I wake to sunlight cutting through my thin curtains, harsh and unwelcome. It is the kind of light that does not comfort you. It exposes you. My head pounds behind my eyes, my throat feels scraped raw, and my mouth tastes metallic, like I spent the night chewing iron instead of sleeping.
I blink against the glare and want to roll over and disappear, but the day has already begun without me. It is loud, intrusive, and completely indifferent to the fact that I went through hell twelve hours ago. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that last night actually happened. That Adrian's voice really cut through me. That I really walked out of his penthouse carrying checks that feel more like restraints than relief.
I push the blanket aside and sit up slowly. The mattress springs groan as if they resent me for waking. The house is already awake. Voices and movement bleed through the walls. The kettle whistles in the kitchen. My mother clatters dishes in that tense, repetitive way she uses when she is worried but pretending not to be. My father coughs softly, careful not to draw attention to himself even though the quiet is already gone.
They will ask how the night went. They did not want me to go, even though they trust Mia and believe she would never put me in danger. They will expect reassurance. They will wait for the familiar thin smile I always give them, the one that says everything is under control when it is not. I do not have the energy to pretend this morning. Not after last night. Not after him.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Mia.
Her name lights up the screen, bright and hopeful, completely out of step with the heaviness in my chest. I open her messages anyway.
Did everything go okay?
Did he treat you well?
Did you get paid?
My mum will be getting surgery. Can you be with me today?
My chest tightens as I read them. There are too many questions and too much innocence in every line. She thinks I spent the night politely entertaining a lonely old man for quick cash. She has no idea about Adrian. No idea what he did or what he made me endure. She still believes the world is kinder than it is. She still believes last night was just work.
I silence the phone and stand. My legs feel heavy, like I am moving through thick water.
The nightstand feels wrong under my hand as I open the drawer. Two checks stare back at me. Fifteen thousand. Five thousand. Ten crisp hundred dollar bills. They look obscene here, like money dropped onto a child's table. The morning light hits the edges of the checks, making them glow in a way that feels accusing. Hope printed on paper. Ruin disguised as rescue.
My father's debt presses in on me, hot and close, like something breathing at the back of my neck. I shut the drawer before the numbers can take shape in my head. None of this money is free. None of it is clean.
The memory comes anyway. My father doubled over in pain. The sound of his ribs cracking. My mother screaming his name. Men laughing while he begged for time. I remember stepping in front of him, shaking and furious and terrified, telling them to deal with me instead. Only me. I remember the way they laughed. I remember that they listened.
I close the drawer hard and go to the bathroom.
I splash cold water on my face and let it run down my neck, trying to steady myself. The mirror shows someone I barely recognize. Red eyes. Cracked lips. Tangled hair from a night of restless sleep and things I refuse to name. I look like someone who survived something and is not sure how.
I already know I will have to lie about last night. I will have to invent a version I can live with. A version where nothing broke open. A version where Adrian Vale does not exist.
My phone buzzes again.
An unknown number.
My stomach tightens. I know who it is before I read the message.
Where is the payment?
You are nearly out of time.
We are coming for your dad very soon.
The debt collectors. Of course. Their timing is perfect in the worst way. They always know when fear is sharpest. I stare at the message until my jaw aches from clenching. They never cared about emotional damage. They proved that the day they came to our house and destroyed what little safety we had left.
The memory crashes over me. My father begging. One man punching him hard enough to drop him. My mother screaming. My hands shaking so badly I could barely make a call. I remember standing between them, shielding my father with my body, telling them to call me instead. Only me.
They laughed. They always laugh.
I text back before I can stop myself.
I am working on it. You will get it. Stop threatening me.
Their reply comes instantly.
We do not want promises. We want the money.
You have until next Tuesday. No extensions.
Tuesday. Less than ten days. Half a million dollars. A dry laugh scratches its way out of my throat. As if money appears when you need it most. As if they did not watch me fail again and again.
I drop the phone onto the sink and grip the counter. The room tilts. Everything presses in at once. My father's debt. Mia's mother's surgery. The checks. Adrian's face. Adrian's voice. Every man with power over my life wants something. Money. Silence. Compliance. Pieces of me I cannot afford to lose.
None of it feels like mercy.
I breathe in slowly and wipe my face. I straighten my shoulders. I lift my chin. I do not have the option of falling apart today.
Back in my room, the checks wait in the drawer like both promise and threat. I ignore them and get dressed. Jeans. An old sweater. Shoes worn thin at the soles. Nothing impressive. Just clothes that feel like armor.
My phone buzzes again.
A new message stops me cold.
JT: I heard you are still in trouble, and cant't make the payment. Come to my office tomorrow. Let us see what we can work out.
My pulse jumps, then settles into something sharp and cold. Of course Jaden Taemin would appear now. He always knows when I am vulnerable. Just like eight years ago at university, when his help came with strings I barely escaped.
It cost me everything back then. My reputation. My freedom. Adrian.
He has been sending me texts like these since my father got in money troubles.
I stare at the message until the screen dims, then look at my reflection in the window.
"This morning," I whisper, "I am not the girl who broke. I am the girl who survived."
I say it as if they are all standing in front of me. Jaden, who used me. Adrian, who broke me. The debt collectors who hunt me.
Everyone wants something.
And I am still standing.