Chapter 1: The Bait

DAHLIA'S POV

I wake up with a gasp, my body drenched in cold sweat as a scream tears through the silence. My heart pounds wildly against my ribs as I sit up, disoriented, my ears ringing… then I realize the space beside me is empty. Jerome isn’t in bed.

Panic grips me instantly.

I throw the covers off and rush out of the room, my bare feet slapping against the cold floor as I follow the sound of his voice. He’s cursing loudly, the kind of raw, frustrated anger that makes my chest tighten.

“Babe, oh my God!” I cry, rushing into the kitchen just in time to see him struggling on the floor, his wheelchair slightly out of reach. I drop to my knees beside him, trying to lift him back up. “Hold on, I’ve got you…”

“Don’t touch me! Damn it!” he snaps, shoving me hard enough that I almost lose my balance.

The force of it stings more than it should.

Before I can steady myself, he sweeps everything off the kitchen counter in one violent motion. Plates shatter. A cup rolls across the floor and the noise echoes in my head.

“Come on, stop this, Jer. Let me…” I try again, my voice softer now, careful as if I'm speaking to our daughter.

This time, I manage to get my arms under his and lift him just enough to guide him back into the wheelchair. Relief barely has time to settle before he jerks away, shrugging my hands off like they burn.

“Get your hands off me, I said! I can take care of myself! My incapacitation hasn’t gotten to that point. Excuse me!”

The words hit harder than the shove.

I step back quickly as he drags the wheelchair past me, the wheel brushing dangerously close to my toes. I flinch, swallowing the sting rising in my throat.

“Oh, I hate this life!” I mutter under my breath, though I don’t even know if I mean his life or mine anymore.

Still, I follow him, opening the door for him despite his protests. My hands move on their own, like they’ve learned to ignore the rejection.

Because deep down, I know this is my fault.

Every single bit of it.

If I had gone to pick up the kids from the park that day, none of this would have happened. Jerome would still be walking. He would still be laughing the way he used to. He wouldn’t look at me like I’m the reminder of everything he’s lost.

Even if something like this had to happen eventually, it should have been me in that wheelchair.

Not him, he doesn't deserve that.

Before my mind can spiral any further, I force myself to move. I start preparing breakfast, cleaning up the broken dishes, wiping the mess off the counter, anything to keep my hands busy and stop my thoughts from dragging me under.

It’s still early, the wind howling faintly outside, brushing against the windows. I still have a little time before I leave for work.

Last Monday, I started my new job as a delivery van driver for the biggest company in the city. Even now, it feels unreal saying it out loud.

All thanks to Sunny.

A small, tired smile tugs at my lips as I think about her. Sunny is a blessing I don’t deserve. She went out of her way, stuck her neck out for me, convinced people who didn’t even want to look at me twice to give me a chance.

Women don’t get jobs like this.

And definitely not someone like me.

Nobody wants to hire me. Not people who know me. Not people who think they know me. And certainly not as a female driver.

So this job means everything.

I won’t lose it.

I can’t.

When I’m ready to leave, I pause outside Jerome’s door, my hand hovering before I knock softly.

“Babe?” I call gently. “Can you please open the door?”

I glance at the wall clock. I still have a few minutes before I need to leave, but they’re slipping away faster than I want.

“I made breakfast. Just… eat a little before I go, okay?”

Silence.

Then his voice cuts through it, cold and distant.

“Go away. I am not a baby. I can take care of myself.”

A loud crash follows, and I close my eyes briefly, biting back the frustration rising in my throat.

“Ugh… I know. Look, I am—”

“Leave. Me. Alone.”

Each word lands like a door slamming shut in my face.

And like always, I listen. I don’t say anything else. I don’t push or argue.

I just… step back.

Because what else can I do?

I grab my phone and head out, pulling the door shut behind me as quietly as I can, like I’m afraid even the sound might set him off again.

I have to hurry.

If I miss the bus, the next one won’t come until midday, and that’s not an option I can afford.

