Telling me my mom was dead was what woke me up from reality. For a long moment, I just stood there, staring at the doctor, the sterile white walls of the hospital closing in on me. His voice rang in my ears like an echo from another world, muffled and heavy, as if he had spoken through water. My body felt numb. I didn't know whether I should cry or scream. My heart wanted to break into a thousand pieces, but my mind refused to catch up. I was frozen, caught between denial and devastation.
My father arrived shortly after. He staggered into the hospital corridor, his face pale and his eyes wide. When the doctor repeated the news to him, he didn't say a word. He just stood there, speechless, like a statue carved in sorrow. His hands trembled, his jaw tightened, but no sound came out. The silence between us was unbearable, a silence filled with everything we had lost and everything we would never have again.
That night, I lay awake in my bed, staring at the ceiling as tears slid silently down my cheeks. The shadows in my room twisted and shifted, but none of them resembled her. I kept replaying her voice in my mind, the last time she called after me, the way she smiled even when her heart was failing her. And though the grief clawed at me mercilessly, one truth anchored me: even at her very end, my mother had loved me.
When my alarm rang the next morning, the sharp sound yanked me from my restless half-sleep. I wanted to roll over, bury myself beneath the covers, and disappear into the void of grief, but I couldn't. Something inside me whispered that life had to move forward. My mother wouldn't have wanted me to crumble completely.
Dragging myself out of bed, I began my usual chores. I swept the floor, washed the dishes, and tried to keep my hands busy so my mind wouldn't wander too far into sorrow. My father sat silently at the table, staring at nothing. He wasn't always easy to love—especially when alcohol clouded his better self—but deep down, I knew he loved me in his own way. And in moments like these, when we were all each other had left, I couldn't turn my back on him.
I cooked him breakfast—eggs, toast, and a cup of black coffee, the way he liked it. Setting the plate down in front of him, I managed a weak smile. He gave me a faint nod in return, his lips twitching as if he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. That was enough for me.
After finishing my chores and getting myself ready, I set off for work. The walk to the restaurant was quiet, the morning air crisp against my skin. It should have felt refreshing, but all I felt was emptiness. Each step seemed heavier than the last, like the weight of my memories was pressing down on me.
When I pushed open the door to the restaurant, the familiar jingling of the bell greeted me, and so did Kiara—my best friend, my confidante, my sister in every way except blood. She took one look at me and her expression softened. Without a word, she puffed up her cheeks and crossed her eyes, making that ridiculous bubble face she always did when I was sad.
Despite myself, a laugh burst out of me, shaky at first but real. I hadn't thought it possible to laugh again, not after everything, but somehow she always found a way to reach me.
"See?" she said, grinning triumphantly. "That's the sound I've been waiting for."
I shook my head, still smiling. "You're impossible."
"Maybe. But I'm cute, so you forgive me," she teased, bumping her shoulder against mine.
Her lightheartedness warmed me in a way I desperately needed. For a little while, as we worked side by side, I felt like things might be okay.
Oops—maybe this is the right moment to tell you about myself.
My name is Daria Miles. I'm nineteen years old, the only child of the Miles family. People say I'm beautiful—long blonde hair, emerald-green eyes, a body that draws attention I don't even ask for. Men stare, women whisper, but I've never cared much about appearances. Beauty has no value when your world is crumbling. What good are perfect curves when you're living with grief heavy enough to drown you?
I had dreams once—school, college, maybe even a career that would make my mom proud. But those dreams slipped away the day she died. My father lost his job soon after, and survival became the only priority. School fees became impossible to pay, and I dropped out. Since then, life has been a constant struggle, one day bleeding into the next.
That Wednesday, I thought it would be another ordinary day at work. I was wrong.
The men came just after noon. The restaurant door swung open, and a group of them entered—men in sharp black suits, their polished shoes tapping against the tiled floor, their presence commanding the room without effort. They looked immaculate, intimidating, and completely out of place in our little diner. Their dark glasses reflected the fluorescent lights, hiding their eyes, but I could feel them scanning the room, searching.
Conversations died around us. A hush fell, broken only by the clink of cutlery and the faint hum of the ceiling fan.
One of them, taller than the rest, stepped forward. His voice was calm but carried a weight that made my heart stutter.
"We're looking for Daria Miles."
The sound of my own name on his lips sent a jolt of panic through me. I froze, my body refusing to obey the frantic command of my brain to move, to run, to hide. The walls of the restaurant felt like they were closing in, the air thick and suffocating.
Without thinking, I ducked behind the counter, pressing my back against the wall, praying they wouldn't notice me. My breaths came fast and shallow, my pulse hammering so loudly in my ears it drowned out everything else.
Kiara's eyes darted toward me. She read my fear instantly and stepped forward, her face calm though I knew her heart had to be racing too.
"She's not here today," Kiara said smoothly, her voice steady.
The men exchanged glances. One of them pulled out a phone, muttering something into it in a language I couldn't catch. The tension stretched like a taut string, threatening to snap at any moment. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they turned and walked out. The door closed behind them, and the restaurant seemed to exhale as chatter slowly returned.
But I couldn't breathe. Not really. Even after they were gone, dread coiled in my stomach like a living thing, whispering that this wasn't over.
I forced myself to finish the shift, though my hands shook every time I carried a tray, and my eyes flicked constantly to the door. When the clock struck closing time, I nearly bolted for the back room to grab my bag.
Kiara caught my arm as I left. "Hey," she said softly, "whatever this is, you're not alone. Remember that."
Her words steadied me a little. I hugged her tightly, murmured my thanks, and stepped out into the night.
The air outside was cool, the streets quiet except for the occasional car rumbling past. I put in my earphones, letting the familiar rhythm of my favorite song soothe my nerves. With each step, I told myself it was over—that the men had left, that they had no reason to come back.
But life has a way of proving me wrong.
Halfway down the street, headlights swept across me, blinding for a moment. A sleek black Maybach rolled to a slow, deliberate stop just ahead of me. My heart lurched into my throat. The engine purred like a predator lying in wait.
The doors opened, and out stepped the same men from earlier. Their suits gleamed under the streetlights, their presence more suffocating in the silence of night. One of them lifted his hand, a sharp gesture in my direction.
They didn't need words. The meaning was clear.
They wanted me.