Danika's POV
The apartment door creaks like a coffin lid swinging open.
Three seconds. That's how long I have before—
"Where the hell have you been, you ungrateful leech?"
The voice slurs through the darkness, thick with gin and grievance. I freeze, fingers still curled around my duffel bag strap. The only light comes from a flickering infomercial casting blue shadows across Cassia's bloated face as she lurches up from her stained recliner.
"Goodnight, Cassia" I mutter, edging toward the hallway.
Her laugh is a bark. "Goodnight? You vanish for forty-eight hours with those trust-fund parasites, then waltz in here like—" She stumbles, knocking over a tower of empty Smirnoff bottles. The crash makes my teeth ache.
I count the bottles. Seven. A new record.
"I was at the Vega estate," I say, too tired to lie. "You knew that."
"Oh, I knew." She mocks my tone, stumbling closer. The reek of juniper berries and unwashed skin rolls off her in waves. "Just like I know what you really do over there. Does little Liam pay you in cash, or does Daddy Vega write checks for his son's whore?"
My knuckles whiten around the strap. Don't engage. Never engage when she's like this. But the word whore lingers like a spit stain on my skin.
The overhead light blares on.
Reality crashes in: peeling wallpaper, a couch held together by duct tape and denial, the ceiling leak that's turned into a Rorschach test of mold. A far cry from the Vega's marble foyer and Liam's stupidly soft cashmere throw blankets.
Cassia blocks my path, her yellowed nails digging into my arm. "Answer me!"
I yank free. "I tutor Liam in coding. That's it"
"Bullshit." Her breath is a chemical fire. "No one hires street trash like you unless they're getting something dirty."
The accusation hangs between us, swinging like the pendulum of the broken grandfather clock Tony left behind.
I should walk away. But the look in her eyes—jealousy masquerading as rage—ignites something feral in my chest.
"Funny," I say softly. "You didn't call me trash when my tutoring checks paid the electric bill last winter."
Her slap cracks like a gunshot.
I don't flinch. After eighteen years in this house, pain is an old friend.
"You're just like your mother," she hisses. "A selfish bitch who—"
"Don't." The word leaves my throat bloody.
But Cassia's smile is a sickle. "What? Can't handle the truth? That woman dumped you at a fire station like last week's trash. At least I kept you."
The old wound splits open. All those nights staring at foster care paperwork, wondering why she never signed them. Now I know—my misery was her favorite entertainment.
I turn toward my room.
"Pack your shit and get out!" she shrieks.
A beer bottle explodes against the wall beside my head. Glass shards kiss my cheekbone.
That's when I see it—the glint of triumph in her bloodshot eyes. She wants me to break. To beg. To prove I'm as worthless as she feels.
So I do the one thing she never expects.
I laugh.
"Careful, Cassia." I toe a shard with my sneaker. "This is the only home you've got left."
Her face purples. She lunges.
I'm ready.
We crash into the hallway, her fists pounding my ribs, her nails carving crescents into my wrists. I don't fight back. Not because I can't—street fights taught me how to drop a grown man—but because winning would mean staying.
A kick to my kidney sends me sprawling into the entryway. The front door yawns open behind me, night air rushing in like a 911 call.
"Go!" she screams, spittle flying. "See how long before those rich boys toss you out too!"
I don't look back.
**⊱ ────── {⋆☽⋆} ────── ⊰**
The highway guardrail bites into my thighs as I catch my breath. Somewhere between Cassia's apartment and mile marker 47, I lost a shoe. My phone's still charging on my nightstand. My wallet's in the pocket of jeans I'll never see again.
But none of that matters.
Because the Vega estate's security lights are glowing like lighthouses in the distance.
I limp toward them, each step sending fire up my shins. The intercom button is icy under my fingertip.
Static crackles. Then—
"Danika?" Liam's voice is sleep-rough but alert. Like he'd been waiting.
The dam breaks.
I slump against the wrought iron, tears carving paths through the dirt on my face. The gate whirs open before I can speak.