CHAPTER 5 - THE DAY I MET MR. MARK

THE DAY I MET MR. MARK

I woke up late.

Not the graceful kind of late where the sun is soft and forgiving. The ugly kind. The kind where your eyes snap open and your heart jumps straight into your throat because you already know you’ve ruined something.

The room was hot. The motel fan rattled uselessly in the corner. My phone lay face-down on the table, dead. I must have slept through the alarm. Of course I did.

“Damn it,” I muttered, throwing the blanket aside.

My body protested the moment my feet hit the floor. Every muscle screamed like it had been beaten with a rod overnight. My back still hadn’t forgiven me for the bed. My hands were sore from scrubbing yesterday. My shoulders felt stiff, heavy.

I didn’t even bother with the mirror this time.

I washed my face, pulled my hair into a messy knot, grabbed my bag, and rushed out. No makeup. No perfume. No careful outfit selection. Just speed and panic.

I got to the bar late.

Very late.

Music blasted from inside, loud enough to vibrate through the walls. Voices overlapped. Laughter burst out in sharp waves. Cars were parked everywhere. Men stood outside smoking, some with their arms slung possessively around women dressed like they belonged somewhere better than this bar.

My stomach dropped.

I pushed through the door.

The noise swallowed me whole.

The Rusty Clover was packed. Every table was occupied. Bottles lined the counter. Glasses clinked. Someone shouted for more drinks. Someone else laughed too loud.

Zayden saw me the moment I stepped in.

His eyes locked onto mine from behind the bar. Calm. Sharp. Dangerous.

You’re dead, my brain whispered.

He strode toward me, wiping his hands on a towel. “You’re late.”

“I—” I started.

“You slept past your bedtime,” he said flatly.

I clenched my jaw. “I didn’t—”

“I said don’t talk back,” he cut in.

My face burned. “I’m sorry.”

The word tasted awful.

He stared at me for a long second, then looked around the bar. Chaos. Absolute chaos.

“Go,” he said sharply. “Apron. Now.”

I blinked. “I’m not fired?”

“Do you want to be?” he asked.

I grabbed an apron and tied it clumsily around my waist.

The moment I stepped behind the counter, reality slapped me again.

Everything moved too fast.

Orders came from every direction. Drinks. Coffee. Wipes. Clean glasses. Someone snapped their fingers at me like I was invisible. Someone else yelled, “Hey! Miss! Over here!”

My head spun.

I tried to help. I really did. But I kept bumping into things. My hands felt disconnected from my brain. I knocked over a stack of napkins. Spilled sugar. Nearly dropped a tray.

“Careful!” someone shouted.

“I am being careful,” I snapped before I could stop myself.

That earned me a dirty look.

Men sat with their girlfriends, arms tight around waists, eyes roaming anyway. Some looked at me openly. Others didn’t bother hiding it.

One man whistled.

“Smile, sweetheart,” he said.

I ignored him.

Another leaned closer when I passed. “You look angry. That’s cute.”

I clenched my teeth.

At one table, a woman eyed me from head to toe and scoffed. “She doesn’t even know what she’s doing.”

I pretended not to hear.

At another, a man laughed when I fumbled with his change. “Are you new or just stupid?”

That one landed hard.

I straightened. “You don’t get to speak to me like that.”

He laughed louder. “You’re a waitress.”

The word felt like a slap.

I walked away before I did something worse.

By mid-morning, my feet were on fire. My apron was stained. My hair had come loose and stuck to my face. Sweat dampened my back.

I started talking too much.

Not because I wanted to. Because silence felt heavier.

I joked with a woman about her shoes. Smiled at a man who tipped me two dollars like it was charity. Laughed when someone called me clumsy.

It felt wrong. But it felt better than being invisible.

Then it happened.

I was carrying a tray with two coffees and one glass of water. My hands were shaky. Someone bumped into me from behind. Hard.

I stumbled.

Time slowed.

The tray tilted.

“No—” I breathed.

The coffee flew.

It landed squarely on a woman seated at a corner table.

Hot, dark liquid soaked the front of her white dress. Splashed onto her lap. Her handbag. Her shoes.

The bar went silent.

The woman screamed.

“Oh my God!” she shrieked, jumping to her feet. “What is wrong with you?!”

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered, my heart slamming against my ribs. “I didn’t mean to—”

“My dress!” she yelled. “Do you know how much this cost?!”

Her husband stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. His face was red. Furious.

“Are you blind?” he shouted, stepping toward me.

“I said I’m sorry!” My voice shook.

