I've always been a lover girl — a hopeless romantic to my core. I'm the kind who falls too fast, too deep, too soon. A sucker for grand gestures, forehead kisses, late-night phone calls, and promises whispered like secrets. But reality? It hasn't been fair to me.
All I ever wanted was that fairytale type of love — the kind that sweeps you off your feet and makes you feel safe, seen, and chosen. The kind you read about, the kind that makes you believe in forever.
But after everything I've been through, I gave up on that dream a long time ago.
Love, it seems, loves to play hide-and-seek with me. I've chased it through heartbreaks and half-truths, through the wreckage of promises that never meant anything. Maybe some of us aren't meant to find the love we give. Maybe some of us are just meant to keep searching until the hope fades.
That thought used to scare me. Now, it just sits quietly in the back of my mind — a fact I've learned to live with.
---
It was late evening, and I was still at my desk at Zalira, the luxury fashion brand where I worked in marketing.
The office smelled faintly of coffee and fresh print paper — the kind of sterile, overworked air that clings to every corporate space. The sound of heels clicking across marble floors and the hum of printers had died down hours ago, leaving me alone with the soft buzz of the fluorescent lights and the glow of my computer screen.
My inbox was a war zone — endless threads about campaign deadlines, influencer contracts, and feedback loops that never ended. I loved my job, though. It kept me busy enough not to think too hard about everything else in my life that wasn't working.
Being in marketing for a luxury brand wasn't as glamorous as it sounded. It was late nights, early mornings, and more caffeine than sleep. I'd gotten used to it. I liked the pressure. At least it gave me purpose — something predictable in a life that never seemed to be.
I stretched, my shoulders aching, and took a sip of cold coffee. I checked the time — 7:42 p.m. The rest of the team had gone home hours ago. I should've too, but honestly, there was nothing waiting for me at home. No one.
So, I stayed.
I was halfway through replying to an email about our new fall campaign when I noticed the reflection of myself in the black glass window. Perfect nails, soft curls brushing my shoulders, a faint gloss still clinging to my lips. I always made sure to look put together — pink, polished, professional. But if you looked closer, you'd see the tiredness in my eyes.
You'd see a woman trying too hard to keep it all together.
---
By the time I finally packed up, the city outside was drenched in gold and purple light. I took the elevator down, heels clicking, the soft weight of my designer tote swinging at my arm — the perks of employee discounts.
The doorman smiled as I stepped out. "Long day again, Miss Hannah?"
I gave him a tired smile. "Isn't it always?"
He chuckled softly as I hailed a cab.
The air outside was warm, carrying that faint smell of street food and perfume — the kind of mix that told you the city was alive, even when you were too tired to be part of it.
Sliding into the backseat, I leaned my head against the window. The glass was cool against my skin. The lights blurred as the car moved — reds, whites, and yellows blending into one long streak. I could almost let myself relax.
Then my phone buzzed.
Austin.
I frowned. My stepdad.
We barely talked — not since Mom remarried him after the divorce. Our relationship was… complicated, to say the least. He wasn't cruel, but he wasn't exactly fatherly either. He'd always treated me like an obligation, something he had to tolerate because of my mother.
So why was he calling now?
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
I sighed, chewing on my lip before finally swiping to answer. "Hello?"
"Hannah?" His voice was deep and familiar — that thick Texas drawl that always made every word sound slow, deliberate.
"I can hear you," I said, keeping my tone neutral. My freshly done nails glimmered faintly under the cab's light.
"I know this is strange, but we really need your help," he said.
My brow furrowed. "My help?"
"Yes. It's about your mama. She's in jail… for gambling."
For a few seconds, the world just — stopped.
The streetlights, the hum of traffic, the driver's faint music — it all faded into static.
"What?" I finally whispered.
"She got arrested this afternoon," Austin continued, voice heavy. "Caught in some underground betting house downtown. They set her bail at five thousand dollars. I don't have that kind of money, Hannah. We need you."
Gambling. Again.
My throat tightened. She'd promised me. After the last time — after the debt, the shouting, the endless nights of pretending everything was fine — she'd promised she'd stopped.
"She can't be doing this," I whispered. "She promised."
"Hannah? You still there?" Austin asked.
I blinked, realizing I hadn't said anything. "What? Sorry, I— could you repeat that?"
"She's in prison, honey. We need the bail money before morning."
I took a shaky breath. "When did this start again?"
"That doesn't matter right now," he said quickly. "She just needs to get out. They won't hold her long if we can pay."
"Five thousand," I repeated, my voice small. "That's a lot."
"I wouldn't ask if I had any other choice," he said. "You know your mama. She's not built for a place like that."
My heart twisted.
No matter how much I resented her choices, she was still my mother. The woman who used to brush my hair and sing off-key in the kitchen, who could make a bad day feel lighter with one smile.
But she was also the woman who lied. Who gambled away our savings. Who left me to pick up the pieces when everything fell apart.
"Okay," I said softly. "Send me your account details. I'll transfer it."
There was a pause. Then a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Hannah. You've always been the responsible one. We can always count on you."
Before I could respond, the line went dead.
---
The cab pulled up outside my apartment building, a sleek glass tower that looked much nicer on the outside than my small studio inside it. I paid the driver, murmured a "thank you," and stepped into the lobby.
The silence felt too loud.
Inside my apartment, I dropped my bag and collapsed onto the couch. The city lights filtered in through the curtains, painting silver lines across my coffee table.
I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. Not again.
Henry had taken enough tears from me already.
Henry — the man who promised forever, then left without a goodbye. The man who made me believe I was the problem when all I did was love him too much.
Now, just when I'd finally started to find peace again, this happens.
My phone buzzed — a message from Austin. I opened it quickly.
Bank details.
Without hesitating, I sent the transfer. $5,000.
A lump formed in my throat as the confirmation popped up on screen. I stared at it for a long time — the number, the name, the quiet sense of déjà vu.
Because this wasn't the first time I'd had to clean up my mother's mess.
And something deep in my gut told me it wouldn't be the last.
---
After sending the money, I changed into my silk pajamas and tied my hair up, pacing the apartment. My anxiety was buzzing. I tried to breathe, to ground myself, but my thoughts wouldn't stop racing.
What if she'd gotten into serious trouble this time? What if it wasn't just gambling? What if Austin wasn't telling me everything?
I sat on the couch, staring at my phone. The city outside looked beautiful — cruelly so. I opened Instagram, scrolling through pictures of people who seemed to have it all together. Smiles, sunsets, love.
I felt like I was always on the outside of it, watching life happen through glass.
The clock ticked past midnight. I poured myself a glass of wine and stood by the window, letting the cool air brush against my face. My reflection stared back — tired eyes, soft curls coming loose from their pins, a faint streak of mascara under one eye.
"Just breathe, Hannah," I whispered to myself.
But I couldn't shake the unease in my chest. Something about Austin's voice kept replaying in my head — too calm, too rehearsed, too practiced.
He'd called me by my name more times in that one conversation than he had in the last five years.
And the way he hung up so quickly…
It didn't feel right. None of it did.
Still, I tried to quiet the doubt. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe this really was just another one of Mom's mistakes, and I was being paranoid.
But deep down, I knew better.
Because with my family, nothing was ever simple.