ongoing mental duel excited him.

The café pulsed with life, the air thick with Christmas carols. The glaring reds and greens, the festive atmosphere, the glint of tinsel - all stark reminders of his seventeenth birthday on the twenty-third of December. Each symbol seemed to thrust him back into a past he longed to escape, echoing reminders of his mother's death during his birth and his initiation into the Tomb Keeper's clan on his tenth birthday. It was an anniversary he loathed; a date that in recent years saw him break his single-glass rule, resorting to an entire bottle of merlot to numb the pain.

As the season brought to mind terrible birthdays past, he realised there were faint parallels between A'isha's present circumstances and his sorry upbringing. They were both, in their own ways, prisoners. She, a girl trapped in difficult circumstances, yearning for escape, and he, a boy, trapped by familial duty, dreaming of a world above. There was a semblance of understanding to be found there, one he could possibly use to further foster her trust.

A kitchen clatter broke his introspection. Their waiter, a lanky adolescent, scuttled over with their breakfast. After A'isha's rather bubbly and respectable delivery of their orders, Marik had noticed the boy's fleeting blushes, the way his gaze hung onto her for an elongated moment. It was quite entertaining.

As the boy announced their orders in his thick Italian accent, Marik couldn't resist stirring the pot. "Isn't my fiancée captivating?" he enthused, the picture of an enamoured partner. The boy's response was a silent show - confusion dancing in his eyes, a sheepish twist of his lips, and a flustered nod. When the last of him disappeared behind the counter, Marik afforded a quiet chuckle.

But that fleeting amusement soon dissolved into the tranquil resolve coursing through his veins. His gaze fell upon A'isha's untouched eggs benedict. He could start his meal, but chose to wait - another act of consideration designed to slowly erode her defences.

His gaze flicked between the restroom door and A'isha's empty seat. While he was watching, a redhead in a vivid green coat vanished through it. His eyes narrowed. If A'isha crossed paths with her, she might view the woman as a potential ally. It was time to heighten his vigilance.

As A'isha entered the restroom, she caught sight of herself in the mirror committing a cardinal sin. She was smiling. With a mental slap, she banished it from her face. This wasn't some modern take on Much Ado About Nothing. Marik, the master of all things broody and arrogant, was far from a misunderstood Benedick hiding a treasure trove of good intentions under his rough exterior. Oh no, she maintained the firm belief that he was more like Othello's Iago, his beguiling charm hiding a cunning plot that revolved around his favourite person: himself. She needed to keep her game face on.

Her gaze meandered from her traitorous reflection to take in the Disney movie set that was the restroom. Soft lighting, floral wallpaper; she half-expected Bambi and Thumper to spring up and start tap dancing.

Breathing in the momentarily Marik-free atmosphere, she attended to nature's call in one of the sophisticated stalls, the entrance of another woman serving as a background track to her thoughts. As she washed her hands, she sternly reminded herself that Marik wasn't her brunch buddy, he was a crime boss. She should be entirely dreading his presence, not feeling… indifferent… to it.

Another stall door swung open and a young woman emerged, with fiery red curls, glasses so chic they could have their own social media account, and a green trench coat that looked like it was straight off a London runway. Her smile was as genuine as A'isha's was forced.

An idea sparked in A'isha's mind. Here she was, free from Marik's suffocating presence, with a potential fairy godmother in the same room. This was her shot, the opportunity she had been waiting for to claw her way out of this terrifying reality. It was now or never.

Summoning her courage, her voice wavered like a novice trapeze artist as she asked what might have been the most important question of her life: "Do you speak English?"

Boom! The woman's face lit up like the finale of a fireworks display, and in a charming British accent, not unlike Julie's, she enthusiastically confirmed her linguistic abilities. A'isha felt a jolt of hope - like an adrenaline shot straight to her heart. This could be her way out; her chance to contact Ahad, to save her and Amara. After exchanging names - Cassie, meet A'isha; A'isha, meet Cassie - she unloaded her story of abduction and crime bosses. Her voice was like a breached dam, emotions surging out with all the grace of a raging flood.

Cassie's glasses slid down her nose as if they, too, were taken aback by the tsunami of information. "Are you… serious?" she finally whispered.

"As a heart attack," A'isha confirmed, her eyes practically sending out SOS signals.

Not missing a beat, Cassie squared her shoulders. "What can I do?"

A surge of gratitude washed over A'isha. This stranger's readiness to help fanned the flames of hope, creating a warmth that spread throughout her. After a furtive glance around the room as if spies might drop from the ceiling, she retrieved the secret note from her sock and handed it to her new-found ally. "Follow these instructions," she urged, her voice starting to crack. "Call Ahad. And please be discreet. The blond guy, as flashy as a Las Vegas sign? He's The R.H."

As Cassie conducted a pat-down of her own attire, the pockets of her coat, jeans, and even her bra cups, A'isha couldn't help but feel a wave of disappointment.

