Chapter 3 Stolen Hope

The morning was relentless.

Not loud, not chaotic.

Just relentless in that quiet, grinding way life could be when you were too tired to fight it anymore.

Aria moved through the café in precise, practiced motions, ghostlike, invisible, the kind of presence people sensed only as a blur on the edge of their morning. Her body ached in small, sharp pulses, her stomach clenching around the emptiness she'd learned to ignore.

There was no time for hunger.

No time for anything but work.

Minutes were her currency spent earning, obeying, and enduring.

By mid-morning, her hands burned from scrubbing counters, carrying trays, and wiping tables that seemed to dirty themselves the moment she turned away. She moved on instinct, the rhythm of survival a drumbeat in her veins.

Behind her, Monica's eyes tracked her every move.

"Move faster, Aria."

The words were clipped, metallic.

"Do you think customers will wait all day for your clumsy hands?"

Aria didn't flinch. She didn't look up. She simply nodded, the ghost of a smile tightening her mouth before she sank back into the motions she had long since mastered.

Every time her stomach growled, she reminded herself that food was optional.

Money was not.

Every dollar she earned risked becoming Gregory's. But every dollar she hid, every secret coin she tucked into the torn lining of her apron was a tiny rebellion. A rebellion that might one day save her.

By noon, her uniform was streaked with coffee and crumbs, her bra sticking uncomfortably to her skin. Her arms trembled as she reached beneath the counter for her half-hidden water bottle. She took a small, quick, guilty sip. Rest was not a luxury she could afford.

When the afternoon surge eased, she clocked out and hurried across two blocks to Margaret Lee's family-run restaurant, her second job. Her second battlefield.

Margaret was waiting near the kitchen door, her face lined with worry.

"Eat something, Aria," she urged softly. "You're skin and bone. No one can keep working like this."

"I'm fine," Aria whispered, brushing at her stained uniform. "Just start my shift. I'll eat later."

Margaret sighed a soft, motherly sound of helpless affection.

"You work too hard, girl. Promise me you'll take five minutes at least. Just a bite."

"I promise."

She didn't mean it.

They both knew she didn't mean it.

Time was money.

Food was wasted time.

The evening became a blur of footsteps and soft apologies, plates stacked and unstacked, the drone of small talk blending into a haze. The kindness of Maggie, the gentle smile, the way she asked about her day, only made the contrast of her life harder to swallow.

But she worked, she endured. She always did.

Hours later, her shift ended. Margaret pressed a few coins and small bills into her palm; the wages of another day survived.

"Thank you," Aria murmured, her smile thin but sincere.

She tucked the money deep into her pocket, guarding it like a secret heartbeat.

Outside, the cold night wrapped around her like a second skin. Her uniform smelled of grease, her hair frizzy from steam and sweat, but she barely noticed. Her mind was on one thing only, getting home without waking him.

Getting home before the storm woke on its own.

The walk was short, but her feet dragged like they were tethered to the asphalt. When she reached the apartment door, her key trembled in the lock.

The moment the door opened, the smell hit her.

Alcohol, sour and heavy.

Gregory Morgan sat slumped on the living room couch, bottle dangling between two fingers, muttering to himself. The TV flickered static-light over his face, sharpening the angles of a sneer even in sleep.

Aria froze.

Please let him stay asleep. Please, please, but fate was cruel.

He stirred, grunted, and then lifted his head with a predatory slowness.

She slipped toward the hallway, voice barely a breath.

"I'm going to my room."

She didn't wait for a reply.

Her bedroom door clicked shut behind her, and she exhaled a shaky breath, her heartbeat fluttering like a trapped bird. She dropped to her knees beside her mattress, lifting the torn corner of fabric where she hid the tips Margaret gave her.

Her breath hitched.

The space was empty, every coin, every crumpled bill.

Gone.

Her spine went cold.

No.

No, no, no-

The room darkened.

His shadow filled the doorway.

"Looking for something?"

Her pulse stuttered, her hands clenched. "Just fixing my bed," she whispered.

His laugh was a low, broken sound.

"You lying little bitch."

He staggered forward, breath thick with whiskey, and Aria flinched before he even touched her, because she knew what came next.

His fist tangled in her hair and wrenched her backward, her scalp screaming in pain. Her back slammed against the wall. His palm cracked across her cheek, heat exploding beneath her skin.

"You hiding money from me now?"

Spittle sprayed her face.

"I feed you. I house you."

"You don't."

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

His other hand slammed into her shoulder, pinning her.

"You belong to me!" Gregory snarled. "Every penny, every second of your life. Mine."

Her knees buckled. The room tilted, and she sucked in a breath that felt like fire.

But even through the terror, something inside her refused to break.

A spark.

Small, but unyielding.

"You won't destroy me," she whispered, voice trembling but alive. "I'll survive you."

His grip tightened until stars burst behind her eyes.

"We'll see about that."

The walls felt too close, the air too thin. Her heart pounded loud enough to drown out the hum of the fridge, the distant traffic, her own fear.

Another crash from the living room made her jump. His bottle slammed against the floor.

Her lungs locked. Her body curled inward out of instinct, out of memory, and out of terror.

The room spun as he stepped closer. His shadow swallowed the small space, swallowing her.

"Where's the rest?" he snarled.

She searched for breath.

For strength, for escape, but there was nowhere to go.

Her life, once again, was a shrinking room closing around her.

The last thing she saw was the anger in his face as he loomed over her-sharp, twisted, and merciless. And all she could do was brace herself for the next blow.