The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the hallway, casting soft golden streaks across the polished floors. Elena stepped out of her suite, dressed in high-waisted jeans and a pale blue blouse, her tote bag slung over one shoulder, her hair pulled into a loose bun.
She looked fresh, but slightly rushed—her steps quick, her phone in hand.
As she turned the corner, Brittany appeared from the opposite end, tablet tucked under her arm, her heels clicking softly.
"Oh, hello Elena," Brittany said, smiling. "Good morning to you. Looks like you're ready to leave. The chauffeur has been waiting."
Elena winced, adjusting her bag. "I'm so sorry—I woke up kinda late this morning. It was unintentional."
Brittany waved it off with a gentle laugh. "It's fine. You've had quite a week. Don't worry."
Elena smiled, grateful.
"Have a nice day ahead," Brittany added, her tone warm and sincere.
"I'll try," Elena said, already moving toward the front entrance.
The doors opened, and the car was waiting—sleek, quiet, familiar.
She climbed in, settled into the seat, and exhaled.
It was a new day.
And she was ready to live it.
The car pulled up to the university's main entrance, the campus already buzzing with students—some rushing to lectures, others lounging on benches, earbuds in, coffee cups in hand.
Elena stepped out, adjusting her bag and smoothing her blouse.
She took a deep breath.
The moment her shoes hit the pavement, she felt it.
Eyes.
Not many. But enough.
A few heads turned.
A few whispers passed between shoulders.
She caught fragments—her name, a glance, a smirk.
It wasn't new.
But it still stung.
She walked briskly across the courtyard, her gaze fixed ahead, her posture straight. Her heart thudded quietly, not from fear, but from exhaustion.
She passed a group of girls near the fountain—one of them leaned in and whispered something, then looked directly at her.
Elena didn't flinch.
But inside, she whispered to herself, "Oh Lord… can this day be over already."
She reached the entrance to her building, pushed through the glass doors, and exhaled.
She was here.
She was strong.
But some days, strength felt heavier than others.
The lecture hall buzzed with quiet concentration. The professor's voice echoed through the room, explaining the intricacies of embryonic development. Students typed notes, heads down, eyes on screens.
Elena sat still, her notebook open, pen poised.
She didn't look back.
But she heard them.
Two rows behind.
Marissa Lang and her clique.
Their voices were low, but deliberate—just loud enough to pierce through the lecture.
"Look at her," Marissa murmured, her tone dripping with mockery. "She must be so serious now, being a whore and all."
A soft laugh from the girl beside her.
"She's acting all innocent, like that's not the path she decided to take."
Another voice joined in. "I bet she thinks whore life's gonna save her. Like she's some tragic little virgin."
Marissa snorted. "Please. She sold herself. Now she wants sympathy?"
Elena's fingers curled around her pen.
She didn't flinch.
She didn't turn.
She stared at the slide on trophoblast cells, her face unreadable.
The professor called her name.
"Elena—can you walk us through the implantation process?"
She spoke clearly, her voice steady.
"The trophoblast invades the uterine lining, initiating the formation of the placenta and ensuring the embryo's survival."
A pause.
"Excellent," the professor said.
Marissa went silent.
Elena kept writing.
Because she knew the truth.
And she didn't need to defend it to anyone.
The lecture continued.
But Elena barely heard it.
The words behind her were louder than the professor's voice, sharper than the scratch of her pen.
Marissa leaned forward again, her voice low and venomous.
"She's not even denying it. That's the saddest part."
Another girl whispered, "She's literally selling herself to save her dad. Like, is that supposed to be noble?"
Marissa scoffed. "It's pathetic. If my father was sick, I'd find a real job. Not lie down and open my legs for a paycheck."
A third voice joined in, quieter but cruel. "She probably thinks she's brave. But she's just desperate. That's all she is."
Elena's jaw tightened.
Her eyes stayed on the screen.
Her heart pounded.
But she didn't turn around.
She didn't cry.
She just kept writing.
Because she knew what they didn't.
She knew the nights she'd stayed awake, wondering if her father would ever open his eyes again.
She knew the weight of signing that contract.
She knew the silence of the clinic room, the softness of the embryo, the ache in her body.
And she knew that every cruel word behind her was spoken by someone who had never had to choose between dignity and survival.
So she kept writing.
And she stayed silent.
Because her silence was stronger than their noise.
The lecture ended with the usual shuffle of papers and muted chatter. Students filed out of the hall, some heading to the café, others to their next class.
Elena packed her things slowly, her movements careful, her mind heavy.
She didn't want to be around anyone.
She needed quiet.
She slipped out of the building and walked toward the east wing—an older part of campus with empty benches and ivy-covered walls. It was her usual spot between lectures. A place to breathe.
But the footsteps behind her didn't fade.
They grew louder.
Marissa Lang and her clique.
Still trailing.
Still talking.
"She's really walking like she owns the place," one of them sneered.
Marissa laughed. "She's probably going to cry in a corner. That's what whores do when they're not being paid."
Elena kept walking.
Faster now.
But they followed.
"She's so weak," Marissa said. "I bet she thinks she's brave. But she's just pathetic."
Then it happened.
Marissa stepped forward and shoved her.
Hard.
Elena stumbled, her bag slipping from her shoulder, her body crashing against the stone edge of a bench.
She hit the ground with a sharp cry, her wrist twisting beneath her.
Pain shot through her arm—hot, immediate, blinding.
She clutched her wrist, her breath catching.
Blood welled from a scrape near her palm. The skin was already swelling, bruising fast.
Marissa froze for a moment, eyes wide.
Then she scoffed. "Maybe next time, don't walk like you matter."
They turned and walked away, laughter echoing behind them.
Elena stayed on the ground.
Her wrist throbbed.
Her eyes burned.
But she didn't cry.
She just sat there, alone, broken—but still breathing.
Elena sat still for a moment longer, her wrist pulsing with pain, her breath shallow.
Then she moved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
She stood, wincing as she shifted her weight, her knees trembling slightly. Her blouse was stained—blood smeared across the fabric near her hip, her wrist swollen and raw.
She looked down at herself.
At the scrape.
At the bruise.
At the mess.
Then she reached into her bag with her good hand, pulled out her phone, and dialed.
The chauffeur answered quickly.
"Miss Elena?"
"Please I need you to pick me up now," she said, her voice low but steady. "Please hurry."
There was a pause.
"I'll be there in five minutes."
She hung up.
She wiped the blood from her blouse with the edge of her sleeve, her movements slow and shaky. Her wrist throbbed, but she didn't look at it again.
She couldn't stay.
Not today.
Not like this.
She walked toward the campus gate, each step heavy, her head down, her heart aching.
She didn't cry.
She didn't look back.
She just wanted to leave.