Chapter 2

Beatrice

I wake up groggy but alert. The kind of sleep where your body goes through the motions of rest, but your mind never shuts the hell up. I feel like I've been awake all night inside a sleeping body, stuck in panic. My sheets are twisted around me, and the first thing I notice is the pit in my stomach.

I bolt upright, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free. A quick squint at my cracked screen tells me it's six in the damn morning. There isn't a chance in hell of falling back under, so I kick the covers away and swing my legs out. The second my feet hit the cold floor, my stomach doing a violent somersault. The nerves bubble up so sharply that I have to lurch toward the bathroom, one hand clamped over my mouth to keep everything down.

The second I get there, everything comes up.

My knees hit the cold tile as I hunch over the toilet, my body purging everything in a messy, shaking panic. The tension I've been holding onto for the past couple of hours decides it's had enough, and my whole body seems to want out. My insides feel hollow and raw by the time I'm done.

I sit there for a minute, forehead pressed to the wall, trying to breathe through the aftershocks. This is what anxiety does. It takes you hostage. Wears your body like a suit while your thoughts claw at your insides.

I peel myself off the floor and drag my tired limbs into the shower.

I keep the water warm but not too hot, letting it run down my back. I'm careful not to get my braid wet. My skin prickles, my nerves still buzzing. But I force myself to stay under the water. To breathe. To try to reset. Today is important. And even though my body feels like it's revolting against me, I have to pull it together.

After getting out and drying off, I reach for the bottle sitting on the edge of the sink. My favorite body mist. The plastic is cracked near the nozzle, the label curling at the corners, and there's barely anything left inside. I spritz it across my collarbone and wrists. The soft, warm scent of vanilla clings to my skin. I only use it for special occasions. Moments that matter.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and pause.

There are dark circles under my eyes, bruised looking from too many restless nights. My olive complexion looks a shade too pale, anxiety leeching the color from my face. Tension pulls at the corner of my mouth, giving me a tight, forced-lip expression I've perfected over the years. I look tired and worn.

I stare at myself, studying the girl in the glass. She doesn't look glamorous but she looks real. No makeup, there never is. Not because I don't want to feel pretty, but because I've never needed it to know that I am. Even if I don't always feel like it. For one, I can't afford makeup, not the good kind anyway. And two, I've just never felt the urge to cover myself up.

My skin still has that sun kissed glow. My lips are full, naturally tinted. A scatter of freckles dot my small nose, making my honey brown eyes stand out more than they already do with my long, dark eyelashes. My cheekbones sit high. And my jawline is defined and strong. The kind of bone structure people get surgery to mimic.

I rush back into my room, towel wrapped around me, heart pounding as if I'm late although I've got time. That nervous energy won't allow me to move slow, not today.

I yank open my dresser drawers, digging through for anything that doesn't scream broke and desperate. I don't own anything remotely professional. No blazers, no slacks, no button-ups. But I can fake put-together with what I've got.

I settle on a fitted black tank top, making sure it doesn't dip too low in the front. The last thing I want is to look like I'm trying to use my cleavage as a first impression. I pull on a pair of clean black leggings and then throw on a dark green cardigan, one that drapes long enough to cover my ass. It's cozy, casual, but doesn't look like I just rolled out of bed.

And the color? Green always brings something out in my eyes, makes them look warmer. With my long dark hair, now wavy from drying in a braid, it gives me that soft but serious vibe. Approachable. Quiet. Capable. I lace up my simple black sneakers, scuffed but clean.

I grab the little tub of cocoa butter Vaseline off my desk and swipe it over my lips, letting it catch the light just enough to look like lip gloss. A tiny trick I've used since I was sixteen. Cheap and effective.

This is as good as it's going to get.

How the fuck is it already going on 11 AM? My heart leaps when I check the time on my phone. It's 10:43. Shit.

Did I really spend the entire morning pacing, overthinking, and trying on every decent outfit I own? Apparently, yes. Time disappeared in a blur of nerves and internal spiraling.

I grab my phone and rush toward the door. As I step into the living room, I spot my mom sitting on the edge of the couch, her knees pulled up, wrapped in one of her sweatshirts. Her eyes are a little puffy, but she's awake. She gives me a soft smile when I pass by.

"Morning, mom," I say, voice tight. "I'm going to a job interview. Not sure what time I'll be home."

She reaches out and pulls me into a hug, warm and gentle.

Just like that, the comfort of it is ruined. The smell of alcohol on her breath hits me hard, curling in my stomach. It clings to her. My throat tightens, but I don't pull away. I let her hold me.

"Good luck, honey," she murmurs. "Can you pick me up a pack of cigarettes on your way back?"

The twist in my stomach goes deeper. I clench my fist around my phone, but manage a smile. "I'll check my account. If I can swing it, I'll get them for you."

She pats my back, all casual sweetness. "Thank you, baby."

I nod once and step out of the door before she can ask for anything else, swallowing the frustration. I shouldn't be surprised. But still, it hurts.

I sit outside on the cracked concrete steps of my apartment complex, hands clasped tightly in my lap. The sun beats down on the paint and rust-stained railing beside me, warming my legs through my leggings. I'm not sure exactly what time he'll show up, but I'm not taking any chances. I want to be ready.

I can feel the stares from a few neighbors, the same ones who sit out on their balconies chain-smoking. But I ignore them. My knee bounces anxiously. My stomach hasn't settled since I got out of bed.

Then, right on the dot, 11:00 AM, a sleek black Mercedes-Benz glides to a stop in front of the building. It's polished so clean I can see the dull reflection of the run-down street in its door panel. The engine doesn't growl, it purrs. Smooth. Effortless. Totally out of place here.

The car alone is enough to make the neighbors lean forward or peek through the blinds. I hear someone whistle low under their breath.

A man steps out from the driver's seat, maybe in his late fifties or early sixties. He's tall, composed, wearing a tailored black suit. Not a wrinkle in sight. His silver-streaked hair is combed neatly back. He looks professional but not unkind. He rounds the car with ease and opens the back door.

I swallow hard, stand, and wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs before carefully making my way down the steps. My heartbeat is a steady thud in my ears. I take a deep breath and walk toward the car, head help high even if every part of me is shaking inside.

I offer the man a nervous smile, hoping it hides the way my hands are starting the shake. "Miss Salazar?" he asks, his voice smooth and low.

"Yes, sir. That's me," I say, my voice a bit too soft. He extends his hand; clean, firm, calloused, but gentle, and I reach to shake it. My grip is light, almost hesitant, but he doesn't seem to mind. His touch is warm and grounding.

He gives me a small nod, then gestures toward the open back door. "In you go."

I slip inside as gracefully as I can, careful not to scruff up the pristine floor mats. The leather is cool and luxurious against the back of my thighs. It smells like a new car. As soon as my legs are tucked in, he closes the door with a soft click, not the usual slam I'm used to hearing from our busted apartment doors.

He gets back into the driver's seat, buckles up, and pulls off with ease. No jerks, no rattling engine, no nervous glances over his shoulder. This guy is in control. Every movement is calculated and confident.

Fuck. My stomach churns. I press a hand against it. I'm not sure if it's nerves or if I might really throw up. Maybe both.

The man glances at me in the rearview mirror. "What's a sweet girl like you doing in this part of town?"

I clear my throat. "Born and raised here, sir."

It's all I offer. I don't want to get into it. The stains on our walls, the screams in the middle of the night, the booze, the boyfriends. I leave it all unspoken. Wanting to change the subject before he presses further, I ask, "Are you Mr. Morgan?"