I should have just stayed home. The moment I noticed the blood stains between my thighs, I knew it was going to be one of those days. But rent doesn't pay itself, and calling in sick was never really an option for me.
So here I was, behind the counter, plastering on a face that passed for "fine" while cramps clawed through my abdomen like knives. A dull ache pulsed at the base of my skull, the kind of headache that laughed at painkillers.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, leaning slightly against the counter. Maybe if I held myself tight enough, I could trick my body into easing up. I knew better, but I still tried.
"Are you okay, Sansa?"
Fredda's voice snapped me back. She stood beside me with a tray in hand, her brows pinched in concern.
"You look like you're in so much pain," she added gently.
I exhaled through my nose, the sigh carrying more weight than I meant it to. "Cramps," I admitted, my voice soft. No point in lying, my discomfort was written all over me.
Understanding flickered across her face instantly. "Ah. That time of the month."
I managed a weak smile, still clutching my belly like it might unravel if I let go.
"You take anything?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Yeah," I nodded. "A few minutes ago."
"Good." She gave me an encouraging nod. "It should kick in soon. Try to rest a bit."
God, if only I could. "I'll just go to the bathroom first. Cover me for a minute?"
"Of course." She didn't hesitate. "Take your time."
Bless her. At least someone understood.
I grabbed my purse and started the slow walk toward the bathroom, each step feeling heavier than the last. Why did it hurt so much this time? It wasn't new, but it felt worse. My whole body wanted to fold in on itself, to lie down somewhere dark and quiet, but instead I pushed forward because I had to.
The bathroom mirror didn't make me feel better. Pale skin, tired eyes, lips pressed thin against the pain—I barely looked like myself. I cleaned up, splashed some water on my face, and told myself to breathe. One step at a time.
I pulled the door open, ready to slip back unnoticed. But a sharp voice cut through my thoughts.
"Slacking off again, ain't ya, Sansa?"
I froze. My stomach sank. Of course.
She was standing right there—my manager. Arms folded, lips curled into a scowl that had no patience for excuses.
My breath caught, and I straightened instinctively. "No, ma'am," I said quickly. My voice was too fast, too defensive. "I'm not feeling well. I'm on my—"
"Not my problem!" she snapped before I could finish, her words slicing the air. Hands planted firmly on her hips, her whole body radiated irritation. "Get your ass back out there and make me some money."
I flinched at the sharpness of her tone. My lips parted, a protest slipping out on instinct. "But—"
I stopped myself. What good would arguing do? Nothing but trouble.
She turned her back to me, tossing the final blow over her shoulder. "Don't mess this up. Or you're gone."
And just like that, she walked away.
No Are you okay?
No Sit for a minute.
Just a threat. Just money.
I stood frozen in the hallway, clutching my stomach tighter, my throat burning. I wanted to cry, to scream, to slam the bathroom door and stay there until the world stopped demanding so much of me. But instead, I swallowed it all down.
Because I couldn't afford otherwise.
Clutching my stomach, I made my way back to the counter. Fredda was already there, polishing glasses and stacking them neatly. When her eyes met mine, they softened with sympathy.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, guilt flickering in her expression. "She must've snuck up on me."
I nodded, because yeah, that sounded exactly like our manager. "It's fine," I said, forcing a small smile. "I'm okay now."
But I wasn't. My body was screaming for rest, for a bed, for quiet. What I really wanted was to crawl under a blanket and let the world carry on without me for a while. Instead, I picked up a glass and helped Fredda line it on the shelf.
"See those guys?" she murmured suddenly, nudging her chin toward a corner table.
I followed her gaze. Five men sat there in matching black leather jackets, their postures rigid, their expressions unreadable. Cold eyes, sharp stares. They weren't just customers, they owned the space around them without saying a word.
"Yeah," I said slowly. "What about them?"
Fredda leaned closer, lowering her voice. "I just finished serving their table. They creep me out."
I stole another glance. She wasn't exaggerating. Even from here, I felt their presence like a weight pressing down on the room. Their gazes didn't invite approach; they warned against it. My skin prickled, and I shifted uncomfortably.
"Especially the one in the middle," Fredda added.
