Maggie “Red” Riley never wore diamonds, didn’t care about gold, didn’t give two shits about what the world valued. If it wasn’t dirty, broken, or something you could use to break someone else, it wasn’t worth her time. She lived in the cracked concrete corners of the city, the places where people like her were born and left to rot, but Red didn’t rot—she carved her name into the walls instead.

Her life had been a steady climb through shit. Not a “rags-to-riches” story, but more like “burnt out and still climbing.”

By twenty-five, she’d been kicked out of three schools, arrested twice, and had fought off every damn stereotype that came her way. Red didn’t do forgiveness, didn’t care about apologies, and certainly didn’t believe in second chances.

People called her a “diamond in the rough,” but she hated that saying. It implied she was something valuable waiting to be found, polished up, and placed in some velvet box for the world to admire. Nah, Red wasn’t a diamond. She was the rough, the ragged, the part of the stone that got ground down into dust. The part that the world tried to bury, but somehow kept getting kicked back up to the surface.

She was the kind of girl who worked in bars and alleyways. The kind who’s used to the stench of cheap liquor and cigarette smoke, the constant hum of buzzed voices and broken promises. She wasn’t the girl who made the money. She wasn’t the girl who sat pretty in the corner, the one who smiled in perfect dresses and left with a diamond necklace wrapped around her neck.

No, she was the one who’d walk into a bar at three in the morning, eyes dark with too many thoughts and not enough sleep, with knuckles bruised from last night’s fight, and say, “Who the fuck wants to buy me a drink?”

Most people saw her as trash. Unpolished. Unrefined. A girl who might have had potential once, but threw it all away like a pack of cigarettes in a flame. And maybe they were right.

But Red? She didn’t care.

Because in her world, the rough didn’t have to be refined. In fact, that was the point.

She had scars, thick ones, worn like badges of honor. The kind of scars that told stories no one wanted to hear. But Red wore them proudly. Her hands were calloused, nails bitten to the quick, every inch of her skin was a testament to a life that didn’t know what softness was. And she liked it that way.

Tonight, she leaned against the bar, tapping her fingers on the counter, listening to the steady rhythm of the neon lights humming in the background. She wasn’t waiting for anyone—just watching the drunk fools try to dance to music they didn’t understand.

“You always look like you just came out of a fight,” the bartender said, wiping down a glass.

She looked at him, her eyes sharp, almost daring him to say something else.

“I didn’t just _come_ out of one,” she muttered. “I’ve been in a fight since birth.”

The bartender chuckled, like it was some kind of joke, but Red wasn’t laughing. She didn’t need anyone to tell her who she was. The world already had its opinion, and she wasn’t looking for anyone else’s validation.

A guy with a collar too stiff and shoes too clean stepped up beside her, his face full of that look—the look that said, _I’m better than this place._

“Hey,” he said, his voice dripping with too much charm. “You look like you could use some company.”

Red didn’t even look at him. She just took a long swig from her drink, the amber liquid burning down her throat.

“Here’s the thing,” she said, her voice low and rough from years of smoke. “I’m not here for company. I’m not here for some shiny little boy to buy me a drink and act like you’re saving me from my pathetic life.” She finally turned to face him, a slight smirk pulling at her lips. “So why don’t you do me a favor, pretty boy, and walk back to your shiny little world before you get something on your shirt that you can’t wash out.”

He didn’t say another word. He just backed off, as all the others did, like she was some kind of storm they couldn’t face.

And maybe she was.

Red didn’t mind. She didn’t need to be the princess. She was fine being the storm, the one that tore everything down, the one who never stopped fighting until the walls cracked and the dust settled.

She didn’t need to be polished. She didn’t need to be perfect.

Because in a world of diamonds, Red Riley was the rough—and she was exactly where she needed to be.

And that was more than enough.

Later that night, after the bar emptied out and the last clink of bottles echoed in the backroom, Red stepped outside into the muggy air of the city. The heat was still pressing down like a heavy blanket, but she didn’t mind it. The sweat and grime on her skin felt familiar, comforting almost, like armor.

