Chapter 7 The Power He Holds

Isabella’s POV

"This is illegal!" My voice echoed through the sterile HR office, fingers crumpling the termination letter. "You can't fire someone without cause!"

But fairness had never favored orphans fighting for scraps in a world where money trumped morality.

The supervisor's lip curled. "Save your breath, Isabella. Mr. Sanchez personally requested your termination." His gaze raked over me like I was something stuck to his shoe. "Frankly, we all wondered how long you'd last once he stopped pulling strings for his charity case."

So, it was Damon.

I didn’t know whether to scream or sneer. The man I once loved—the one I once believed was honorable, principled, good—so quick to show his claws the moment I refused to crawl back.

"You’ll crawl back to me when you have nothing left."

I clenched my jaw. Never.

The click of my shoes echoed as I turned my back to leave. The Sanchez family's influence may loom over me like a storm cloud, but even the darkest storms pass. I'd find my way to survive.

But fate has always loved to mock the hopeful.

Blue light from my laptop painted ghastly shadows across the kitchen table as rejection email after rejection email glared back at me. My finger hovered over 'submit' on yet another application—another prayer cast into the void.

No one wants to hire someone whose last employer blacklisted them.

The apartment door creaked open, and Melinda’s cheerful humming cut through the suffocating silence. She kicked off her heels, her curls bouncing as she plopped onto the couch beside me. “Still at it?”

I exhaled, rubbing my temples. “No one’s biting.”

She tilted her head, studying me. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“What I need is a paycheck,” I muttered, slumping back in my chair.

Melinda chewed her lip, then leaned forward. “Look, I know you’re not exactly the ‘bartending type,’ but we’re short-staffed at The Rusty Anchor. Tips are decent, and the boss owes me a favor.”

I hesitated. The idea of serving drinks to rowdy strangers made my skin prickle, but desperation had a way of eroding pride. “Do I have to flirt with customers?”

She smirked. “Only if you want better tips.”

I groaned, but the ghost of a smile tugged at my lips. “Fine. I want to try."

Pride was a luxury I couldn't afford. When Alan's condition was ticking like a time bomb in his chest, every second I hesitated was stolen from his future.

The blinking lights, surrounding the dimmed-lighted four-cornered dance floor, didn't help me hide the uneasiness as I constantly pulled the hem of the short skirt I'm wearing. A hairband with bunny ears, and the tail on the short skirt I'm wearing, along with the piece of fabric covering almost only my breasts, were a reminder of how desperate I am to earn.

“Don’t be afraid, Belly. If someone treated you rudely, call the bouncer.”

I forced a nod, clutching my drink tray like armor. "I'll be fine."

The fishnet stockings itched as I wove through the pulsating club shadows, dodging groping hands in the smoky haze. Then a familiar voice stopped me. I pretended not to hear and tried to melt into the crowd, but he had clamped around my wrist.

“Woah! If it isn’t Isabella. Nice legs, babe,” Davis, one of Damon's friends, smirked at me as his gaze traveled over my exposed skin.

I felt blood rushing to my face. My fists balled and I took a deep breath. If I didn't want to lose this job, I'd better not start a fight with them.

“Do you need more drinks, sir?” I clutched the tray, my voice polite and detached.

Davis raised his brow, lifting the empty bottle of liquor. “You look more intoxicating than this bottle of hard liquor. Mind if you join us, bunny girl? I’m sure as hell Damon won’t mind."

I sucked my breath, and slowly turned to the man in the middle of the couch. Damon. If we were the same as before, he would have broken bones of Davis for looking at me wrong. Now he just silently watched as his frat brothers made me their punchline.

Foolish girl. How could you still expect him after everything?

“I am just a normal waitress, sir.” I forced a smile at Davis and was ready to call the security if he kept pestering.

Davis laughed and took his wallet out. He waved the paper bills in front of me, “What about three grand each bottle? Sounds fair?”

I knew the game. Damon's minion wasn't paying for drinks—he was purchasing my humiliation wholesale.

I should have thrown my drink in his disgusting face, but how was this not a chance to make money?

“Challenge accepted.” I gritted. For Alan, I told myself.

The first tequila burned like liquid shame. The second tasted like hospital bills. By the fifth, Davis's sneer blurred at the edges as I slammed the empty glass down hard enough to crack the coaster.

Then I felt it—that familiar prickle between my shoulder blades. Damon's gaze, heavy as a blade pressed to bare skin.

Look your fill, bastard.

"Another," I smirked at Davis, tilting my head as I eyed his thinning wallet. "What’s wrong, big spender? Running out of daddy’s allowance already?"

His face darkened, and with a snarl, he yanked out a wad of cash and flung it across the floor. Bills scattered like fallen leaves, the entire bar going silent as they watched, waiting for my reaction.

Did they really think this would break me? Naive.

Slowly, deliberately, I crouched down and began collecting each one, my fingers steady despite the tequila burning through my veins. When I straightened, I tucked the stack neatly into the hem of my ridiculous bunny skirt and flashed Davis a razor-shin smile.

"Anytime you want to throw money at me, sweetheart, I’ll be here. Business is business, after all."

I turned to leave, head high—until an iron grip clamped around my wrist. Damon didn’t say a word. Just dragged me through the crowd, his silence more terrifying than any threat.

“Get your hand off of me!” I hissed, twisting against him.

He looked at me with glaring eyes, almost burning a hole in my body. “What are you doing, huh? Whoring yourself out? Really? For three fcking grand?!”

My heart stung hard, but I ignored, “What is it to you?”

“Isabella!” He growled, pushing me against the lamp post. His eyes became more deadly. “You could've had diamonds. All you had to do was come back to me!”

The slap cracked through the alley like gunfire.

"Your money is filthier than anything I've touched tonight," I spat. "I'd rather die than get back with you!”

His eyes went black with fury—I braced for violence, but tires screeched, and a sports car suddenly appeared.

I was blinded by the headlights for a few seconds until someone came out of the driver's seat.

The first thing I saw was the driver’s slightly disheveled hair, followed by a pair of toned arms, exposed from the folded sleeves of his black polo, paired with a seemingly tailored trousers. His effortless intrusion emphasizes his confident demeanor, hinting at a limitless influence.

My breath entangled owing to the familiar stance and physique.

It’s him! My traitor heart created a continuous frantic drumbeat the moment his face lifted, and his icy-blue eyes found mine.

Mr. Moretti. How…how did he find me?