Chapter two

The crisp scent of expensive cologne filled my nose.

"What do you want, Damien?" I asked, keeping my back to him. I refused to let him see the way my hands were shaking.

"You dropped this."

I turned around slowly, bracing myself. Damien stood there, holding a worn, black ballpoint pen. It was the cheap type that came in a pack of ten, the one I had been using during Psychology class. It looked completely ridiculous in his hand.

I reached out to take it, but he didn't let go immediately.

"You have a lot of nerve calling me out in front of everyone," he said quietly. The bored expression he wore in the student center was gone.

"I was just greeting an old acquaintance," I replied, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. "Or is that against the Westridge social code?"

Damien let go of the pen suddenly, stepping back. He looked down at me with an unreadable expression.

"Let's get one thing straight, Elena," he said, and the way he spoke my name made a shiver run down my spine. "We aren't acquaintances. My family paid your mother for a service, nothing more. Whatever childhood nostalgia you're holding onto, drop it. Stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours."

He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of students heading toward the parking lot.

I stood there alone on the path, my fingers tightly gripping the cheap plastic pen. My heart was still racing, but the humiliation from earlier had completely vanished, replaced by a cold, burning irritation.

He thought he could scare me off. He thought a few cruel words would make me pack my bags and run back to my old life. But he didn't know what it took for me to get here.

I tucked the pen into my pocket and turned back toward the freshman dorms. Damien Blake wanted me to stay out of his way, but this was a small campus, and I wasn't planning on hiding in the shadows anymore.

---

The walk back to the apartment was always the longest part of my day.

By the time I pushed open the warped wooden door of my house, the silence inside told me everything I needed to know. The stench of stale alcohol was all over the place.

My father was lying on the living room floor, one arm flung out carelessly, an empty bottle resting inches from his dirty sneakers. I didn't check to see if he was breathing, because I already knew the pattern. A year ago, the sight would have left me heartbroken. Now? I barely even blinked. I had accepted a long time ago that this was the way we lived. I walked right past him, my shoes clicking softly on the linoleum. This was the tax for staying alive. My mother wasn't here to buffer the blows or pretend we were a normal family anymore. She was confined to a hospital bed, leaving me alone in the ring.

I leaned against the kitchen counter, pouring myself a glass of tap water. Then drank it in one gulp.

My mind kept looping back to the short conversation with Damien.

"Arrogant, heartless bastard," I muttered into the empty kitchen. I gripped the edge of the counter until I couldn't keep it contained. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

A groan from the living room interrupted.

Behind me, my father stirred, dragging himself up from the floor. The stupor was wearing off.

The stench of stale alcohol rolled off him as he staggered to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded. He stumbled forward, using the doorframe to steady himself. "Where's the food? I've been waiting here for hours."

"There is no food," I said, keeping my voice flat. "I just walked through the door. I haven't cooked anything."

"Don't lie to me!" he roared.

Before I could move away, his hand clamped onto my shoulder, swinging me around. The force of the movement sent my water glass shattering into the sink. He didn't care. His fingers dug into my arm, and before I could pull myself free, his open palm struck the side of my face.

The impact snapped my head back. I stumbled against the counter. I felt the room was spinning.

"You think because you go to that fancy school now you can treat me like garbage?" he growled. He didn't wait for an answer. His hands pulled the strap of my backpack, ripping it from my shoulder with enough force to snap the plastic buckle.

"Stop it! Please!" I choked out, reaching for the bag, but he shoved me back onto the floor.

He unzipped the main compartment and turned it completely upside down. My textbooks, the cheap pack of pens, my notebook, and my small cosmetic pouch clattered onto the floor. Among the mess, a small envelope containing my remaining cash slid out.

His eyes lit up with a sickening greed. He grabbed the bills, counting them with clumsy, trembling fingers. It was every single cent I had left from my previous cleaning job. The money I had meticulously budgeted to last the entire week. The money meant to buy broth and soft food for my mother so she wouldn't have to eat the gray hospital slop.

"This will do," he muttered, stuffing the crumpled bills into his front pocket. He didn't look at me twice as he gathered himself and turned toward the front door.

"Please," I whispered. "Leave something. Just five dollars. I need to buy her medicine tomorrow."

He didn't even pause. The front door slammed shut behind him, the lock rattling in its frame.

I collapsed entirely onto the floor, my knees pulled tightly to my chest as the first sob broke through my throat. I cried bitterly.

It wasn't the first time he had done this. It wasn't the fifteenth time either. I knew the routine by heart. I knew that fighting back only resulted in fractured bones and darker bruises, a lesson reinforced by a neighborhood culture that looked the other way whenever a father decided to discipline his house.

I sat amidst my scattered school supplies, staring at the empty space where my week’s survival had just been stolen. If I didn't find a way to get money by tomorrow evening, he would come back demanding another meal, and the violence would only escalate.

Going to classes tomorrow seemed like a joke. How could I sit in a lecture hall listening to economic theories while my mother’s hospital account was in arrears and my kitchen cabinets were entirely bare? I needed a job, and I needed it tonight.

I slowly stood up from the floor.

I checked the front lock twice, making sure the bolt was fully engaged. Then, I pulled out my phone, opening every local employment forum and gig app I had registered on months ago.

A notification badge flashed on my primary email account.

I tapped it open, expecting another automated rejection letter from a retail store. Instead, the subject line read Direct Inquiry - Private Service Placement.

My eyes scanned the text rapidly. It wasn't a generic mass email. The message stated that my profile on the university employment board had been pulled directly, and the sender was requesting an interview immediately. The compensation listed at the bottom was more than I earned in three months at my old job. It looked fake. Who says I can't try my luck? Anything could come from it.

The address attached was in the most residential district bordering the Westridge campus.