Tears blurred my vision as I fumbled with my keys, my hands trembling so badly I could barely fit the right one into the lock. The metal scraped uselessly against the door before it finally gave way.
I stumbled inside, sniffling, pushing the door shut behind me as the weight of everything crashed down at once.
Papers, clothes, and scattered garbage littered the hallway, but I barely noticed. I dragged myself through the mess like a ghost haunting my own home. By the time I reached the living room, my chest ached from holding in sobs.
I collapsed onto the couch, the cushions swallowing me whole. A broken sound escaped my throat as the tears I'd tried so desperately to hold back spilled over, hot and relentless, streaking down my face.
Then my phone rang.
The sharp sound cut through the silence like a blade. My heart dropped. I didn't need to look at the screen—I already knew.
It was him.
Of course it was him.
For a moment, I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.
But against my better judgment… I reached for it anyway.
"Yes, sir," I answered, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat.
I wiped at my cheeks quickly, as if he could somehow see the tears through the phone. I needed my voice steady. I needed to sound small.
"Sweetheart."
The word slid from his mouth like silk wrapped around a blade. His voice was calm—too calm—and it sent a chill creeping down my spine.
"You ran away," he said quietly. "Why?"
There was a pause. Then a low, knowing laugh from the other end of the line. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It settled into my chest like a weight.
"I—I can't…" My breath stuttered. Fresh tears blurred my vision. "I don't want to. Please… don't make me do this."
Silence answered me.
And somehow, that silence felt worse than his voice.
"I could give you anything you want," he continued smoothly. "Anything. Money. Protection. Opportunities people would beg for. So much more."
His tone hardened slightly.
"You've just got to accept, Dana."
His words echoed in my mind like a locked door clicking shut.
I pressed my nails into my palm, grounding myself in the sharp sting. I would not fall apart. Not where he could hear me.
"I can't," I whispered, even as my voice trembled. "I can't sleep with you, sir. Isn't there… another way? I'll work overtime. I'll do anything else. Just—not that."
My heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
Regret flooded me—thick and suffocating. Every decision that had led me here replayed in cruel flashes. Trusting him. Accepting his help. Believing his kindness didn't come with strings attached.
But now I understood.
It had never been kindness.
It had been a contract.
And I was the price.
A soft exhale crackled through the speaker.
"Dana," he said, and this time her name wasn't sweet. It was sharp. "You're being dramatic."
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"You work at my café," he continued calmly. "Do you know how many girls would kill for that position? Flexible hours. Good pay. Tips."
A pause.
"Protection."
The word made my stomach drop.
"I pulled your application from the bottom of the pile," he reminded me. "No experience. Late tuition payments. A mother who depends on you."
His voice lowered.
"I made things easier for you."
The air felt too thin. I couldn't breathe properly.
"And I can just as easily make things… difficult."
My heart slammed violently against my ribs.
"You wouldn't," I whispered, but even I could hear how fragile it sounded.
A quiet chuckle.
"If you don't show up tomorrow, I'll assume you've decided to resign. And if you do show up…"
His voice lingered, heavy with implication.
"We'll have a private conversation in my office. You owe me that much."
Owe.
The word wrapped around my throat like invisible hands.
"You can't do this," I said, my voice cracking despite my effort to stay strong. "You can't just threaten my job because I won't—"
"Lower your voice," he interrupted softly. "I'm not threatening you, Dana. I'm reminding you who signs your paycheck."
Silence swallowed us both.
Then, almost gently, he added, "Don't make me regret investing in you."
The line went dead.
And suddenly, the apartment felt smaller than ever.
God… what am I going to do?
I can't sleep with my boss. I won't. I don't want to.
But I can't leave this house either.
I paced back and forth across the kitchen, my fingers grazing the cold counter, my mind screaming for a way out that didn't exist.
"If I leave… I'll have nothing. No home. No family. No one."
My whisper cracked in the silence, swallowed by the walls around me.
I dug into my pocket and pulled out the only piece of my past I had left—a photo of my parents.
It was from Paris, sunlight bouncing off the Eiffel Tower behind us. I remembered the laughter, the warmth, the way the city felt endless and safe.
My chest tightened as tears blurred my vision. I pressed the photo to my heart, trying to hold onto that feeling, trying to remember who I was before fear became my only companion.
"Where did it all go wrong?" I choked out.
If Mom were here, she'd say: Never sell yourself, Dana. Never.
The thought sharpened the ache in my chest.
I stormed to my room, shoving the few belongings I had into a bag. My life here was small, sparse… but it was all I had.
"I'll find a way. I must find a way," I muttered to myself, teeth clenched, heart hammering.
And then, trembling, I left the house, each step heavier than the last.
I slid the key under the carpet—a small act of defiance and finality.
I was stepping into the unknown.
Alone.
Vulnerable.
Afraid.
And yet…
I had no other choice.