It was now a few months later. Sarah had turned twenty-three, though the day passed like any other—uneventful, quiet, and weighed down by responsibility. Her mother's health had been deteriorating steadily, a cough that wouldn't go away, constant fatigue, and a sadness that never seemed to lift. She no longer left the house, and any household responsibility fell squarely on Sarah and Peter. The twins still needed looking after, and Peter tried to help where he could, but Sarah was the glue barely holding it all together.
She worked multiple odd jobs just to keep food on the table. Cleaning offices, babysitting for the neighbour down the road, running errands for an old widow in exchange for coins that added up slowly. But most days, she returned to her job at The Copper Spoon, a modest restaurant on Soho Road where she'd worked for two years now.
September 10th, 2023.
That morning, as Sarah walked toward The Copper Spoon, her thoughts spiraled, chasing themselves in circles. The air had a sharpness that hinted at approaching autumn. Her worn-out trainers scuffed along the pavement as she passed familiar corners. In another life, she would've been in a lecture hall by now—maybe second or third year of medical school. She'd dreamed of being a surgeon since childhood, slicing through flesh not for harm but to heal, to save. But poverty had made dreams a luxury she couldn't afford.
Instead, she was heading into a shift she'd likely finish sore, exhausted, and unnoticed.
She sighed deeply, rubbing her cold hands together. The image of men who'd made passes at her danced through her mind: the suggestive stares, the crude comments. Some offered phone numbers scribbled on napkins, some promised money for just one night. Mr. Samson, of course, stood out—persistent, sleazy, and loaded with the kind of cash that could pay their rent thrice over.
And then there was Mr. Goodwill, another regular who once tried to press his hands against her back while she cleared his plate, whispering vile suggestions she pretended not to hear. Would life have been different if she had just said yes to one of them? Would she be wearing decent clothes? Would the twins have their own bed? Would her mother afford proper medication?
But every time she considered it, the shame choked her.
The bell above the restaurant door jingled as she stepped in and signed in at the tiny corner counter. Vanessa gave her a tired wave from across the dining room. It was barely past 10 a.m. and already customers were sipping tea and placing orders.
As she tucked her notebook under her apron, a familiar cologne hit her nostrils—the same overpowering, expensive scent she had come to dread.
"Sarah," came the smooth, calculated voice of Mr. Samson.
She turned slowly to find him standing near the door in a dark navy suit, gold rings flashing with every movement of his hand. A woman's man by appearance, but Sarah knew better. His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Morning, Mr. Samson," she said politely, trying to move past him.
"Hold on, darling. Don't be in such a rush. I just wanted a minute," he said, stepping into her path.
She frowned. "I'm about to start my shift."
He grinned wider. "Which is why I'm here early. Listen, I've been thinking… You work too hard. Look at those hands—rough from scrubbing and mopping, eh? You deserve something soft for once."
"I'm not interested," she said, stepping aside.
He moved again, blocking her. "Just hear me out, nah. One weekend. Just one. You and me. No strings. I'll book a hotel in Mayfair—jacuzzi, king bed, food from anywhere you want. And I'll give you five hundred pounds. Upfront."
Sarah blinked.
"I'm serious," he continued, lowering his voice. "This ain't no joke. Five hundred quid, Sarah. That's more than what you make in what—two months? All I'm asking is one weekend. No one has to know."
She stared at him, her chest rising and falling.
"You could get yourself some new clothes, take care of your mum proper, maybe even fix that fridge that doesn't work. I know it ain't working—I asked your neighbour, Rita."
Her fists clenched.
"If you come any closer," she said, voice shaking, "I'll scream. I'll shout this whole fucking place down. You think I'm joking?"
His smile faltered.
"Don't ever say my name again. Don't look at me. Don't come here again. If you do, I swear—"
"Alright, alright. Calm down," he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "No need to make a scene."
She brushed past him, her heart hammering in her chest.
The rest of the morning passed in a daze. She served customers, wiped tables, fetched trays—but her mind was elsewhere, spinning with rage, disgust, and a bitter ache in her chest.
Just after midday, the door slammed open with urgency.
Everyone turned.
It was Nicholas—the quiet, sweet boy who never raised his voice or made trouble. His school uniform was rumpled, face wet with tears, and he was panting as though he had run a mile.
"Sarah!" he cried, eyes wide with fear. "Sarah, come quick. Mummy—mummy's not waking up."
The plate she had been holding fell to the floor with a shatter.
Everything else disappeared.
She grabbed her coat and ran.