3. Zara
ZARA
I t had been a little over a month since Sterling caught me in the laundry room.
Since that day, my body had stopped feeling like mine.
And now, my period was late. It wasn’t like he took the time to use a condom.
As much as this drove me up a wall thinking about it, I was currently on the phone with my manager, hoping for some work, so I could afford a trip to the doctor’s office.
“Perfect. We’re understaffed, and I could use you on a last minute wedding.”
Tara’s voice bled through the phone, sharp and tiny, like it belonged in someone else’s life.
I didn’t answer right away. Even though I knew I needed the work, I didn’t want to go back there. Since Sterling caught me in the laundry room, and left his mark inside me. Now, I was more cautious. Something had changed within me. In my core, I felt like a whole new woman.
Every inch of me screamed: don’t go back.
Not to the hallway. Not to the dryer.
Not to the memory of his cum dripping down my legs like ownership.
But my brain reminded me that I had bills to pay.
Rent didn’t care about trauma. I couldn’t save enough to leave this hell hole.
I certainly couldn’t afford a trip to the clinic.
And the stress of my life meant that I was late.
In my bag, my birth control only had three days left on it, even though I think I may have missed a pill, so I really needed to refill my prescription as soon as possible.
Those reasons had me signing up for another humiliating shift at the country club.
“I’ll come,” I said.
My voice didn’t sound like mine. I was spiraling, thinking of going back to that place. But I had no choice now, just like I had no choice then.
Tara’s voice buzzed in my ear like static.
“It’s a wedding,” she said. “Beachfront. They’re doing it last-minute, because their venue dropped out.”
I had to do this. Even with the memories echoing in my mind, I needed to get as much money stacked as I could, so I could get away from here. Maybe I could go to college, or something bigger. My dreams could be endless once I got myself out of this hell hole.
My body still ached. But I needed the money.
“Great,” I muttered. “So we’re babysitting rich drunks?”
“You’ll be outside most of the time,” she replied. “There’s extra security.”
I almost laughed.
Security didn’t stop Sterling last time.
Sterling Kingsley was above security.
He could walk into any room like he paid for the oxygen, and suddenly it belonged to him. Like I did. Like I always had.
But I had bills. Rent. A body still healing from burns and bruises. A soul that hadn’t stopped shaking.
So I told Tara I’d come in.
Not because I was okay.
But because being broke was worse than being branded.
The day rumors exiled Sterling to Europe, I found him alone by the senior fountain.
I told him I hoped Switzerland would swallow him whole, and that no one would remember his name.
He studied the water, then murmured, “Careful. Sometimes prayers get answered,” before walking off.
I thought it was closure, but it was only the breath between acts.
We weren’t strangers, Sterling and I, far from it.
The man who had taken me, who had claimed me as his, wasn’t just some shadowy figure in my nightmares. He was the boy I’d known since I was young. The heir to a rival empire, who had somehow made himself an unshakable part of my life.
I didn’t feel like a person. Not really.
I felt like something he’d marked.
I moved anyway.
Because there was no other choice.
A black girl, born with a silver spoon, finds out fast that pain demands payment. Mercy never arrives unbought. Softness becomes a myth. Second chances carry a price tag. Instead, commands echo through empty rooms. Be strong. Push through. Pretend it never mattered.
And maybe that’s what survival was; acting .
Pretending the world didn’t rearrange your insides, while you're still expected to clock in on time, and smile at guests who mispronounce your name.
I packed my work shoes into my tote, and grabbed a granola bar I wouldn’t finish. I hadn't eaten much all week. My stomach churned, but not from hunger, more like my nerves had been tied in knots, and left to rot.
Lately, I’d been so tired, it felt like I was wading through cement. My limbs dragged, my eyes burned, and I couldn’t tell if it was from lack of sleep, or just trying to keep breathing through a life I didn’t recognize anymore.
My chest felt tight. Not the kind that came from exercise or illness, but the kind that wrapped around your ribs like panic, with nowhere to go. I blamed it on burnout. On stress. On the cafeteria food, or the job, or the weight of pretending I wasn’t unraveling.
That part of me whispered, remember you’re late.
Another part whispered, you’re his now.
And God, I hated both voices.
My new Clear View uniform was hanging on the door. Pressed. Neat. Like the remnants of its predecessor weren't at the bottom of my closet, after that day. Like it hadn’t soaked up the sound of my begging, my stillness. Like it hadn’t become something I wanted to burn.
But rent didn’t care about history. Or dignity.
Neither did Clear View.
Especially not for girls like me.
I pulled the new skirt over my hips with numb fingers, trying to get used to it, doing what so many of us have been forced to do: perform composure. I smoothed the invisible wrinkles from my pressed shirt nervously. I painted silence onto my skin, and prayed no one would look too closely.
They never did.
Maybe that was the point.
I’d told myself I was almost out; just a few more months of paychecks, just a little more saved. But now even that escape route felt farther away. Like he’d dragged me back under, just to remind me he could.
And he would.
I glanced at the mirror, but didn’t linger. I already knew what I’d see. A girl in borrowed clothes, and borrowed breath, bracing herself for another day in a place that had never been safe.
I looked at the time and realized if I didn’t hightail it out of here, I wouldn’t catch one of the three buses I needed to. Then I would be late to work. I swallowed the scream, and grabbed my keys.
Because being broken didn’t stop the world from expecting you to perform.
Because being right didn’t pay the rent.
Because being believed had never been part of the deal. Sometimes, I’d look in the mirror, and try to see what he saw. The girl worth chasing. But all I ever saw was a mess of a girl, with too many cracks, and not enough glue to hold herself together.
No one cared. So why should I?