"Damn it," Cassie cursed, her face clouding with frustration. "I left my phone on the table. I'll grab it and call Ahad right away. Somewhere private."

Of course, the one time A'isha could really, really do with an immediate line of communication, Cassie's phone was AWOL. Still, she couldn't blame her potential saviour. After all, who actually remembered where they left their phone all the time?

With a nod, A'isha glanced at the exit, feeling the precious seconds ticking away. "I have to go. He's got eyes like a hawk. Give it a minute before you leave. Thank you, Cassie."

Leaving the restroom, her heart was a drum heralding the war she was waging for her freedom. Each beat echoed the desperate hope that she would get to hug Amara, Ahad, all her loved ones again, to breathe the air of a life where fear and crime bosses were figments of movies, not her reality. The die was cast. She'd played her part and Cassie, her could-be knight in designer armour, would hopefully play hers. Now all A'isha had to do was return to her table and act natural. Easier said than done when your opponent was observant as hell and had a mind-reading rod as a shortcut should he deign to use it. But hope was a stubborn little thing, and A'isha clung onto it as she prepared herself for the performance of her life.

Marik noted the glint of surprise in A'isha's dark blue eyes as she reclaimed her seat across from him, her chair whispering against the café's wooden floor. "You waited for me?" she asked, casting an incredulous glance at his unblemished yoghurt parfait; the vivid colours of fruits and granola mingling with the creamy yoghurt rivalled an artist's palette.

His reply came as a light chuckle. "It appears you still underestimate my manners, A'isha."

"Yes, your manners, of course. How could I ever forget?" Her words were a sarcastic jab, volleyed across the table like a tennis match of words.

Yet, despite the casual exchange, Marik couldn't overlook her trembling hand, currently cradling her mochaccino, the whipped cream now melted into the chocolatey concoction. Was it nerves making her hands quiver?

His focus shifted from her trembling fingers to the restroom door as it swung open. The redhead emerged, her face pallid against her fiery locks. She bore an icy gaze, so chilly it seemed to cool the room by a degree - and it was directed at him. The disgust on her face was unmistakable. As soon as he met her gaze, she redirected it, quickly moving to the patio door where tables stood, embraced by the crisp winter air.

Marik was familiar with the silent language women often communicated with him - fascination, desire. But disgust was an anomaly. A puzzle piece that refused to fit.

A'isha's voice sliced through his analysis. "The restrooms here could be a feature at Disneyland." Her jittery fingers unwrapped her cutlery from its napkin as she added, "I half expected woodland creatures to burst out from the floral wallpaper and start a choreographed number." Beneath her jest, her unease was as palpable as the pulsing beat of a drum, the rhythm startlingly off-key.

With the Millennium Rod nestled in his lap, its ancient power humming against his skin, Marik delved into the redhead's thoughts. Something was awry, and though he was loath to use the rod on A'isha - for she was a puzzle he wished to solve by himself - he felt no such obligation to refrain from using its power on strangers. Cassie, the redhead's name, played in his mind. He unearthed an exchange between her and A'isha. A note was passed, hidden away in A'isha's sock. He recognised the paper from the notepad on his jet.

Yet, the thrill he usually felt was absent, replaced instead by a deluge of long-forgotten memories. He saw himself in A'isha's desperate pleas to Cassie, reflecting his own pleas to his sister, Ishizu, all those years ago. He, too, had begged for a mere glimpse of freedom. And now he was the captor.

Guilt, an emotion Marik hadn't anticipated, welled up within him, chilling him to the core. It was an unfamiliar sensation, a disarming intruder. He found himself looking at A'isha, a hushed confession falling from his lips, "I'm sorry…"

An array of emotions cascaded across her face, mirrored in her eyes. They darted to Cassie, a plea silently communicated, only to be shattered by despair.

Guided by Marik's mental nudge, Cassie tore the note to shreds. He didn't watch, focusing instead on his half-eaten breakfast as she discarded the pieces. The sharp gasp A'isha let out was a jarring note in the quiet symphony of his guilt.

After altering Cassie's memory to a mundane restroom visit, he sent her back to her own world. The ensuing silence between him and A'isha felt heavy, oppressive. Their table was an island of tension amidst the carefree hum of the café.

Daring to look up from his meal, Marik found A'isha gripping her cutlery so tightly her hands shook. Her breaths came out in short, stuttering bursts, and he wouldn't be surprised if she hurled the cutlery toward him.

An emotional outburst from her was a ticking time bomb. He had to defuse it, pacify her fear, all the while painfully aware that he was the source of her distress. If A'isha caused a scene, he'd be forced to wipe the memory of it from the mind of every witness. An energy-draining process, filled with room for error. His next move would need to be his best yet.

