Chapter Five

I step out of the shower, skin pruned and red from the hot water that turned cold too fast.

The mirror’s fogged, but I don’t wipe it—I don’t want to see the wreck staring back.

 Faint bruises bloom along my collarbone like fingerprints he never meant to leave, nipples still tender from his mouth, thighs aching from clamping around his head while I sobbed his name.

 My body remembers every second of last night. My heart remembers the note. The money. The way it all soured in an instant.

 Sophie’s volcano sits drying on the kitchen table, a lumpy cone of papier-mache painted in hopeful red and orange.

 She’s sixteen now, but she’s curled on the couch in her favorite oversized hoodie, knees tucked under her chin, eyes glued to the TV. Some new anime is playing with bright colors flashing, dramatic music swelling, and characters yelling about power levels. She’s obsessed. We argue about it constantly.

 “It’s not a cartoon,” she always insists, rolling her eyes like I’m the one who doesn’t get it. “It’s anime. There’s a difference. Depth. Themes. Character arcs.”

 “Yeah, sure,” I usually shoot back. “Depth. Like exploding planets and screaming about friendship. Total masterpiece.”

 Tonight she doesn’t even look up when I walk in. Just mutters, “Leah, shhh, this episode is peak.”

 I lean down anyway, kiss the top of her head, inhale the strawberry shampoo that hasn’t changed since she was little. “You okay, Soph?"I ask

 “Fine. Just watching. You going to work?” she responses eyes never leaving the screen

 “Yeah. I’ll be home to help with dinner. Finish that volcano, it's gonna be epic tomorrow.” I say as I put my hair up in a bun.

 She finally glances at me and smirks. “You say that every time. And then you fall asleep on the couch before we even eat.”

 “Rude. Accurate, but rude.” I poke her shoulder lightly. “But don’t come for me I’m working very hard out here so you can have your anime marathons and volcano projects without the lights getting cut off.”

 Sophie bursts out laughing, the sound bright and easy, cutting through the heaviness in my chest like sunlight through blinds.

 She pauses the show, stands up dramatically, and drops into an exaggerated bow arms sweeping wide, head dipping low like she’s performing for royalty.

 Then she straightens, places one hand over her heart, and pretends to curtsy with all the flair of a K-drama princess.

 “Thank you, oh mighty provider,” she says in a fake-posh voice, batting her lashes. “You truly are the real MVP. My hero and savior. I bow before your greatness.”

 I can’t help it—I laugh—a real one, small and surprised, bubbling up despite everything. “You’re welcome, drama queen,” I say, shaking my head.

“Just keep those grades up, okay? I’m not busting my ass so you can flunk algebra and blame it on plot twists.”

 Sophie grins, wide and mischievous. “Deal. Straight A’s or I’ll let you pick my punishment anime. No mercy.”

 “Deal,” I echo, ruffling her hair before she ducks away, still giggling, and flops back onto the couch.

 She hits play, already lost in the next dramatic scene.

 I hate how much I carry so she doesn’t have to. Sixteen and still able to laugh like the world hasn’t touched her yet. I envy it. But I won't have it any other way

Mom’s already left for her evening shift double again. A Post-it on the fridge: Electric due Friday. Don’t forget. Love you. I crumple it, shove it deep in my pocket. I’ll figure it out. I always do.

 I pull on the uniform: faded black skirt, white blouse with coffee stains that never quite come out, name tag reading “Leah” in chipped plastic letters. No makeup. Hair scraped into a messy bun. Tote over my shoulder. I lock the door behind me and head for the bus stop.

The ride is packed, bodies pressed together in the sticky afternoon humidity.

 I jam earbuds in, crank Bad Bunny—something loud and furious about betrayal and broken promises. It almost drowns out the echo in my head: good girl, murmured against my skin while his tongue circled slow, relentless. Almost.

 Every jolt of the bus slams another memory into me his thumb parting my lip in the elevator, the silk tie loose around my wrists, the way he held me after like I was something breakable and precious.

 Then the folded note on his nightstand. Car booked. Text when you’re home safe. Tonight. At the same time. Like scheduling a follow-up appointment. Then the bank alert. $10,000 from Damien Cross. Support, he called it in his text. As if zeros on a screen could erase the way he made me feel owned, then discarded.

Lola’s Cuban Café on Calle Ocho is already alive when I push through the door. Lunch rush bleeding into dinner—tourists snapping photos of the neon sign, locals arguing over dominoes at the counter. Grease and café con leche and sizzling plantains hang thick in the air.

 Maria my colleague at the diner spots me and waves me over

“You’re late, chica. Table six is growling.”

“Bus came late,” I mutter. Half-true.

 I tie on my apron, clock in, and grab the coffee pot. My hands won’t stop shaking. Hot liquid sloshes over the rim onto a customer’s saucer. “Sorry,” I say, mopping it up with a rag.

 He grumbles but leaves two bucks anyway. I pocket it, feeling the ghost of the $10k sitting in my account like lead. I should transfer it back. I had already blocked him But Victor’s last text is still there, unread since yesterday: See you soon, kid. He’d smell money on me like a shark smells blood. Better he never knows.

 I move through the chaos on autopilot—refills, orders, fake smiles.

 Every time a man’s gaze lingers too long on my legs or the open collar of my blouse, heat crawls up my neck. Not desire. Shame. Because last night I begged for hands that weren’t theirs. I spread for a voice that wasn’t theirs. And then he left cash on the dresser like I was temporary help.

 Halfway through the shift the bell over the door jingles. I look up—and freeze.

 Victor, what was he doing here?.