She lit a cigarette and leaned back against the brick wall, the dim glow of the streetlight casting long shadows across the alley. Red wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere. Not yet. She liked this space—this in-between place where nothing mattered, and everything was a little bit hazy.

“You know, you’d be real pretty if you didn’t look so pissed all the time.”

The voice startled her, and she flicked the cigarette to the ground, eyes narrowing in the direction of the voice.

A young guy, maybe a couple years younger than her, stood by the dumpster, one hand shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, the other fiddling with a pack of gum. He had that kind of “I’m too cool to care” vibe about him—another one of those guys who probably thought he was the first person to ever say something like that to her.

“You’ve got guts,” Red said, her voice sharp, her stare colder than the ice in her drink. “You think you're clever or something?”

The guy shrugged, a half-smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Just think you’re wasting your potential, that’s all.”

Red snorted, crossing her arms over her chest. “And what would you know about my potential?”

“More than you’d think.” He took a step closer, his eyes scanning her like she was a puzzle piece he was trying to fit together. "You don’t have to stay here. This, all of this... it’s not all there is. You could do something better, something real."

Her laugh was bitter. “Better? You’re talking about better like it’s some kind of _promise_ the world makes to you. You think you know what I’ve been through?”

He didn’t back down. “No, but I know you’re better than this. I can see it.”

Red’s heart skipped a beat—just for a second. But she shut it down, fast. That wasn’t her. She wasn’t the girl who fell for _maybe’s_. She didn’t have time for soft words or “potential.” Not anymore.

“Listen,” she said, taking a slow step forward, closing the gap between them. “You don’t know me. And I sure as hell don’t need you to rescue me. I don’t need anyone to come in here and tell me what I should do. I’ve survived this long by doing things my way, and it works just fine.”

His eyes didn’t shift. He stood his ground, maybe even a little more resolute than before. “Maybe. But you’re not _living_,” he said, his voice lower now. “You’re just surviving.”

Something inside Red twitched, an unfamiliar pang in her chest.

She didn’t let it show.

“You think you know what it’s like, huh?” she shot back, her voice like ice. “Try _living_ when everyone’s trying to drag you down. Try living when all you’ve known is struggle, when you’ve been told that you’re nothing more than a mess to clean up. You think that’s some kind of badge I should wear proudly?”

The guy didn’t say anything for a long time. Instead, he just looked at her. Like he was seeing something deeper, something she wasn’t even sure existed.

Red shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t _like_ being seen. It was one thing to let people believe the stories she told herself, but it was something else when someone else saw beyond that.

Finally, he spoke, his voice steady. “Look, I don’t have all the answers. Hell, I don’t even have most of them. But I’m offering you a choice. You want out of this? You want to stop fighting yourself and the world every damn day? I can’t do it for you. No one can. But you can do something about it.”

Red stared at him, her heart beating a little faster now. A mixture of frustration and curiosity welled up in her chest.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said, taking a long, slow breath. "Maybe I am tired. Maybe I do feel like I'm just putting out fires every damn day. But I’m not some _rescued princess_, and I don’t need some white knight coming in to fix my shit."

He raised an eyebrow. “No one’s offering to fix you. I’m just offering a chance to _stop_ breaking.”

The words hung in the air between them, and for a moment, Red didn’t know how to respond. It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t some kind of pity. It was... just the truth.

Her fist clenched, but the tension in her body eased just a fraction. Maybe that’s what scared her the most—that feeling, that slight crack in the armor she’d spent years building. She’d never let anyone see her as anything other than hard, rough, and untouchable. But here he was, offering her the smallest shred of something different.

“Maybe you’re full of shit,” Red muttered, “but maybe I’ll listen to you.”

The guy didn’t smile, but he did nod. “That’s all I’m asking.”

And for the first time in as long as she could remember, Red wasn’t sure if she was in control anymore.

But she didn’t walk away either.