The shift that changed everything

Rosalie's POV:

He hit me again.

Not with his fist, not this time. Just a push, he shoved his hand at me hard, hard enough to knock me into the fridge door, hard enough, enough to bruise my hip, enough to remind me who I was to him. Nothing.

“You never shut up, Rosalie. You're always whining, always looking at me like I’m the problem. You’re lucky I even stay in this dump,” 

Luca snapped, running his fingers through his messy hair like he was the one on edge.

 “Do you think anyone else would put up with you?”

 I stood there, stunned, heart racing. My lip stung from where he’d grabbed my face too hard earlier, I felt a trickle of blood drip down my nose. He hadn’t even apologized,just like always,I wasn't deserving of one

     I had been quiet for weeks, careful, avoiding fights. Saying thank you every time he transferred money for Mom’s pills, even if it came with a side of insults. I cooked, I cleaned, I made excuses. I begged him not to leave. And for what?

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said again, voice rising. With how loud he was being, I was sure the neighbours could hear. “I told you I’d help with your mom. I didn’t sign up to be your emotional support dog.”

    That was it. Something inside me cracked, not like glass, but like a dam breaking. I snapped.

 "You’re not helping. You’re controlling. You throw money at me just so I’ll shut up and take the way you treat me like dirt.” He smirked, stepping closer. 

“Without me, you’d be begging in the streets.”

I didn’t back away this time. I clenched my fists, ready to retaliate.

 “Then maybe I’ll beg. I’d rather be broke than be your punching bag.” He laughed, sharp and ugly. 

“What are you gonna do, Rosie? Run to your waitress job? You think any rich guy’s going to save a girl like you? You’re just a broke town girl with a dying mom and nothing to offer, you're unnecessary baggage."

“Then why are you still here?” I snapped. "Why do you still pay for every pill? Why do you come to my apartment every night seeking the peace and solace you never give me?"

Silence.

He didn’t answer, he didn’t need to. I knew. Because I was too easy to control. Because he needed someone to make himself feel powerful, I never realized how insecure he was. Deriving false superiority by stepping all over me.

Well, Not anymore.

    I reached for the drawer, grabbed a kitchen knife. Scared he would retaliate, scared he would hurt me like always.

“Get out.”

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

He stared at me for a long time, like he couldn’t believe it. Then he laughed again, a soft knowing laugh. 

"You’ll come crawling back. You always do. All these bills, you can't do it alone. You know where to find me when you're ready to beg."

     But I didn’t. Not even when he slammed the door on his way out, not even when I sat down on the kitchen floor five minutes later, shaking and crying so hard I could barely breathe.

      I showed up to work thirty minutes late for my night shift at Trattoria Del Fiore. My hair was still damp from the rushed shower, and my eyes were puffy from crying all day but I didn’t care. I tied on my apron and forced a smile for Maria, the hostess, who gave me a weird look.

“ Are you okay, rosalie?” she asked quietly as I passed.

“No,” I said. “But I’m here.”

"I don't need you lagging, we have a full house tonight and a lot of the big shots are here. No mistakes tonight, alright?" She asked, giving a curious glance at my swollen lip.

 "Yes, ma'am. No mistakes."

      The restaurant was as it always was: Candlelight, soft jazz, everyone speaking in hushed tones, all designed to convince rich people that this wasn’t just food, it was an experience. But to me, it was survival. Each tip meant Mom’s medicine. Each polite smile meant I could afford food for one more week.

     I floated between tables like a ghost, refilling wine glasses and repeating the specials without thinking. It was all muscle memory. My head was still stuck on Luca’s words. The sting in my hip. The bruise forming just below my ribs. The swell on my lip. And then it happened.

    Maria pulled me aside and whispered, “VIP table, Back left. He’s already in a mood, do not screw this up. Hurry."

   I nodded numbly, grabbed my notepad, and walked towards the corner of the room.

   The man didn’t as much as raise his head as I approached. He was typing something on his phone, one long finger scrolling with grace. His suit was charcoal black, tailored so well I knew it cost more than I made in seven months. His jaw was tight, defined, his hair slicked back with precision. He looked like money. Cold, polished, cruel money.

I cleared my throat, impatient. He hadn't acknowledged me standing there for over five minutes. 

“Good evening. Can I get you something to drink?”

    His eyes met mine then, sharp, dark, unreadable. I almost stepped back, not from fear, but from the weight of his gaze. It was like being pinned in one place. I knew his presence commanded people, he was intimidating.

 “Do you serve anything worth drinking?” he asked.

“Wine list’s right here,” I replied, placing it on the table.

He didn’t take it.

“Bring me a 2004 Chianti. If you have it. Bring it immediately, I'm expecting company.

I'd had enough of arrogant men for one night.

“We don’t. But I can bring something close.”

 His lips twitched, not a smile, something colder. “Then don’t bother. You already sound unsure.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?” it felt like Luca all over again.

 "You’re shaking,” he said simply. “I can't accept a  drink from a nervous wreck. Get me a more capable waitress."

Was I shaking? Maybe. Maybe it was rage or exhaustion. Or just the weight of the day collapsing over me like bricks. But something about the way he said it like I was a thing, a product to be judged and discarded made something snap again. 

I straightened my shoulders, looked him in the eye. “Maybe if you were less of a jerk, people would want to serve you. Notice how no other waiter rushed to serve you? You probably have a reputation of getting people fired."

His eyebrow arched slowly. “What did you say?”

I took a step closer, practically fuming, I was pretty sure he could see smoke fuming out of my ears. “I said people like you, rich, condescending, entitled brats walk into places and think the world should grovel." I spat on his shoe and said in the highest tone I could muster; "Well, maybe today’s the day someone tells you to go to hell. And maybe keep a room for every other goddamn rich idiot in this room. You're all the same!"

The entire room went quiet.

Maria stood frozen near the bar. A couple at a nearby table turned to stare. The jazz still played, but now it sounded awkward.

He leaned back in his seat, arms folding as he studied me almost curiously. Like no one had ever talked to him this way.

"You always talk to customers like that?” he asked calmly.

“Only the ones who deserve it.”

He glanced at my name tag. “Rosalie.”

The way he said it made my name sound expensive, like it didn’t belong on a waitress apron.

“Well, Rosalie,” he said, voice low and lethal, “you’re fired. You don't have to wait for your manager to run along and drag you out.”

 I turned and looked at Maria, she looked away.

“I figured.”

I untied my apron and threw it on his table, the fabric landing beside his untouched glass of water. I didn’t even look back as I walked toward the exit. My hands were shaking, my chest tight with a mix of panic and pride.

It started raining and I ran home screaming and crying, not in agony but in joy of finally finding freedom. Freedom from the shackles of a job I'd had since highschool.

 One less job. One more mistake. But for once, I didn’t feel small.

I felt free.

Even if it was the kind of freedom that came with a heavy price.