The hallway smells like my mother's strong black tea—comforting on normal days, suffocating on mornings like this. My steps feel fragile on the worn tiles, and for a moment I think about turning around and hiding in my room again. But hiding never paid a debt. Hiding never spared my father the bruises. Hiding sure as hell won't fix anything now.
I inhale, paste on something that resembles a smile, and step into the kitchen.
My parents sit at the small wooden table—the one we've kept for twenty years because replacing it costs money we'll never have. My mother is pouring tea into three mismatched mugs, her hand trembling just enough that she tries to hide it behind a sigh. My father sits across from her, glasses halfway down his nose as he sorts through medical bills and grocery receipts. His skin looks pale, washed out, like the night stole more from him than he can afford to lose.
They look up as I enter.
"Good morning, my love," my mother says, her smile tight around the edges, eyes searching my face like she's afraid of what she'll find there.
My father adjusts his glasses. "Late night? You came in quietly."
They're scared to ask. Terrified to hear the truth. Clinging to hope like it's a lifeline.
I force brightness into my voice. "It was good. Long, but good."
My mother exhales in relief. "Did the gentleman treat you respectfully, just like Mia said?"
The question punches the inside of my ribs. Adrian's voice flashes through my mind—cold, precise, dissecting me word by careful word. But I tuck the memory into a corner and swallow it whole.
"Yes," I lie, glancing at the pancake on my plate. "He was kind enough."
My father nods as if this is the best news he's heard in weeks. "Then that's all that matters."
I take a seat and spear a piece of pancake. It tastes like sawdust and shame, like the residue of the message threatening my father's life, like Adrian's cold words echoing in my head. Still, I chew, because they need to see me eat. They need the illusion that everything is manageable.
My mother sets a mug in front of me. "You look tired."
I shrug. "Didn't sleep much, but I'm okay."
Another lie. Another thread tightening around my throat.
Before they can ask more, I force the conversation into safer territory. "Actually… good news. I got paid. And more than expected. We can make a payment soon."
Both their heads snap toward me.
My father's voice wavers. "Really?"
"Really." I nod with forced confidence. "A friend helped too. It's enough for a chunk. They won't bother us."
My mother's eyes fill—not with tears of sadness, but relief so potent it makes her sag into her chair.
I can't look at her too long or I'll break. I gather my bag, take another dutiful bite of pancake, swallow cardboard, and stand.
"I should go. I'm opening the classroom today."
My father squeezes my hand. "God bless your efforts, Lena."
The blessing carves a fissure right down my spine. If he knew what those "efforts" truly cost—last night, the checks in my drawer, the bruise Adrian left on my dignity—he wouldn't be blessing anything.
I kiss my mother's cheek, slip out before they can ask more, and grab my bicycle from under the stairwell. The morning air hits my face with a sharp sting, clearing the last of the nightmare fog from my head.
Pedaling toward the school feels like shedding a heavy skin. The streets blur. Cars honk. Kids run to catch buses. Life moves, indifferent to my disasters. By the time I chain the bike outside the school, my heartbeat has steadied into something almost manageable.
Inside the kindergarten building, the familiar chaos greets me—tiny voices echoing in the hall, crayons scattered like confetti, the smell of glue and vanilla-scented hand soap. My sanctuary. My little universe.
"Miss Lena!" Several toddlers rush at me like tiny missiles. I crouch, arms open, letting them crash into me. Small hands grab my hair. Sticky fingers grip my sweater. Their laughter fills the hollow spaces inside me. And for a few precious minutes, I close my eyes… smelling my little angels. For now, I can breathe again.
I cling to that warmth for as long as I can.
The next few hours unfold in a blur of circle time and finger painting. I sing "You Are My Sunshine" even though I feel like a storm cloud. I read stories about frogs jumping across ponds even though my thoughts keep jumping to debtors and checks and cold blue eyes.
My phone buzzes during cleanup.
Mia.
I slip into the classroom and start setting up noon activities. My mind is on circle-time books and paint cups and snack rotations, but occasionally it keeps drifting—to checks, to threats. To the fact that everything in my life feels like it's collapsing inward.
My phone buzzes again.
Mia.
My heart jerks, bracing for more questions, but her message is frantic and short.
Mum's out of surgery!
Can you please pass by the hospital? She's craving apples. Two or three if you can. ❤️
Relief washes through me. Something I can actually do. Something simple. Something human.
Sure. On my break.
The dots appear, then—
Thank you thank you thank you. You're an angel.
If only she knew.
After school, I lead my darlings to their parents at the reception. I grab my purse, buy Mia's apples from the corner store, and head toward the hospital—one more place saturated with anxiety, fluorescent lights, and whispered prayers, and yet, normal, quiet errands that make me feel like a functioning human being.
I brace myself as I step through the sliding doors.
Hospitals always smell like bleach, fear, and false hope.
I head toward the recovery ward, thinking only of Mia and her mother, when—
I see him.
Adrian Vale.
Stepping out of a private wing as if the world rearranges itself to make space for him. His suit is immaculate. His expression unreadable. And beside him walks an elegant gorgeous older woman with a scarf tied neatly around her head, her skin pale beneath flawless applied makeup. A quiet dignity radiates from her.
She is stunning and I cannot help but stare.
They speak quietly until he notices me. His jaw flexes. His eyes chill.
Mine do too.
We stop a few steps apart, the hallway suddenly too narrow to avoid each other… to tight for both our histories.
"Miss Hale," he says, voice cool enough to frost the windows.
"Mr. Vale," I reply, tone equally glacial.
A flicker sparks in his mother's eyes—not recognition, but interest. A quiet, observant curiosity reserved for women her son uses his voice like a weapon against.
Adrian's hand subtly shifts—as if he might block her line of sight. But it's too late. She's already studying me. And I can feel it. The weight. The measuring. The flicker of "Who is this woman to my son?" crossing her mind.
I give a polite nod, and a genuine smile. I am star struck… and an immediate fan. "Good afternoon."
Adrian's mother offers a soft smile. "And to you."
Her voice is gentle despite the shadow in her eyes—a shadow I don't yet recognize.
Adrian steps forward, blocking her view. "We're leaving."
Dismissive. Deliberate. Acidic.
He holds my gaze for a microsecond before turning away with his mother. She glances back once, intrigued but silent, before the elevator doors close behind them.
The chill he leaves behind clings to me long after he's gone.
I exhale, steady myself, and head toward Mia's mother's room because someone in this hospital actually wants to see me.
Someone whose expectations won't cut me open.
Someone who still believes in kindness.
But as I walk, one truth hums beneath my skin:
Nothing in my life is done with Adrian Vale.
Not even close.