The bus rumbled through the neon-lit streets of Los Angeles, its tires shaking against the pavement as it made its way from the bright lights of Beverly Hills to the gritty core of Echo Park. Catherine Lane slumped into a worn vinyl seat in the back. Her body was tired, but her mind was racing and wouldn't stop. She put her black vest and pants, which were part of her temporary uniform, into her rucksack and put on her old jeans and faded hoodie instead. The $350 in crisp bills and crumpled twenties in her pocket felt like a modest protest against the poverty that had become her constant companion. It was more money than she'd seen in one night since the fall, and it was confirmation that she could still make it, that she could still live.
But just staying alive wasn't living. Catherine pushed her forehead against the cool window as the bus rocked over a pothole on Sunset Boulevard. She watched the city's underbelly flicker by: graffiti-covered walls, flickering streetlights, and the rare group of late-night wanderers huddled in doorways. The beauty of the gala felt like a distant dream now, tainted by the one moment that refused to fade—Liam Scott's voice, warm and unexpected, uttering her name like it meant something. Catherine. Fitting. "Like the saint, strength in hard times."
She snorted gently to herself, the sound lost in the hum of other passengers. Strength? What a joke. If he knew the truth—the hollow hurting where her child should have been, the doctor's words echoing like a curse—he'd recognize her for what she was: a shadow, drifting through days without purpose. The encounter had been polite, professional even. Nothing more. Billionaires like Liam didn't notice waitstaff beyond a tip or a thank-you. And yet, his blue eyes had lingered, crinkling with a curiosity that pierced her carefully built shields.
The bus came to a stop at her corner, and Catherine gathered her things, heading into the night air laden with the perfume of exhaust and flowering night jasmine from a nearby fence. Echo Park was peaceful at this hour, the lake's surface still beneath the moon's pale light, yet the neighborhood never fully slept. A faraway siren blasted, a reminder of the city's restless pulse. Her apartment building loomed ahead—a three-story walk-up with peeling paint and a flickering neon sign that read "Vacancy" like a perpetual reproach.
She climbed the stairs to the second floor, keys jingling in her hand. The corridor smelled of rancid frying oil and mild weed, neighbors' lives pouring through thin walls. Unlocking her door, she stepped inside the murky room, flicking on the lone overhead bulb. The apartment was a testimony to her stripped-down existence: a sagging couch facing a blank TV, a kitchenette scattered with mismatched dishes, and a bedroom seen via an open door where the bed sat unmade. No images on the walls—no evidence of life before. She'd packed up the family albums months ago, unable to stand the smiles trapped in time.
Dropping her backpack, Catherine hurried straight into the kitchen. The tips burnt a hole in her pocket; she ripped them out, tossing them on the counter like a gambler's treasures. Three hundred fifty dollars. Enough to cover rent arrears and maybe a week's groceries without rationing. She organized the cash into piles—essentials, a buffer, and a small "just in case" stack. Practicality was her armor now, the only thing holding the darkness at bay.
Hunger gnawed at her, but the gala's supplied hors d'oeuvres—tiny crab cakes and caviar toasts—had filled her more than expected. Still, she microwaved a frozen burrito, the steam imparting a bland, calming aroma. As she ate standing at the counter, her phone chimed. Sarah.
How'd the gig go? Spill the tea! Glamorous celebs? Spill any secrets?
Catherine nibbled carefully, thumbs hovering over the screen. Honesty warred with her instinct to withdraw. It was fine. Good tips. Met some rich folks.
A pause, then: Fine? That's code for boring. Come on, Cat. You need this—fun, people, life! Movie tomorrow?
Maybe. She pushed send, then shut off the phone. Sarah's determination was a lifeline, but tonight, Catherine needed silence. The burrito finished, she cleaned the dish, the hot water stinging her hands—a tiny pain to ground her.
