Chapter 6 You are fired

The streets felt different that morning-less like paths and more like reminders. Aria walked with a strange limp, not just from the pain between her legs, but from the ache that had lodged itself into her chest. The sun was much too bright for how she felt inside. She clutched the small black bag tightly in her hand-the one with the bloodied sheets-and every step reminded her just how broken she felt.

She hadn't cried since she left Lucien's house. Not after he accused her, not when he said he regretted saving her, not even when he called her a prostitute without using the word. But now, walking through a city she no longer recognized, she felt the heaviness pressing down on her. Still, she swallowed it, clenched her jaw, and marched on.

She made her way to the staff entrance of the restaurant she worked at. The door creaked as she opened it, and the hallway smelled like detergent and old sweat. She moved quickly past the kitchen, ignoring the chefs' glances. It was already past noon, but maybe-just maybe-she could explain herself to her boss.

As she reached her locker, her heart dropped. The lock was missing, and inside, all her things had been tossed into a box on the floor. Her name tag was scratched out.

"Ari?"

She turned to see Martha, one of the waitresses she had shared countless breakroom chats with. Martha looked uncomfortable, shifting on her feet.

"Mr. Collins wants to see you," she said softly.

Aria nodded and picked up the box, her stomach turning.

The manager's office was small and barely had space for two people. Mr. Collins sat behind his desk, his shirt sweat-stained and sleeves rolled up. He didn't even look up when she entered.

"You were supposed to be here this morning, by eight but you show up at noon?" he said.

"I know, I-" she tried to talk but he cut her off.

"Three hours late. No call. No explanation. And this isn't the first time you've missed a shift or come in late.....yoh always come up with an excuse, all the time, your grandma is always the excuse each time you come late...the world doesnt revolve around you Aria, we can't be making an exception for you everytime....you are not that important "

Aria's fingers clenched the box. "I wasn't well. Something happened last night. I was-"

He held up a hand. " I don't care.Just stop with the excuses already... You should've called. We don't have space for people who treat the job like it's a favor."

"But I need this job....I'm sorry....I'll work both day and night shifts until i recover the days I've lated....please sir" she whispered.

"Plenty of people need jobs, and unfortunately you dont seem like someone who is dedicated for work..." he snapped. "You're done. Take your things and leave.....you are fired"

She stood there for a second, hoping he'd change his mind. But the dismissal in his eyes said everything. She wanted to plead, but she knew her boss well enough to know that he wouldn't change his mind no matter what.

Aria walked out of the restaurant, her box clutched to her chest, her pride shredded. That job had been her only lifeline. Without it, how would she pay rent? Buy food? Afford her grandmother's medication?

The streets no longer felt like streets. They were cliffs, and she was dangling.

She didn't go home. Instead, she found a quiet park bench, dropped the box beside her, and sat staring into nothing. Her phone buzzed once. A message from an unknown number: "Why did you leave with my bedsheets?" That was it.

Lucien.

She turned the phone over and threw it into the grass. For once, she wanted silence. No buzzing, no apologies. No words from someone who saw her body and decided she was for sale.

She leaned back and finally let the tears come. Not dramatic, loud sobs-just soft, hot tears that trickled down her cheeks and dropped onto her lap. It wasn't just about Lucien or the job. It was everything. How the world treated broken girls like her. How even kindness came with suspicion. How every helping hand could suddenly turn into a pointing finger.

By the time she got back to her apartment, it was almost evening. The place was cold and dark.Aria dropped her things and walked into the tiny bathroom. She took off her clothes and looked at herself in the mirror.

Bruises bloomed on her thighs, and the pain had dulled to a throb. But her eyes... those told the real story. They weren't the same eyes that had once dreamed of music school, or of dancing under stage lights. These were survival eyes now.

She turned on the water. The pipes rattled before hot steam filled the room. As she stepped into the shower, she took the small bag of sheets with her.

She didn't know why-maybe it was to prove something to herself-but she stood there, water running down her back, and tore the bag open. She stared at the stained fabric for a long time.

Then, slowly, she tore the sheet in half. Then again. Again. Until it was nothing but wet shreds at her feet.

She watched them float around the drain before stepping out.

Aria changed into a hoodie and sat on the floor with a piece of bread and tea. No appetite, but she needed something. As she stared at her chipped coffee table, her mind wandered to the way Lucien had looked at her that morning-like she had poisoned his entire existence.

And still, somewhere inside her, a part of her missed how he had looked at her the night before. When his eyes weren't full of contempt.

But that was over. He had made it clear. He wished he'd never stopped for her. Never helped her.

Aria had learned something important: People don't regret helping unless they expect a reward in return.

And she was done being the reward.

The next day, she would apply for every job she could find. She would call the clinic and ask for a payment plan for her grandma's bills. And she would block Lucien's number.

She might have lost everything in twenty-four hours, but what she hadn't lost-what no one could ever take again-was her pride.

She was still here. Bare, bruised, but unbroken.