Isla POV
The phone rang at exactly 2:47 PM, right when my hands were buried in dirty dishwater at my second job.
I knew before I answered. Hospital billing always called at the worst possible times, like they enjoyed catching you when you couldn't fight back.
"Miss Monroe?" The woman's voice was sharp and cold. "This is Karen from New York General Hospital billing department."
My stomach dropped. I dried my hands on my apron, ignoring my boss's angry look. "Hi, Karen. I'm working right now. Can I call you back—"
"Your mother's account is sixty days past due. Fifteen thousand dollars. We've been patient, Miss Monroe, but our patience has limits."
Fifteen thousand dollars. The number hit me like a punch to the chest.
I stepped into the restaurant's back hallway, away from the lunch rush noise. My hands shook. "I know. I'm working on it. I have three jobs. I'm trying—"
"Trying isn't paying the bill." Karen sounded bored, like she ruined people's lives every day and didn't care anymore. "You have seventy-two hours to pay at least half, or we're transferring your mother to county care."
County care. Where people went to die because the doctors were too busy and the equipment was too old.
"Please," I whispered. "She's getting better. The treatment is working. Just give me more time—"
"Seventy-two hours, Miss Monroe. After that, we move her Friday morning."
She hung up.
I stood in that dirty hallway, surrounded by the smell of grease and old mop water, and wanted to scream. But screaming wouldn't pay bills. Crying wouldn't save Mom.
I had three days to find seven thousand, five hundred dollars.
I made eight-fifty an hour at this job.
The math was simple. I was drowning, and nobody was throwing me a rope.
I finished my shift in a fog. My boss yelled at me twice for messing up orders. I didn't care. What did burnt toast matter when your mother was dying?
Job number three started at six PM—data entry at a warehouse in Brooklyn. I sat in a cold office, typing numbers into spreadsheets until my eyes burned and my back ached.
The other workers didn't talk to me. I looked as tired as I felt—dark circles under my eyes, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, clothes from the thrift store that never quite fit right.
I was invisible. Nobody saw me. Nobody cared.
At midnight, I counted my tips from the restaurant. Forty-three dollars. I had four hundred and twelve dollars in my bank account. I needed seven thousand, five hundred.
I could ask my friend Sophie, but she was saving for nursing school. I couldn't destroy her dreams to save my mother.
There was only one other option.
My phone felt heavy in my hand as I scrolled to his name. Marcus Chen. My ex-fiancé. The man I ran from two years ago when I realized love shouldn't hurt the way he made it hurt.
He had money. His family had money. He'd offered to help before, with conditions I couldn't accept.
Maybe now I didn't have a choice.
My finger hovered over his number.
Then I locked my phone and shoved it in my pocket. Not yet. I wasn't that desperate yet.
But Friday was coming fast, and desperate was all I had left.
I got home at one AM to my tiny apartment in Queens. The heat barely worked. The walls were thin enough to hear my neighbors fighting. But it was mine, and it was safe, and that was all that mattered.
I changed into my waitress uniform for Romano's Restaurant. The overnight shift paid an extra dollar per hour. Every dollar counted now.
Sleep wasn't an option anyway. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Mom's face when the doctors first said "cancer." I saw her getting weaker, smaller, fading away like she was already becoming a ghost.
I couldn't let her go. She was all I had. She raised me alone after my father—whoever he was—disappeared before I was born. She worked three jobs too, just like me now, to keep us fed and safe.
Now it was my turn to save her.
But I was failing.
Romano's Restaurant was quiet during the overnight shift. Just a few drunk customers stumbling in after the bars closed, looking for greasy food to soak up the alcohol.
I served them with a fake smile, pocketed tiny tips, and watched the clock.
At 2 AM, my manager told me to take the trash to the alley. I grabbed the heavy bags and pushed through the back door into the cold night air.
The alley was dark except for one flickering streetlight.
I was halfway to the dumpster when I heard voices.
Two men. One was begging. "Please, I'll get you the money. Just give me more time—"
"Time's up."
The second voice was cold, smooth, and terrifying.
I should have dropped the trash and run back inside. But I froze, like prey animals freeze when they sense a predator.
The streetlight flickered on.
I saw everything.
A man in an expensive suit—black, perfectly tailored, probably cost more than I made in a year. He held a gun pressed against another man's forehead.
The kneeling man was crying, shaking, begging for his life.
The man in the suit smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile of someone who enjoyed watching people break.
"This is what happens when you steal from me," he said.
Then he pulled the trigger.
The sound exploded through the alley. My trash bags hit the ground.
The killer turned toward the noise.
Toward me.
His face caught the streetlight—sharp cheekbones, dark hair, and eyes that gleamed like green ice. He was beautiful the way storms are beautiful. Dangerous. Deadly.
Our eyes met.
I knew three things in that moment:
He was going to kill me.
I was going to run anyway.
And my life as I knew it was over.
I ran.
Behind me, I heard his voice, calm and commanding: "Get her."
Footsteps pounded after me in the dark.