In the bathroom, she stripped for a shower, the mirror fogging before she could avoid her reflection. Steam rose as water hit her skin, clearing away the faint smells of champagne and perfume from the ballroom. But they couldn't wipe off the images that surfaced unbidden: the doctor's office at Cedars-Sinai, the sterile white walls closing in as Dr. Hayes delivered the decision. "The scarring is too significant, Catherine. Natural conception... it's unlikely. But there are options—IVF, adoption. You can still have a family."
Options. Empty words for a woman who'd squandered her opportunity at the most fundamental miracle. The water turned frigid before she stepped out, toweling dry with mechanical strokes. Dressed in big pajamas, she curled up on the couch, pulling a throw blanket over her legs. Sleep beckoned, but the blackness within reflected the night outside—oppressive, persistent.
Her imagination recreated the gala in fragments: the chandeliers' brightness, the twins' excitement as Liam carried them onto his shoulders. Victor, the boy, with his mop of dark curls and irrepressible grin; Lois, the girl, clutching a stuffed bear, her eyes wide with surprise. They were the same age her child would have been in a few years—innocent, full of possibilities. Watching them had stirred something dangerous: envy, sharp as broken glass, coupled with a need she believed she'd buried.
"Why them and not me?" The whisper escaped her lips, swallowed by the room's silence. Tears squeezed, but she blinked them back. No more tears. It solved nothing. Instead, she pulled a notepad off the coffee table—a cheap spiral-bound device where she jotted to-do lists and weird musings. Tonight, it became a confessional.
Pros of the gala job: Money. A break from dinner. Felt... normal for a bit.
Cons: Rich people staring. Memories of what I lost. That guy—Liam. Why did he talk to me?
She paused, pen hovering. Liam Scott. In her past life, she'd known him peripherally—headlines about his tech company transforming renewable energy, his foundation's galas dominating society pages. Widowed young, raising twins alone. A tragic hero in the tabloids. But up close, he was real: a tall frame filling out his tux, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes that appeared to see through facades. His compliment had been casual, yet it lasted like a flame in dried tinder.
Stupid, she scrawled. He's out of your league. Focus on survival.
The clock on the microwave said 11:47 PM. She should sleep—another dinner shift before daybreak. But restlessness won. Catherine threw on sneakers and stepped out. The night airs a balm against her skin. Echo Park Lake was a short hike, its trails lit by infrequent lighting. She joined the nocturnal strollers: dog walkers, couples hand-in-hand, the rare jogger. The water lapped gently, swans gliding like ghosts.
Sitting on a seat, she watched a family across the lake—parents holding a stroller, their kid smiling at fireflies. The sight twisted the knife. Flashbacks hit: her own nursery ideas, the scan where she'd first heard the heartbeat, a short flutter like butterfly wings. "It's a girl," the teacher had said, and Catherine had cried tears of pleasure, her parents grinning alongside her.
Gone. All gone. The grief swelled, deep and familiar, yet now it held an edge of rage. Why had the universe singled her out? Her parents' accident—a drunk motorist on the freeway. Her pregnancy—a painful problem. The infertility—a final insult. She clutched her knees, moving slightly, the bench's wood digging into her back.
A voice shattered the reverie. "Rough night?"
Catherine startled, head snapping up. An elderly woman, maybe sixty, sat at the bench's end—gray hair in a bun, a thermos in hand. She appeared innocuous, a regular, perhaps.
"Just thinking," Catherine whispered, wiping her eyes.
The woman nodded, unscrewing her thermos. "This lake's fantastic for that. Seen a lot of folks like you—lost in the sauce. Name's Rosa. I feed the ducks most nights."
Catherine hesitated, walked up. But alone seemed heavier tonight. "Catherine."
Rosa poured seed into her palm, offering some. "Ducks don't judge. Neither do I. What's eating you, if you don't mind?"
The words flowed out before she could stop them—fragments, not the complete horror. The accident. The job grind. The emptiness. Rosa listened, nodding, her gaze kind but not pitying.
