My mother was waiting on the front steps when I got home.
Of course she was.
Lauren Morano didn't wait for people. She positioned herself, like a spider that had already felt the vibration on the web.
"Sofia."
I stopped at the bottom of the steps. My feet were screaming. My palm was still bleeding. I wanted to walk past her, go upstairs, and sleep for a hundred years.
"Mom."
"You're late."
"I was working."
"You smell like fried food."
"That's because I was working."
She stood up, smoothing her dress. It was too nice for a Tuesday. Too nice for our building. That meant she'd either been out or she was expecting someone.
"Rent's due Friday," she said.
"I know."
"Do you? Because last month you were short."
"I gave you everything I had."
"Everything you had wasn't enough."
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
My mother was still beautiful. That was the cruel thing about Lauren Morano. Life had used her, chewed her up, spat her back out, and she was still beautiful. High cheekbones. Dark hair that fell like silk. Eyes that could cut glass or melt it, depending on what she needed.
Right now, they were cutting.
"I'll have it Friday," I said.
"And the electricity."
"Mom—"
"Don't Mom me. You live here. You contribute."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her that I was twenty-two years old, that I worked forty hours a week on top of dance training, that I hadn't bought new shoes in two years, that the twelve euros in my bag were supposed to last me until Sunday.
Instead, I said, "I'll figure it out."
She studied me for a moment, then her expression shifted. Softened. That was worse.
"Sofia. Baby. Come here."
I didn't move.
She came down the steps instead, her heels clicking on the concrete.
"You're tired," she said, touching my cheek.
I flinched.
She didn't seem to notice.
"You know, if you just... let me help you. There are men who would pay good money for a girl like you. Not—" she waved a hand, "—not like that. Companionship. Dinner. Conversation. You'd make in one night what you make in a week at that restaurant."
"Stop."
"Hear me out—"
"I said stop."
Her hand dropped.
The softness vanished.
"You're so stubborn. Just like your father."
"My father left."
"Yes," she said coldly. "He did. And look where that got us."
She turned and walked back up the steps.
"Friday, Sofia. Don't make me come looking for you."
I stood there until the door slammed.
Then I went inside, climbed the stairs to my tiny room, and sat on the bed with my bleeding palm in my lap.
I didn't cry.
I was done crying for the day.
My phone buzzed.
Natalie: You home?
I stared at the message. Natalie never texted this late unless something was wrong.
Me: Yeah. Why?
Natalie: Can I come up?
Me: Now?
Natalie: Two minutes.
I got up, washed my hand, wrapped it in a dish towel because I didn't have proper bandages, and put the kettle on.
By the time Natalie knocked, I had two mugs of tea ready and my face arranged into something resembling okay.
She took one look at me and said, "What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Sofia."
"I got chased by some guys on the way home. I'm fine."
"Chased?"
"Three of them. I ran. They gave up."
She set her mug down without drinking.
"Did they touch you?"
"No. Almost. But no."
"Jesus Christ." She ran a hand through her hair. It was dyed platinum now, different from last month. Natalie changed her hair like other people changed moods. "You need to stop walking home alone."
"I don't have money for taxis."
"I know. I know." She was quiet for a second, then: "I might have something."
"What kind of something?"
"A gig. Dancing."
I laughed. "Natalie, I already dance. That's the problem. I dance and I still can't afford to live."
"No, listen." She leaned forward. "It's not the academy. It's... different. A club. Private. Very exclusive. They pay in cash, same night. No questions about your schedule, no tuition, no contracts."
"What kind of club?"
"The kind that pays two thousand euros a night."
I stared at her.
"That's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
"Two thousand? For dancing?"
"For dancing. That's it. You wear a mask, you perform, you leave. The men who go there... they're not the kind who chase girls down alleys. They're too rich to bother."
I thought about the three men. The hand on my bag. The way my heart had tried to claw its way out of my chest.
"Why me?" I asked.
"Because you're good. Because I told them you were good. Because—" she hesitated, "—because I owe you, and I know you need this."
"You don't owe me anything."
"I do. Remember Marco?"
I remembered Marco. Natalie's ex. The one who hit her. The one I threatened with a kitchen knife until he left her apartment and never came back.
"That was nothing."
"That was everything." She grabbed my hand, the uninjured one. "Sofia. Two nights a week. Tuesday and Friday. You'd make more in one month than you make at that restaurant in three."
"And what do you do there?"
She let go of my hand.
"I'm... connected. I know people. I make things happen."
"Natalie."
"It's not like that. Not for you. You'd just dance."
I looked at my tea. It had gone cold.
"Can I think about it?"
"Sure." She stood up, pulled on her jacket. "But Sofia? Don't think too long. The spot won't stay open."
At the door, she turned back.
"And don't tell your mom."
As if I would.
As if I ever told Lauren Morano anything that mattered.