“Sorry won’t fix this!” he barked. “You ruined her dress!”

People gathered. Whispers spread. Eyes burned into me.

“Calm down,” someone said from behind him.

“Accidents happen,” another voice added.

The man ignored them, pointing a finger inches from my face. “You think this is funny?”

“No!” I shouted, panic spilling over. “I don’t!”

The woman was near tears, dabbing uselessly at the stain. “This was brand new!”

“I’ll pay,” I blurted.

The words slipped out before my brain caught up.

The husband laughed, harsh and ugly. “With what? Your attitude?”

That one broke something inside me.

“I said I’ll pay!” I repeated, louder, even though my stomach twisted because I knew I couldn’t.

Zayden appeared then.

He stepped between us without touching me, his presence alone shifting the air.

“That’s enough,” he said calmly.

The man scoffed. “Your staff just ruined my wife’s dress.”

“I’ll handle it,” Zayden replied. “Please sit down.”

“She should be fired,” the woman snapped.

Zayden looked at me briefly. His eyes gave nothing away.

“Go to the back,” he said quietly.

My legs felt weak as I turned and walked away.

The storage room smelled like cleaning chemicals and old wood. I leaned against the wall, breathing hard, hands trembling.

I had never been that humiliated in my life.

Not when I screamed at servants. Not when I broke things. Not even when my card declined.

This was different.

This was public.

This was small.

I pressed my fists into my eyes, refusing to cry. I would not cry. I wouldn’t give them that.

A few minutes later, Zayden came in.

“You okay?” he asked, not unkind, not gentle either.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” I said stiffly.

“I know,” he replied.

I swallowed. “Am I fired?”

He studied me. “No.”

Relief hit so hard my knees nearly buckled.

“But,” he continued, “you need to slow down.”

“I’m trying,” I snapped, then winced. “I mean… I am.”

He nodded once. “Go wash your hands. Then come back. And stay out of people’s way.”

I did as he said.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of embarrassment and exhaustion. I spilled nothing else, but I broke a glass. Apologized more times than I could count. Endured stares. Whispers. Judgment.

By the time the crowd thinned, I felt hollowed out.

my shift didn't end yet, I untied the apron with stiff fingers.

I walked to a corner, my head down.

That day had taken something from me already and it wasn't over.

I dragged a chair from the corner and let myself fall into it.

“Oh my God,” I whispered the moment I sat down.

Pain shot through my waist so sharply I gasped, my body folding slightly as if my spine might snap at any second. Every muscle screamed. My feet throbbed. My hands trembled. I had never been this tired in my entire life.

I leaned back, closing my eyes for just one second.

That was when I felt it.

A stare.

I opened my eyes and noticed a man at the far end of the bar. He sat alone, holding a small burger in one hand, his gaze fixed on me over the top of it. He wasn’t hiding it. Just watching. Studying.

I shifted uncomfortably.

After a while, he lifted two fingers and motioned for me to come over.

I hesitated. Then sighed and pushed myself up, my waist protesting as I walked toward him.

“Yes?” I asked, keeping my tone flat.

He smiled. “You look exhausted.”

I didn’t respond.

He leaned closer. “What’s your name?”

“Vindel,” I said shortly.

“I’m Mark,” he replied. “Can I get your number?”

I frowned. “Why?”

He laughed softly. “Because I’d like to know you.”

That was when I realized it.

He wasn’t asking about the menu. He wasn’t asking for service.

He was flirting.

Annoyance flared inside me. I straightened. “I’m working,” I said coldly. “If you need something, order from the counter.”

I turned to leave.

“Wait,” he said quickly.

I stopped, irritated.

He reached into his wallet and pulled out a bill, holding it out between his fingers.

One hundred dollars.

I froze.

My breath caught in my throat.

A hundred dollars.

That single bill suddenly looked like everything. Food. Transport. A night without fear. A cushion between me and disaster.

“I just wanted to talk,” he said calmly. “No pressure.”

My pride screamed at me to walk away.

My reality told me not to.

I swallowed and took the bill with shaking fingers. “Thank you,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop myself.

He smiled wider. “You’re welcome.”

He talked.

About how he liked my attitude. How strong I seemed. How he wanted us to be friends.

Friends.

Then he said it.

“I’m staying at a hotel nearby,” he added casually.

“Why don’t you come by later? I’ll text you the address and time.”

My stomach tightened.

I nodded slowly, my mind racing, the hundred-dollar bill burning against my palm as the question echoed in my head.

How much was dignity worth… when survival was on the line…