As I pass by my neighbor, the old gardener, Mr. Pans, I slow down just enough to greet him.

“Morning, Pans!” He's waving at me and as I smile at him, my phone vibrates in my hand.

“I can’t reach my driver and I’m time-pressed. Pick my car from the attached address and bring it to me. I’ll share my location.”

I read the message out loud, my pace quickening immediately.

Mr. Peter.

My boss.

Or at least, the man who decided I was worth the risk.

“I’ll see you later!” I call over my shoulder to Mr. Pans before breaking into a run.

I make it to the car wash from the address he sent in just under twenty minutes, my lungs burning and my pulse racing.

I get into the car, start the engine, and drive toward the location he shared, my grip tight on the steering wheel.

When I arrive, I stop in front of an exclusive-looking restaurant, the kind of place that reminds me I don’t belong in spaces like this anymore. I park carefully, exhaling slowly as I wait.

To steady myself, I pull out my phone and dial the number I’ve been avoiding.

My daughter’s doctor.

It’s been two weeks since I last visited her.

Two weeks.

The guilt hits instantly, sharp and unforgiving.

Between searching for a job, starting work, taking care of Jerome… I barely have time to breathe.

But that’s not an excuse.

“Hello, Dahlia. It’s been a while,” Dr. Hartley’s voice comes through. “And I was about to call you…”

“Yeah, sorry, excuse me for a moment. I’ll call you back,” I mutter quickly as a sudden knock interrupts me.

I lower the phone, frowning as I wind down the window.

A teenage girl stands there, staring at me like she’s just found something she’s been looking for.

I raise a brow, confused.

“Yes?”

“Come on, guys! I said it… she’s right here! How brazen!” she suddenly screams, her voice sharp and accusing.

Before I can react, more teenagers rush toward the car, their phones already up, cameras flashing in my face.

My confusion spikes into unease.

“What’s going on? What is this about?” I ask, my voice tightening as instinct kicks in.

I roll up the window quickly and start the car, my hands trembling slightly as I try to pull away.

Then, something splatters across the windshield.

Eggs.

Another one hits.

Then paint.

My breath catches.

In my panic, I slam the gear into reverse…

And crash.

The impact jolts through me as the car behind me takes the hit. Before I can correct it, I hit it again.

And again.

The teenagers don’t stop.

They keep shouting, laughing, throwing more eggs, more paint, like this is some kind of game.

Something in me snaps. Anger surges past the fear, hot and blinding.

I throw the door open and step out.

“Stop it! What is wrong with you people?” I shout, my voice cutting through the noise as I try to push through them, desperate to make sense of it.

“Yes! She’s my father’s mistress!” the girl screams louder, shoving her phone in my face. “She thinks she can replace my mother!”

The words hit me like a slap.

Mistress?

What…

I freeze for half a second too long, my mind scrambling to catch up. She’s live-streaming.

And her viewers?

They don’t know the truth.

They won’t care about the truth.

Panic floods back in, colder this time. This can't go out there, I can't have any more scandals…

“Stop it, now!” I snap, grabbing the phone before she can pull it back.

Without thinking, I fling it away. The moment it leaves my hand, I know that I have made the worst mistake of my life.

“Oh my goodness!”

The noise around me shifts.

The shouting dies down, reduced to murmurs and whispers.

I follow their gazes, my heart dropping into my stomach. The phone didn’t hit the ground.

It hit someone.

A man.

Not just any man.

Mr. Peter stands beside him, holding open a car door, another man shielding them both with an umbrella.

And the man in front, the one I just hit, he stands perfectly still.

His presence alone silences everything.

Slowly… very slowly… he turns his head and looks at me. And in that moment, something deep inside me sinks.

Because I know that face.

Everyone knows that face.

I feel it, cold and certain, settling into my bones before anyone even says it out loud, I am finished.

Completely ruined.

Then one of the teenagers whispers, her voice trembling with a mix of awe and dread:

“Isn’t that Mr. Chane… your father’s boss?”