CHAPTER 4 - THE FIRST DAY OF NOTHING

THE FIRST DAY OF NOTHING

I woke up because my back screamed.

Not the gentle stretch kind of scream. The sharp, unforgiving pain that shot straight up my spine and forced a groan out of my throat. I rolled to my side and the bed answered with a loud squeak, like it was mocking me.

I opened my eyes.

The ceiling stared back at me, cracked and yellowed, with a dead insect trapped in the corner. For a second, I didn’t understand where I was. My mind reached for silk sheets, blackout curtains, the quiet hum of air conditioning.

Then reality slammed into me.

The motel.

The smell hit me next. Damp fabric. Old smoke. Something sour hiding under it all. I sat up slowly, my muscles protesting like I’d slept on concrete. The thin mattress dipped in the middle, offering no support at all.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood.

Pain lanced through my lower back.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

I used to sleep on a custom orthopedic bed flown in from Europe. Now this thing felt like punishment.

I shuffled into the bathroom and immediately wished I hadn’t. The mirror was cracked down the middle, slicing my reflection in half. The sink had stains that refused to identify themselves. I turned on the tap and the water came out weak and brown for a second before clearing.

I stared at myself.

My hair was tangled. My eyes were swollen. My face looked tired in a way I’d never seen before. No makeup artist. No skincare routine. No one knocking on the door to ask what I wanted for breakfast.

Just me.

I splashed water on my face, scrubbing harder than necessary, like I could wash the anger off. It didn’t work.

“That wicked old man,” I muttered. “Manipulative. Cruel.”

My grandfather’s face flashed in my mind. Calm. Unmoved. Disappointed.

I slammed my palm against the sink.

“I’ll show you,” I whispered. “I’ll show all of you.”

My stomach growled loudly, cutting through my thoughts. Hunger twisted inside me, sharp and demanding. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

I changed into the least wrinkled clothes I had and stepped outside. The morning air was cool but heavy with the smell of the street. Cars passed. People walked with purpose. No one looked at me twice.

I found a small food stand down the block. The menu was handwritten, prices circled in red. Cheap. Embarrassingly cheap.

I ordered the smallest thing available and paid in cash. As the vendor counted my change slowly, I felt every second stretch like an insult.

This was my life now. Counting money.

I ate standing up, chewing fast, barely tasting anything. It filled my stomach but did nothing for my pride.

After that, I started walking.

I walked into shops, offices, cafés. Anywhere with a sign that hinted at work. My heels clicked confidently at first. By the third rejection, they slowed.

“No experience.”

“We’re not hiring.”

“You don’t seem like a good fit.”

One woman looked me up and down and said, “Try somewhere else.”

At a small café, I lost my patience.

“Do you know who I am?” I snapped. “I don’t need experience. I learn fast.”

The manager frowned. “This isn’t the place for you.”

I left before I said something worse.

By midday, my head throbbed and my feet hurt. Sweat clung to my skin. My confidence cracked in places I didn’t want to acknowledge.

I was crossing the street when I saw it.

A bar.

Not flashy. Not elegant. Just a modest building with dark windows and a wooden sign that read The Rusty Clover. It looked quiet. Closed, maybe. Or just not busy.

I hesitated.

Bars weren’t my world. But desperation pushed me forward.

I stepped inside.

The smell of alcohol, wood, and cleaning supplies hit me immediately. The place was dim, empty except for one man behind the counter wiping glasses. He didn’t look up at first.

“I’m looking for a job,” I said.

He lifted his head slowly.

And everything inside me paused.

He was tall. Broad shoulders. Rolled-up sleeves revealing strong forearms marked with faint scars. His face was sharp, unreadable, eyes dark and calm in a way that irritated me instantly.

He looked me over once. Slowly. Not impressed.

“We’re not hiring,” he said.

“I didn’t ask if you were,” I replied. “I said I’m looking for a job.”

His eyebrow lifted slightly. “Same answer.”

I stepped closer to the counter. “I can clean. Serve. Manage. Whatever you need.”

He studied me again, this time with more focus. Like he was measuring something invisible.

“You’ve never worked a day in your life,” he said flatly.

Anger sparked. “You don’t know me.”

“I know your hands,” he replied. “Too soft.”

I clenched them into fists. “I can learn.”

He leaned back slightly. “What’s your name?”

“Vindel.”

“Last name?”

I hesitated. Just for a second.

“Holt.”

Something shifted in his eyes. Not recognition. Not fear. Just interest.

“Right,” he said. “And I’m supposed to believe that.”

“I don’t care what you believe,” I snapped. “I need work.”

Silence stretched between us. The bar felt too quiet.

He sighed and set the glass down. “I don’t need trouble.”

“I’m not trouble.”

He gave a short laugh. “Everyone who says that is.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then stopped.

I swallowed.

“Please,” I said, the word bitter on my tongue.

He watched me closely. Really watched me this time. The exhaustion. The anger. The hunger I couldn’t hide anymore.

Finally, he spoke. “I’ll give you one day.”

My heart jumped. “One day?”

“You clean. You listen. You don’t talk back,” he said. “You mess up, you’re gone.”

“I don’t mess up,” I said automatically.

His gaze hardened. “You talk back again, you’re gone.”

I nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

He tossed me a rag. “Start with the tables.”

I stared at the rag like it was an insult.

Then I took it.

The first table was sticky. The second smelled like old beer. My nose wrinkled. My hands moved awkwardly, unsure. My back already hurt from the morning.

I scrubbed harder.

Minutes passed. Then more.

Sweat formed at my temples. My arms ached. My fingers cramped.

“Slower,” he said from behind the counter. “You’re splashing.”

“I’m cleaning,” I replied sharply.

He appeared beside me so suddenly I startled.

“Don’t tell me what you’re doing,” he said quietly. “Do it right.”

I glared at him. “Who do you think you are?”

“Your boss,” he replied. “For today.”

I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood.

Hours dragged by.

I cleaned floors. I wiped counters. I carried trash out back and gagged at the smell. My pride screamed louder than my muscles.

At one point, I dropped a bottle.

It shattered.

The sound echoed through the bar.

I froze.

He looked at the mess, then at me. “Clean it up.”

No yelling. No insults.

Somehow, that was worse.

I knelt and picked up the shards carefully, my knees pressing into the hard floor. My chest burned with humiliation.

This was what my grandfather wanted.

By evening, my body felt like it was falling apart. My clothes were damp. My hair stuck to my face. I wanted to scream.

The man watched me silently as I finished the last task.

“You’re done,” he said.

I straightened slowly. “So?”

“So you survived,” he replied. “That’s more than most.”

I waited.

“You can come back tomorrow,” he added. “Same rules.”

I nodded once. “What’s your name?”

He paused. “Zayden.”

I turned toward the door, exhaustion weighing every step.

Outside, the sky was painted orange and purple. My hands trembled. My feet throbbed.

But I was still standing.

I walked back toward the motel, slower now, different.

I hated the work.

I hated the bar.

I hated him.

But somewhere deep inside, buried under anger and pride, something else stirred.

For the first time since I’d left the mansion, the world hadn’t laughed at me.

And that scared me more than anything.