My eyes landed on him.
He was different—still as intimidating as the rest, maybe more so, but… there was something magnetic about him. His face was carved from angles and shadows, too handsome for comfort. He exhaled smoke, and it curled around his features like it belonged there.
I should've looked away, but I didn't.
And then his eyes caught mine.
My stomach flipped. Panic jolted through me, and I tore my gaze away, coughing awkwardly like that would undo the fact I'd been staring.
"Yeah," I muttered under my breath, grabbing another glass just to look busy. "Definitely scary."
The moment passed, but my pulse was still racing when two new men strolled up to the counter.
"Two Budweisers," one said, leaning casually on the bar.
"Coming right up," Fredda replied, already turning to grab them.
That left me alone with the talkative one. He leaned closer, grin stretching wide.
"Hello, beautiful."
I didn't even bother hiding my disinterest. "What do you want?" I asked flatly, wiping down the counter.
"You," he said, shameless.
I rolled my eyes. Of course. Same story, different night. I ignored him, scrubbing harder at a spot that didn't need cleaning.
"Come on," he pressed. "Give me your number—"
The rest of his words never came.
The air shifted, sharp and heavy. Four men in black jackets appeared from the edges of the room, closing in around him like wolves. Guns flashed, gleaming under the dim light.
My hands froze mid-motion. The rag slipped from my fingers.
Fredda returned just in time to see the barrels rise.
Gasps and screams erupted around us. Chairs scraped. Glass shattered. Some people bolted for the door; others froze in place, arms lifted high.
And then he emerged.
The man from the middle table.
He moved through the chaos like it parted for him, his presence cold and commanding. My chest tightened as he stopped in front of the customer, his gaze like ice.
He grabbed the man's collar and yanked him forward until they were face-to-face. His voice was low, steady, terrifyingly calm.
"Where's my money, Marcus?"
Silence fell over the room.
The customer, Marcus, trembled. "Rohan, please! I'll pay. I swear I'll pay."
"I said," Rohan repeated, his tone dropping even colder, "where's my money?"
Marcus stammered, sweat gathering on his forehead. "I don't have it now, just give me more time—"
"You think I'm playing with you?" Rohan pulled a gun from his waistband and pressed it against Marcus's forehead. My heart nearly stopped. "Where's my money? Because if you don't have it…" His finger curled against the trigger. "…I'll blow your brains out right here."
My pulse thundered in my ears. This couldn't be real. It felt like a movie scene, but the fear clawing at my chest told me otherwise.
Marcus's eyes darted frantically. "Wait, wait! Listen, we can settle this, okay?" His gaze flicked around the bar, wild, until it landed on me.
I froze.
"No…" My stomach dropped. No, no, no.
"Take my girlfriend," Marcus said suddenly, desperate. "Take her, and I'll bring your money when I get it."
For a heartbeat, I couldn't process the words. Girlfriend? Me?
I glanced behind me, praying he meant someone else. Anyone else. But the way Rohan's eyes followed Marcus's gaze, straight to me, told me I wasn't imagining it.
My chest tightened. My legs wobbled.
"Your girlfriend?" I burst out, panic slipping through my voice. "I don't even know you!"
"Shut your mouth, bitch!" one of Rohan's men barked, his gun snapping up to point at me.
The room went still. My breath caught in my throat. My heart slammed so hard it hurt. I couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't even breathe.
"Drop the gun from her face, Bull," Rohan said coldly without looking at me.
The man hesitated, just for a second, before obeying under Rohan's sharp glare.
Rohan turned back to Marcus, his face unreadable. And then, without warning, he slammed his forehead into Marcus's nose.
Marcus cried out, stumbling back, blood pouring down his face.
Rohan dusted his hands like he'd touched something filthy. "Bring him," he ordered, his voice flat.
Two of his men grabbed Marcus, dragging him upright.
Rohan turned, heading for the door. Relief almost loosened my knees, until he paused.
His words were simple, almost casual. But they shattered me.
"And her too."
The ground seemed to tilt beneath me. My stomach lurched. My pulse hammered wildly.
No. No, no, no.
This wasn't happening.