"Loss shapes us, Mija. But it doesn't have to break us. I lost my husband to cancer, my son to the streets. Still here, feeding ducks. Find your anchors—small ones. A career, a comrade, even a stranger's ear."
Catherine took the seed, tossing it toward the water. Ducks quacked, paddling over. "Anchors. Yeah. Mine sank."
Rosa chuckled lightly. "Then make new ones. Start tomorrow."
They sat in companionable silence till the chill grew. Catherine thanked her, walking home with a lighter step—not healed, but less alone. Inside, she dropped into bed, sleep gripping her immediately.
Dawn approached at about 5:30 AM, hazy light pouring through ragged draperies. Catherine whimpered, alarm sounding. The diner awaited—no time for introspection. She dressed hurriedly, ponytail in place, face scrubbed neutral. Breakfast: coffee and bread, the routine a shield.
The walk to work was crowded, the neighborhood awakening with sales representatives and school buses. Echo Park Diner buzzed from the start—Marge yelling commands, the grill sizzling. Catherine dove in, tray balanced, orders called.
"Morning, survivor," Marge mocked as she passed. "Heard the gala was a hit. Tips buying' you a vacation?"
Catherine managed a half-smile. "Bills first."
The spike peaked with the classic suspects: contractors nursing hangovers, women with babies in tow. At one table, a young girl—blonde curls, missing tooth—stared at Catherine with huge eyes. "You look like a princess!"
The remarks hit like a gut punch. Catherine managed a grin, serving her breakfast. "Eat up, kiddo." Inside, rage roiled. Princess? More like a fallen queen.
Mid-morning calm delivered a surprise: Sarah, sliding into a booth with a grin. "Surprise attack! Coffee and company."
Catherine poured, glad despite herself. "What brought you to this side of town?"
"Checking on my favorite hermit. And hearing about Mr. Tall, Dark, and Billionaire," Sarah's eyes glittered. "You mentioned rich folks. Details!"
Catherine rolled her eyes, wiping the table. "It was work. Served beverages, cleaned plates. One guy—the host—spilled something. I cleaned it. He was... wonderful."
Sarah leaned in. "Nice, how? Flirty nice? Come on, Cat. Live a little."
"Not flirty. Polite." But her cheeks warmed, betraying her.
Sarah squealed. "I knew it! Progress. Invite me to the wedding."
"Shut up." Laughter bubbled—real this time. Sarah stayed for an hour, gossip flowing like the coffee refills. It was a balm, drawing Catherine from her loneliness.
Lunch hit hard: a tour bus unloading near the lake, overwhelming the café with famished sightseers. Catherine hustled, sweat flowing, yet the tips piled up. By 2 PM, the shift had ended, she felt... functional. Surviving.
Home for a nap, then errands: bank deposit, grocery run. The five grand from the estate sat secure, a buffer. At the market, she splurged—a fresh apple, its crimson peel crisp. Small anchors, Rosa had commented.
Evening brought contemplation. Catherine brought out the journal again.
Today: Talked to a stranger. Laughed with Sarah. Felt the blackness, but didn't drown.
A knock interrupted—unexpected. Marge, with a Tupperware of lasagna. "Heard you had a good night. Eat authentic cuisine for once."
Gratitude swelled. "Thanks, Marge."
Alone again, she ate, the warmth filling more than her stomach. TV flickered on—a foolish sitcom, laughing fake but infectious. For the first time in months, she watched without changing the station.
Night fell, the metropolis bustling outside. Catherine stood at her window, viewing the shimmering lights. The gala's blaze lingered—Liam's smile, the twins' enthusiasm. Not hope, not yet. But a split in the gloom, allowing in slivers of light.
Across the city, in the Hollywood Hills, Liam Scott put his children into bed, their concerns about the "pretty lady who helped" resonating in his thoughts. Catherine. A name, a mystery. Little did he know, her survival was just beginning, and their worlds were getting closer.
The darkness lingered, but Catherine Lane was learning to traverse it—one step, one anchor at a time.