A'isha resisted the impulse to act on a vivid daydream of stabbing Marik with a fork. Murder was beneath her. Plus, she'd get caught. Plus, he'd stop her with his stupid rod. Instead, she made herself redirect the fork to a more practical use: shovelling her meal into her mouth. Her eggs benedict - a dish usually full of comfort - was dismal. The eggs, overcooked. The hollandaise sauce, too bitter. Or maybe anguish made all food taste like ash. Across the table, Marik sipped his half-empty espresso, but a tight grip around his cup's handle betrayed his calm expression.

His words echoed in her ears, that simple yet gut-wrenching, "I'm sorry." Fat chance that he meant it. Even if it somehow sounded like he did.

Marik's cup clinked against the table, bringing her back. "You remind me of a friend," he murmured, his voice threaded with an emotion she couldn't quite place.

A'isha snorted. "You have friends?"

The insult made him smile, his face lighting up like the sun peeking from behind a cloud. Masochistic, much? "Yes, once upon a time," he continued, his eyes unfocusing for a moment, seeing beyond the café, beyond even her. "My friend… was born into a world without freedom. An underground tomb was his cradle."

She blinked, taken aback. Born in a tomb? Was he being literal?

"He was bound by ancient rituals and prophecies, always studying scriptures, a prisoner before his first breath. His deepest desire was to break free, to experience a world beyond the boundaries of his monotonous life."

His words struck a chord. Abruptly, she saw her own life reflected in Marik's narrative, a grim echo of her current captivity and her past under Elissa's roof. Her childhood home, while not a tomb, was an emotional warzone ruled by her aunt, and exacerbated by Ahad's growing preoccupation with his work. A'isha barely registered that she'd put her fork down, her palm resting against her cheek, waiting for the next chapter in his story.

"The criticality of a male heir was instilled within him from the moment he could grasp the concept. The clan arranged marriages early, selecting families known for fertility, successful child-bearing, and healthy lineage." Though his facial expression was its usual level of careful detachment, she noticed his hands tightening atop the table. Just how close were he and his friend? The guy's pain seemed to cause Marik pain. "His path was not self-determined but carved in stone, bereft of any personal wishes or aspirations."

A'isha tried to imagine a life without autonomy. No freedom. No future. A sigh escaped her. She knew exactly how that felt.

"His only solace was the company of his siblings, and the single hole in the ceiling of the room he was born in. On days the sun shone bright, its rays would fill the room, giving him warmth and a brief respite from his dreary life. But even that simple pleasure was eventually snatched away by the clan's patriarch, his own father."

Her lips curled in distaste. To be denied even the sun's warmth, to be raised in complete darkness? How could a parent treat their own child that way? How could anyone force such a horrible life on another? She looked up from her abandoned meal, stealing a glimpse of Marik's face. His carefully constructed facade… it was breaking. He looked… sad… And then it dawned on her. Friend? What friends could he have? He was talking about himself.

A'isha felt a twinge in her chest, a wave of unexpected empathy washing over her. She could see it now - Marik at five, at ten, looking skyward, longing for the light. And Marik today, in absolute darkness. He flexed his hand, and her own moved almost instinctively, reaching out to touch his. The back of his hand was warm, smooth, blemish-free, a stark contrast to the horrors he must have suffered. He stiffened at the contact, but then slowly, as if processing the unfamiliar sensation of human touch, his hand relaxed under hers.

He was looking at her.

At their hands, touching.

She began to withdraw, but he quickly shook his head. His hand turned, gently lacing their fingers together. It was so unbelievably soft for a crime boss.

"Your friend… did he ever find his freedom?" Her heart pounded in her ears.

He went quiet, his focus dipping down to inspect their linked hands. When he finally raised his gaze, it was brimming with sorrow. "Freedom is relative, A'isha. Some cages can't be seen… but they're just as real," he murmured, so softly she strained to hear. After a poignant pause, he added, "For what it's worth, I do intend to free you and your cousin."

"Because… your friend knows what it's like… to be in my shoes?" The implication of her words thumped in her chest.

Marik's grip tightened. After an eternity of silence, his answer came. "Indeed, he does. And he truly is sorry."

His admission ushered a silence, filled only with the soft rhythm of his thumb tracing patterns on the back of her hand. She shivered at his touch. Then mentally kicked herself for it. He seemed to follow her train of thought, because when she looked up at him again, he was smiling. A tiny, yet genuine smile.

A'isha pulled back her hand, and in the sudden emptiness of her grasp, she wrestled with a storm of emotions. Sympathy, or even empathy, warred with frustration, with sadness, with… hope? The line between friend and foe was blurring, and she wasn't sure what that meant for her or her future.

Me over here like "aww, they held hands! NOW KISS DAMMIT." I'm basically the dude from Tangled that bonks the tiny unicorns together and smiles. Anywho, feel free to share your thoughts so far - I'd love to hear them 😊