Then came the job

The ward was quiet, everything seemed still as I watched my baby. I named her Rynna because even in my ruins, she felt like a blooming flower.

I was alone. No congratulatory flowers. No family members pacing in the hallway. Just me… and her. Until I heard the creak of the door. I turned, expecting a nurse—

But it was Camila.

My breath caught instantly. For a second, I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. She stood there in a simple hoodie and jeans, Her face hadn’t changed, still the same as mine-but older somehow. More tired.

"I didn’t know I’d be late,” she whispered, stepping forward. “I thought the delivery would be in a few days... but look here—” her voice broke into a soft laugh as she leaned toward Rynna. “What a cute little thing you are.”

She looked up at me then. No judgment. Just… sorrow. And love. And wrapped her arms around me so tightly I finally let go of everything I’d been holding in.

“No one to make my life glorious,” she teased through her tears, echoing our old inside joke. “I’ve missed you, Nyx.”

I sobbed into her shoulder like a child.

She had come. After all these months of silence, of abandonment, of thinking even my twin had chosen shame over me—

She came.

Camila was visiting home from school—briefly,and had tracked me down after overhearing a snippet of gossip in the neighborhood. Our parents hadn’t mentioned me, of course. But fate, for once, had been kind.

After that day, Camila became my anchor. She couldn’t change our past, but she stood by me through the storm of the present. She brought baby clothes, wiped my tears, and sometimes just sat with me in silence as Rynna nursed. She never pitied me. Never treated me like the black sheep. She treated me like her sister.

With her support, time passed. The sting of rejection dulled. Slowly, painfully, I started rebuilding. I worked part-time cleaning and babysitting when I could. The apartment still smelled like damp walls and cheap candles, but it was home.

And then came the job.

A new restaurant opened in the heart of the city—Kings, they called it. All white tablecloths, hanging chandeliers, and rich people who wore perfume like armor. I hadn’t even known it was hiring. Camila overheard it on campus and pushed me to try.

I went. Nervous. Heart pounding. I had a five years old, But still stood in line with the others, hoping. Praying.

The manager barely looked at my resume. He glanced once at my posture, asked if I could carry a tray, and nodded. “You’re in.”

I almost collapsed from relief.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a step. I could finally afford proper meals, maybe even move into a cleaner place. I didn’t ask questions about the owner. Didn’t care who sat in the glass office at the top. I just needed the job.

Kings on weekends was a circus.

Waiters dashed like ants, chefs yelled over open flames, and the scent of seared lamb and truffle butter never quite masked the exhaustion in our bones. My hair clung to my forehead, my shoes pinched, and the tray in my hand felt like an anvil—but I smiled. Tips mattered.

“He only comes here for emergencies,” I heard one of the waitresses whisper as we stood near the staff lockers. “Prefer staying at the club. That’s his world.”

“Can you blame him?” another sighed. “He’s hot, rich, and dangerous. I’d live at the club too if I were him.”

Their giggles faded behind me as I headed toward the main hall.

The Owner had arrived earlier that morning-quietly, without ceremony. Just a low buzz of alertness through the staff, the kind that straightened spines and polished glass faster than any manager’s threats.

I didn’t care. I’d heard the stories: multiple Nightclub, racing establishments, secret bars and empire built on thrill and shadows. Handsome they say, undoubtedly powerful, But the way people worshipped him made my skin crawl. That kind of indulgence… it reminded me of someone I know.

Or maybe not. Maybe I didn’t know him at all.

I got back to clearing the last of the tables in section C. Guests were clearing out. The live music had faded into soft piano notes from the speakers. I had just leaned to retrieve a tipped napkin when I heard it:

“Hey sweetheart,” a drunk man slurred behind me, “bend like that again and I’ll tip you in positions, not cash.”

Laughter. Another hand slapped my backside. I straightened immediately, pulse rising.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” one of them said. “A girl like you knows what she’s doing—”

“Touch her again and I’ll have you eating through a straw,”

came a voice—deep, lethal, quiet enough to silence the entire floor.

I turned.

And nearly stumbled back.

Him.

He wasn’t dressed like a king. A black shirt, sleeves rolled, tailored pants that molded to power. But the look in his eyes—the fire, the warning, the dark amusement… It was him. The man I had once begged to forget.

The men stuttered apologies, suddenly sober. He didn’t yell. He didn’t even look at them again. He just stepped in front of me, turned slightly, and said, “Walk.”

I obeyed, legs numb, my throat dried. the tray hung in my hands.

He led me through the quiet corridor, past dim drapes and marbled halls, until we reached a room. His room, I assumed. The air was colder inside, scented with amber and spice. He closed the door behind us, and I turned to face him.

“I didn’t need help,” I muttered.

“No,” he said simply. “I didn't ask what you wanted.”

His eyes dropped to my name tag. “Nyx.” The way he said it made my chest tighten. Like he knew it now, but should’ve known it then.

“You don’t even remember me, do you?”

He blinked. “Should I?”

That made my jaw clenched. Of course. To him, I was a whisper in a loud night.

To me, he was everything that had broken me. I shoved past him. “I’m not your plaything. Not then. Not now.”He stepped closer—not enough to touch, but enough for me to feel the heat radiating from him. “You,” he murmured,

His hand reached for me, but I stepped back, rage burning in my throat—and confusion swirled in my gut. Why was I still trembling?

Then came a knock.

A girl stepped in—flawless, tall, with lips like rubies and a clipboard in hand. She barely glanced my way. Walked up to him and signed something. Quick. Business-like. Then left again.

And just like that, he turned to me. No apology. No words.

Just pulled a card from his wallet, pressed it into my hand, and said,

“Call me. When you’re ready.”

Then he was gone.

Leaving me in that silent room, fingers closed around the card…

my heart raged with questions I swore I’d never ask.

Little did I know…!

The building—the entire damn building—

Belonged to him. He was my boss. I chuckled staring at the card.

The man who changed my life without ever asking my name. The one whose touch still haunted my body.

The one who unknowingly left behind a daughter he had never met.