Sarah didn't sleep much the night before. Her body had finally stopped trembling around 3 a.m., but her mind never truly slowed. Every time she closed her eyes, she could still feel Samson's fingers trailing her skin, still hear the way he had whispered her name in the dark.
She hated how easily she remembered it.
By 5:15 a.m., she was already up, folding the blanket on her thin foam mattress and sweeping the floor. she tiptoed about while doing her chores, desperate not to wake her mother. She hadn't dared face her since last night. Not because her mother knew anything—but because she knew, and that was enough.
The three thousand pounds lay folded and zipped tightly in the lining of her old, worn-out bag. She hadn't even counted it again, but she'd checked—twice—to make sure it hadn't magically disappeared overnight. Each time she looked at it, she wasn't sure if she wanted to smile or cry.
As she stepped back into the house to change, she paused outside the bedroom door. Her mother's loud snores were a sign she was still fast asleep. Good. She wouldn't be able to lie well this morning if they locked eyes. Clearing her throat lightly, Sarah called out:
"Mama! I'm off ! Early shift today!"
Her voice was too loud. Too cheerful. Too fake.
"Huh? This early?" came the groggy reply from within.
"Yes ma. i have to get to the restaurantearly today cause i might need to do an extra shift later and i do not want to miss it we need the money," Sarah added quickly, praying her mother wouldn't insist on seeing her face.
But no reply came, just the return of the snores.
She exhaled, pulled the door closed gently, and took off.
---
By the time she got to the restaurant, the streets were still sleepy. Birmingham's grey skies stretched above her like a blank canvas, thick with silence. The restaurant wasn't supposed to open for another hour and a half, but the kitchen lights were already on.
Sarah pushed the back door open and stepped inside. The familiar scent of oil and stew from yesterday's leftovers lingered in the air. In the kitchen, Desmond was already slicing onions, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent light.
"Good morning," Sarah said softly.
Desmond didn't look up. "Morning," he muttered, wiping a tear from his onion-stung eye. Then he went back to chopping, as if she weren't even there.
That was Desmond. Silent, focused, almost robotic. Most of the staff said he was weird, but Sarah didn't mind him. He minded his business—and right now, she appreciated that.
She walked to the front desk area, flicking on the small light bulb above her cubicle. The space was basic: just a desk, a stool, a cracked penholder, and a wall clock that always ran seven minutes fast.
6:30 a.m.
She slid into the chair and reached into the drawer for a scrap piece of paper and a pen.
List:
Sanitary pads
A proper handbag
Undergarments
pair of shoes for peter, Hannah, and Nicholas
Nicholas sketch book
beds
Mum's medication
food stuffs
Maybe a simple dress?
She stared at the list and bit her lip. three thousand pounds sounded like a lot to her, If she started buying flashy things, her mother would notice. Even her siblings might ask questions. And Samson… what should she do with him are they going to be having sex forever?
She frowned. She wasn't stupid—she knew she'll have to be careful even with him and she have to think of the future, she'll have to block all unnecessary contacts with him unless needed like they agreed strangers.
Her pen hovered over the page as her mind spiraled into possibilities. Maybe she could divide the money: spend five hundred, keep a five hundred at home, and find somewhere to hide the rest. Somewhere safe. If she were careful, maybe she could make this money stretch. Maybe—
"Sarah."
The voice was soft but urgent. She didn't hear it at first.
"Sarah."
This time, she felt the touch on her shoulder and jumped.
Her eyes flew up.
It was Samson.
He looked freshly shaved, crisp in a white shirt and dark jeans, with that annoying cologne that lingered longer than it should. She hadn't even heard him enter. Her phone lay beside her, silent and on vibrate.
"You scared me," she muttered, straightening up and folding the list quickly.
"I've been calling you," he said, slipping his phone into his back pocket. "You weren't picking."
She stood. "Sorry. I was just—thinking."
He smirked slightly. "I can see that."
By now, a few of the staff had started to arrive. The security guard nodded at Samson, as did the cleaner. Samson leaned in and lowered his voice.
"Come with me. Just for a quick drive."
"No," Sarah replied instantly, keeping her voice low but firm. "We agreed no interruptions at work. You said—"
"I know what I said," he cut in, the smile still on his face. "But it's not even 7:30 yet. You start at 8. You'll be back before then."
She shook her head. "Samson…"
A few eyes had begun to shift in their direction. Vanessa, who had just entered with a coffee cup in hand, looked at them briefly before pretending to focus on her phone.
Sarah felt heat rise to her cheeks. "Not here," she said quietly.
Samson raised an eyebrow. "Fine. Outside, then."
He didn't wait for her to answer—just turned and walked out.
Sarah stood frozen. Every instinct in her said to stay put. But then again, every instinct had said to stay away from him last night, too.
This is the life you chose, she told herself bitterly. So act like it.
She grabbed her bag and followed him out.
---
The car was already on when she stepped into it. She shut the door quietly, pulling the seatbelt over her shoulder.
"Why did you really want me to come with you?" she asked, not bothering with greetings.
Samson glanced at her but said nothing.
The drive was silent for a while. He tried to make small talk—commented on the morning breeze, the traffic lights—but Sarah only nodded or grunted in response. Eventually, he gave up.
Six minutes later, the car came to a stop.
Sarah looked around.
A bank?
She turned to him, puzzled. "What are we doing here?"
Samson opened his door. "What do people do in banks, Sarah?"
She scowled. "This isn't funny."
"do i look like a comedian to you?, in as much as I love fucking you i don't like keeping cash around so you need an account i can transfer to." said samson. then he got down walked around and opened her door. "Get down. You'll see."
Still confused, Sarah stepped out. The sun was peeking through the clouds now, casting a pale glow on the sidewalk. She tightened her grip on her bag and followed him in.
Inside, the air was cool and sterile. He walked up to the counter and spoke to a teller, then turned back to her.
"You don't have an account, do you?"
She shook her head.
"Well, you should too. apart from me not having cash you shouldn't be walking around with that kind of money in your bag."
Her eyes narrowed. "So this is about safety?"
He shrugged. "Call it that."
Fifteen minutes later, she was walking out with a brand-new account booklet, a debit card, and a dazed look on her face.
The real shock hadn't come until she saw the deposit slip.
£3,000.
Her jaw had nearly dropped.
She stopped beside the car and stared at him. "You—put three thousand—why?"
Samson leaned in, lips dangerously close to her ear. "Because I haven't stopped thinking about last night. My dick still gets hard just remembering it."
Her mouth fell open, and her cheeks burned. She looked away, biting the inside of her lip.
"But don't get carried away," she whispered to herself. "This is not love. This is survival."
Back at the restaurant, the clock struck 7:59 as Samson parked the car.
"You'll be late," he said with a wink.
Sarah was already reaching for the handle.
As she stepped out, adjusting her uniform blouse, her eyes met Vanessa's.
The girl was standing by the door, sipping her coffee again, this time with raised brows.
Sarah gave her a tight smile and walked past.
Let them wonder. Let them gossip.
She had a bank card in her pocket and £3,000 in her name now.
Whatever shame or doubt she felt—she could cry later.
For now?
She had work to do.