Chapter 7 Striving For Survival

Elena's POV

The bell above the door chimed softly as I stepped into Bluebird Café, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe.

Nothing had changed.

The warm lighting. The low music. That familiar scent of roasted coffee and vanilla-it all wrapped around me like a ghost, pulling me back to a time I'd rather forget.

My eyes found the window table automatically. Our table. Where it all began. But I didn't go there. Instead, I chose a seat near the counter, tucked behind a tall ficus where I could watch the door without being watched myself. Sitting at that table would feel like accepting something I no longer believed in.

Why did Mark choose this place? After everything he'd done, how dare he?

Fine. Let it end here. Where it started.

I ordered orange juice and kept my hands folded in my lap, checking my phone every few seconds. No messages. Typical.

Despite myself, the café's strange magic worked on me. The barista still hummed while working, just like before. The same unhurried rhythm animated the staff. Memories I didn't want surfaced unbidden.

Mark's face across the table-relaxed, confident, effortlessly charming. His hand reaching for mine, his fingers warm and solid as they wrapped around my knuckles.

"I've never loved anyone the way I love you, Elena."

I remembered how my cheeks had burned. How my heart had stuttered at his touch.

"A position at Thompson Crest is waiting for you," he'd said smoothly. "An apartment too. You'll never have to struggle again. I'll take care of everything."

He'd kissed my knuckles then, his eyes locked on mine with all the sincerity in the world.

A bitter laugh escaped me now. How stupid I'd been. How blind.

I forced the memories away, focusing instead on the condensation sliding down my glass. Counting droplets. Watching them disappear.

Minutes passed. Then more.

I was about to leave-convinced he'd stood me up, again-when the bell jingled.

Mark strolled in like he owned the place. Like he wasn't twenty minutes late. Like making me wait was his God-given right.

Then I saw them-the dark marks on his neck. Fresh. Obvious. Carelessly displayed.

My chest tightened, but I held my composure. Whatever this meeting was about, I wouldn't let him see how deeply he could still wound me.

He slid into the chair across from me, one leg crossing lazily over the other. Leaning back, draping an arm along the booth's curved back, radiating that infuriating arrogance I'd once found so attractive. A smirk tugged at his lips.

"You kept me waiting," I said, my voice steady despite the pounding in my chest. "What's this about, Mark? What do you want? I'm out of your life. Why are you sabotaging my interviews? Blacklisting me from every job I apply for?"

He chuckled. "Elena... I just wanted you to see something." He tilted his head. "I wanted you to see what happens when you try to survive without me. You think you're independent? You're not. Without me, you're nothing."

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay calm. "And? What do you expect? That I'll fall at your feet and beg you to let me live?"

"Exactly." He spread his hands, as if this explained everything. "I invested so much in you-every paycheck I approved, every apartment I arranged, every luxury you enjoyed. And what did I get in return? Nothing. You didn't take care of me, Elena. No gratitude. Not even a single massage. Worst return on investment I've ever made."

My stomach churned. "You're calling using me an investment?" I snapped, my voice trembling with fury. "I earned everything I had. I don't owe you anything!"

His eyes darkened, something predatory flickering in their depths. He leaned forward. "You do owe me, Elena. But we can settle it. One last night with me-give me something sweet to remember-and we're even. After that... you can have your life."

Something inside me detonated.

My fingers found my glass before I could think. The orange juice flew from my hand, arcing through the air, splashing across his face in a golden explosion. It dripped from his chin, soaked his collar, ran in rivulets down his expensive shirt.

"You disgusting creature!" I was on my feet, my chair scraping violently against the floor. "You think money and power make you untouchable? I trusted you! I loved you! And this-" my hand shook as I pointed at him, years of hurt and rage pouring out, "-this is who you really are? You're pathetic!"

The café went absolutely silent.

For one glorious moment, Mark just sat there, frozen, orange juice dripping from his perfect hair, his tailored shirt ruined.

Then he was half out of his chair, sputtering, his face purple with rage. "You'll pay for this, Elena!"

I didn't stay to hear the rest.

I walked out of Bluebird Café with my head high and my heart pounding, leaving Mark behind-soaked, humiliated, and utterly dismantled by a girl who refused to be anyone's property.

***

The month that followed my confrontation at Bluebird Café taught me a brutal truth: Mark's words, his arrogance, his reach-none of it had been bluffing.

Every application I submitted hit a wall. Offers were rescinded without explanation. Interviews ended abruptly, prematurely. I could feel his invisible hand pressing down on every opportunity, squeezing until nothing remained. My grandmother's mounting medical bills loomed like a storm cloud I couldn't escape. Eventually, a bartending job became my only option.

So I ended up at The Moonlight Lounge-the highest-paying night shift in the neighborhood.

The uniform was... humiliating. A skintight, ridiculously revealing "catwoman" ensemble that covered almost nothing. I tugged at the fabric as I tied my apron, trying to salvage what little dignity remained.

"First night?" A coworker sidled up to me, amusement glinting in her eyes. "Don't psych yourself out. Just smile, serve drinks, and survive the shift. That's the motto."

I nodded silently, forcing myself to focus. The lounge hummed with noise-clinking glasses, low music, the buzz of too many people in too small a space. I wove between tables, keeping my hands steady and my mind blank, suppressing the anxiety coiling in my chest.

The first customers were fine-tipsy office workers, college kids-until they walked in.

A pack of men with hungry eyes spotted me immediately. Before I could escape, they'd cornered me near the service station. One of them laughed, shoving a drink toward my chest. "Come on, sweetheart. Have one with us."

"I'm working." I forced the words out. "Please. Leave me alone."

That only encouraged them. Their grins turned cruel. One hand found my waist, pulling me closer. My heart hammered-not again, please not again-

"Loosen up," another taunted, pressing the glass to my lips.

I tried to pull away, but they tightened around me, blocking every exit. Panic clawed at my throat.

A shadow fell over them.

"Take your hands off her. Now."

Every head turned. Even the men harassing me froze mid-motion. That voice-I knew that voice.

Alpha Eric Thompson stood there, tall and radiating pure, lethal authority. The very air seemed to shift around him, charged and electric.

No. Not now. Humiliation burned through me as my heart stuttered in my chest.