Bound by his secret

Chapter 1

Ameera’s Pov

“Hey, Ameera, don’t forget to wash the dishes before locking up.”

“Of course, sir. How could I forget?” I responded with a fake smile.

“Good.” He tugged on his jacket—the same one he wore every day. I swear, it used to be red. Now it’s this sad, faded thing, like it gave up on life.

I dragged myself into the kitchen. Plates everywhere. My hands were already sore, but what choice did I have? The smell of fried food, alcohol, and burnt barbecue was glued to my clothes, my skin, even my hair. No matter how many showers I took, it stayed. That was the life of working night shifts at a greasy little diner.

Outside, New York was doing what it always did—being loud. Honking, yelling, music blasting from cars, someone laughing too hard a street over. Past ten, the city wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon.

I scrubbed the last greasy plate, tossed it on the rack, and grabbed the keys from the pocket of some nasty apron hanging by the door. Hygiene wasn’t exactly a priority here. Locked up, stepped out.

Cold. Straight through me like needles. I cursed myself for not grabbing a sweater. It’s always cold after a shift, no matter the season. Maybe that was just exhaustion pretending to be weather.

All I could think about was bed, but then again… home wasn’t really a place I wanted to be. Not anymore. Every time I walked in, it felt like guilt and sadness were sitting on the couch waiting for me.

If I was kidnapped right about now, I would be grateful.

My “apartment” was on 143 East 89th Street. Sounds classy, right? Upper East Side? Please. It was basically an abandoned studio with peeling paint, broken pipes, and a landlord who thought fixing things was optional.

Just as I reached for the doorknob, my phone buzzed.

Cassie.

:Bitch, where are you at?! Come have a drink with me. My uncle’s throwing a party at some rich-people bar. Let’s get drunk togetherrrr. I’ll text you the address. BE THERE!! LOVE YOU BABE.

I rolled my eyes and almost laughed. Cassie. She was everything I wasn’t—loud, happy, the life of every room. I loved her for it, even when she was too much. She was basically my lifeline, the only bright thing in my circle of nothing. But tonight? I felt like lead.

I went inside. The first thing I saw was the pile of unopened mail on the table. Bills. Always bills.

The first envelope was white with pink edges. Cute, so of course I hoped. Stupid. It was from the hospital. They wanted the rest of the money for Mum’s treatment. My chest tightened, but no tears came. I couldn’t even cry anymore.

I dumped my purse on the glass table. The coins rattled around like they were mocking me. Forty-eight dollars and fifty cents. That was all I had. Half a chocolate bar and some flat soda in my bag would be dinner.

Next letter: rent.

“Fuck me,” I muttered, sliding down into the couch.

My bedroom was barely a room. A bed, a closet, and just enough space to turn around. No table, no chair. I used the glass table outside as a desk when I needed to. Whatever. Who was I trying to impress?

I changed out of my work clothes, skin still sticky with fryer grease, and headed to the bathroom. I twisted the tap. Nothing. Not a single drop.

“Shit!” I screamed.

My phone buzzed again.

:Babe, r u coming??

I stared at it, then typed back:

Yh, why not. Let’s get drunk with rich men.

The truth? I wasn’t excited. I was tired. But being tired was better than being alone.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the cracks on the ceiling. Maybe if I threw up on one of their designer suits, they’d make me their maid. At least I’d eat well. At least I’d have running water.

The thought almost made me laugh. Almost.

I stared at my phone again. Cassie’s address popped up. Some rooftop bar downtown, one of those places with $50 cocktails and bathrooms bigger than my whole apartment.

For a second, I thought about not going. Just pulling the covers over me, ignoring her, letting the silence swallow me. But then I thought of Mum. Of the hospital letters. Of my coins scattered on the glass table.

I didn’t need to get drunk. I needed to breathe. To pretend for a few hours that I wasn’t drowning.

So I grabbed my eyeliner, my cheap handy lipgloss and a black dress Cassie swore made me look like trouble.

“Fine, Cass,” I muttered to myself. “Let’s go get drunk with rich people.”

I slid into my scuffed heels, glanced at the mirror one last time, and headed out.

New York roared around me, as if it didn’t care I was broke, tired, and falling apart.