Chapter 3 I have been thrown out

Zara's POV

"Zara! When will you pay up? The rent is due!"

Madam Sandy's voice cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and filled with irritation. Her fists pounded on the flimsy wooden door over and over again, rattling it on its weak hinges. I remained still, my breath shallow, pressing my back against the cold wall as if she wouldn't sense my presence. My heart pounded in sync with her knocks, but I refused to make a sound.

"You better come out here and pay up my money, child!" she barked.

I shut my eyes and counted her footsteps as they faded into the distance. Only then did I allow myself a shaky sigh of relief, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly.

Slowly, I stretched my legs out, wincing as I rubbed my swollen belly. Six months in, and I still had nothing-no crib, no baby clothes, no savings. The little money I scraped together barely kept me fed, let alone secured my future. Every day was a battle. A fight to find work, to survive. But no one wanted to hire a heavily pregnant woman. Not for a real job, at least.

My stomach grumbled, a deep, aching sound that echoed through the tiny, damp space I called home. Hunger had become my most familiar companion, whispering to me at all hours. I pressed my head against the cracked wall, the rough surface biting into my skin. Somewhere in the darkness, a rat scurried, its tiny claws scratching against the floor. I barely flinched. I had grown used to them.

No sane person would choose to live here, not even a pregnant woman. But this was my reality-the only thing I could afford. And every month, I had to fight to keep it.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to stand. Sitting here wouldn't change anything. I couldn't afford to starve. I peered through the small, dust-covered window, scanning the narrow alleyway. No sign of Madam Sandy. Still, I waited a moment longer, watching for any movement.

When I was sure the coast was clear, I reached for my pink gown-the only decent clothing I had left. My fingers lingered on the fabric, remembering the way Michael had smiled when he gave it to me. He was so happy back then. I swallowed the lump in my throat before it could turn into tears.

Shaking off the memories, I adjusted the gown and stepped out, determined. I had one mission-find a job. Any job. Because no matter how cruel the world was, I had someone to fight for now.

And I wouldn't let my child down.

"You can't work here, okay? I'm so sorry."

Another rejection. Another door closed in my face.

"But why, ma'am?" My voice cracked as I fought to keep my composure.

The woman, probably in her late thirties, gave me a look filled with pity, as if my very existence burdened her. "Look at you... you're heavy. The job here requires strength, and you just can't do that."

"Ma'am, please," I begged, my fingers gently grasping her hand. "I can manage. I can do the dishes, anything. I just... I need this job."

Desperation leaked into my words, but it didn't matter. She pulled her hand away, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I can't."

And just like that, she turned her back on me, walking away as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience.

I stood there, frozen, my mind spinning. I stared out the restaurant window, blinking rapidly to stop the tears threatening to spill. The rejection stung, but the humiliation cut deeper. I could feel the stares of strangers-some filled with curiosity, others with silent judgment.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to move. Slowly, I rose from my seat and walked outside, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. My body ached, my stomach twisted in hunger, but there was nothing I could do.

I sank down at the edge of the building, wrapping my arms around myself. I was tired. Starving. And the worst part? I knew I had no choice but to wait-wait until nightfall, when the restaurant would close, and they would throw away the leftovers.

That was my only chance at a meal.

Gently, I lay on the pavement, ignoring the curious stares of passersby. Their judgment meant nothing to me anymore. I closed my eyes, one hand resting on my belly, tracing slow, comforting circles.

"I hope my baby never has to die of starvation."

The thought clung to me like a shadow, heavy and terrifying. But before I could dwell on it any longer, exhaustion pulled me under, and I drifted into sleep.

A sudden tap jolted me awake.

"What are you doing here?" a sharp voice demanded.

Blinking against the harsh evening light, I looked up. A woman stood over me, hands on her waist, her face twisted in anger.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," I said quickly, pushing myself up into a sitting position.

"Why are you lying there?" she pressed.

"I was waiting for you to close," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

She frowned, her eyebrows knitting together. "Why?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I'm starving... and the leftovers are my only meal."

For a moment, she said nothing. Her expression softened just slightly before she turned on her heel and disappeared inside. I lowered my gaze, expecting another rejection, another night of hunger.

But then, she returned. In her hands was a packed meal.

"Here," she said, thrusting the food toward me. "Take it. I don't want to see you here again. Now go."

Relief flooded me, so intense that my eyes burned with unshed tears.

"Thank you, ma'am," I whispered, clutching the food tightly. I bowed slightly in gratitude, then turned away, my steps lighter than before.

But as I neared my small space, my heart stopped.

My bag was outside.

Panic clawed at my chest as I rushed forward, my fingers trembling as I reached for the door. Locked.

"What happened?" I muttered under my breath, my stomach twisting with dread.

And then it hit me.

I had been thrown out.