I didn’t plan to sleep with him. That wasn’t the deal. The deal was simple: one night, ten thousand dollars, and my ticket out of that apartment above the laundromat where Mom counted my tips like a prison warden. But then he looked at me—really looked—and something cracked open. Now, three weeks later, I’m staring at two pink lines on a stick in a gas station bathroom, hands shaking so hard I drop it.

The café manager just cut my hours. Mom took my last paycheck ‘for safekeeping.’ And Damien? He’s been calling nonstop since that morning. I press the phone to my ear, heart pounding. ‘We need to talk,’ he says. ‘It’s important.’ I already know what he’ll say. The news vans outside his building proved it—they know. Someone talked.

My reflection stares back: dark circles, tangled hair, a girl on the edge. I can lie and disappear. Or I can answer his call and step into a life I don’t understand. One choice keeps me trapped. The other… could destroy me faster.