Chapter 5

𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙍𝘼

The ride back home is terrible as I feel a strong sense of uneasiness. That experience at the station was horrible. This has to enter my list of top ten stupid things I've done in my entire life, with thinking I can confront Dante over something that happened years ago.

I should have just gone to work. Why did I let myself get so triggered?

For all these years, I'd remained silent, watching my dad get humiliated and disregard by everyone in his circle. I watch him become a shell of a man because of his illness.

I'd been managing to hold it down for so long, but I'm so tired.

When I finally get back home, the apartment feels unusually still.

I unlock the door and step inside. The late afternoon light spills through the curtains, soft and golden. The air is warm, and the scent of old fabric and cough syrup hits my nose immediately. Everything’s quiet, but nothing feels right.

My father looks up from the couch, brows furrowed.

“You’re home early,” he says weakly, his voice rough. “You okay?”

I turn away, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie. “Yeah. I’m not feeling great. Just… tired.”

He tries to push himself up, grunting. “Did something happen?”

“No,” I lie. “Just cramps. I’ll be fine after a nap.”

His expression softens instantly. “Oh sweetheart… go lie down, rest a bit. I’ll heat something up.”

“You should be the one resting, Dad.”

He tries to smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “You know I can't rest when you are unwell.”

That’s what he always does, minimizes his own suffering to take care of me. Even when he’s half-alive on a threadbare couch. This is who he's always been, my caregiver. Now, he barely has the strength to even take care of himself. Tears gather up in my painfully dry eyes and my nose becomes painfully ticklish.

Needing a way to escape, I simply nod and rush to my room.

The second I close the door, my legs give out. I fall onto the bed like the gravity in this room is heavier.

My hands tremble as I reach for my phone, checking the time.

Almost 3:30.

I try to breathe.

And then my phone rings.

Mrs. Lane.

My stomach drops.

I answer.

“Alera,” she says, her voice already sharp. “You have got to be the most ungrateful, unreliable brat I’ve ever had the displeasure of hiring.”

My throat tightens. “Mrs. Lane, I..."

“Don’t interrupt me,” she snaps. “You’ve been late five times this month. FIVE. You didn't even show up today, no heads-up. You shelved the horror novels under self-help again last week, and don’t think I forgot you mouthing off to a customer.”

“That customer was yelling at me...”

“And instead of apologizing, you talked back. Don’t bother coming in tomorrow. Or ever.”

“But—Mrs. Lane, please, ...”

The line goes dead.

I blink. Stare at the screen.

Just like that.

I don't think I'll ever get used to how quickly things can go from bad to worse.

This is a job I fought to get. The job I held onto when all the degrees and certificates I've amassed couldn't put food on our table. The only steady job keeping the rent paid and lights on.

Gone.

The tears come fast. I bury my face in my hands and let it all crash out of me.

What the hell did I do?

Why didn’t I just go to work like I was supposed to? I knew she was waiting for a reason to get rid of me. I could feel it in the way she sighed when I clocked in. In how she looked at me with such distaste and bitterness.

And today? I handed her her chance.

I curl into myself on the bed, fists clenched against the blanket.

Everything hurts.

My body, my heart and my pride.

It's been a truck load of humiliation. If only I could just disappear forever.

I look at my hands. I find chipped nails, blisters on my palm from carrying too many boxes at once. This isn’t what my life was supposed to look like.

These hands used to sign checks. They used to wear Tiffany bracelets and tap designer bags closed.

Now? They ache from mopping floors. Scraping burnt rice off cheap pots. Folding Dad’s laundry on Sundays because he can’t stand long enough to do it himself.

I have two degrees, honors and internships.

And none of it matters without connections, money or at least a name that still holds weight.

I feel my anger rise like incense, and it gradually be clouding my senses.

I'm not just angry at Dante. The misogynist cop or Mrs. Lane.

I’m angry at my dad.

Why didn’t he prepare me for the real world? Why didn’t he teach me how to hustle? How to survive without privilege? Or in the least defend myself?

I sob again, clutching a pillow to my chest like it can ground me.

How can I go on with life now? What if that cop actually tells Dante I reported him, and then he ruins my life further? I won't put it past that soulless monster.

Mid sob, I go still.

Because something isn’t right.

It’s… quiet.

Unnaturally so.

There's no coughing or creaking of the couch as he shifts, flipping TV channels, wheeze, throat clearing. Nothing.

I sit up fast.

“Dad?” I call out.

I don't get a response.

I wipe my face, stumble to my feet, and open the door.

The hallway is dim because the kitchen light is off.

I step into the main room. “Dad?”

Still nothing.

I check the couch first.

He's not in there.

His slippers are still on the floor. One flipped upside down.

That's when I see him.

At the foot of the hallway.

He's sprawled out with one arm bent awkwardly and the other lying useless across the carpet.

He is motionless.

The blanket is tangled near his legs.

“Daddy?!”