MELA'S POV:
"Miss, where's my change?" a customer's irritated voice cut through my fog.
"Sorry," I handed him change for a hundred, but my exhausted brain couldn't process the math. I just prayed that I gave the right amount.
As he walked away, I heard him mutter to his companion. "Is she a junkie or just plain stupid?"
My chest tightened. I'm not on drugs. Just surviving on two hours sleep because I spent every night looking for evidence against the family that tried to kill me.
"Excuse me? Miss?" I looked up to find three young women in corporate attire, giggling with their phones out.
"We're doing a feature on authentic street food," the one in front said, dripping with condescension that came from thinking she was being charitable. "Can we take your picture? It's for our lifestyle vlog."
"Ah, I don't think -" I refused, panic rising.
Pictures meant exposure.
Exposure meant Victoria finding me.
"Let's hear your story. Why did you end up doing this?" her eyes were bright looking for trauma to monetize into likes and shares. "Did something tragic happen?"
My throat closed up.
Yes. My stepmother poisoned me, stole my inheritance, and left me for dead. I survived by crawling through garbage to find food. I slept in public restrooms. I sold everything I had including my dignity just to afford this cart.
But I couldn't say any of that.
"I… just need to work like everyone else," my voice came out small, defeated.
"Aww," one of her friends cooed, like I was a puppy in a shelter. "How sad! But like, weren't you able to go to school so you can get a real job?"
The question hit like a slap.
I have an MBA from Harvard. I speak four languages. I used to run board meetings with men twice my age. And you're asking me if I went to school?
"I wasn't able to finish high school," I lied.
"Oh no, that's so sad," the leader recorded. "See, this is why education is so important. Otherwise, you'll end up -"
She gestured vaguely at me, my cart, at my existence.
Something inside me cracked.
"Your order, ma'am?" I interrupted.
The shift in my tone must have surprised her because she lowered her phone slightly. "Um, no thanks. We already ate. But good luck with your.. Business!"
They walked away, probably already crafting their caption about how "blessed" they were and how we should all "appreciate what we have."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab them and shout, "I lost everything, but I'm still here fighting, and now you're treating me like poverty porn for your IG!"
But instead, I turned back to my cart, blinking back tears I couldn't afford to shed.
My reflection stared back at me from the metal surface - hollow cheeks, dark circles under my eyes, hair pulled back in a messy bun because I hadn't had time to wash it properly in three days.
The woman in the reflection looked nothing like Amelia Ysabell Imperial, an oil heiress and Harvard graduate.
I looked exactly like what those girls thought I was: another failed street vendor, too uneducated to do better.
"Mela, two lumpia with extra sauce!" another ordered, waving a fifty peso bill impatiently.
I reached for the lumpia even with my hands that didn't stop shaking.
Just a few more hours. Just make it to closing. Then you can collapse, Mela.
I was handing the order to the customer when I saw trucks painted with city government logos pushing through pedestrians like they owned the street.
My entire world shifted on its axis.
It's the demolition crew. And they were heading straight for us!
"Attention all vendors!" his voice boomed through a megaphone."This area has been designated for sidewalk clearing operations. You have five minutes to remove your carts or they will be confiscated and destroyed per City Ordinance 2025-18!"
Around me, other vendors erupted into protests and please. Lola Caring from the fruit cart was crying, begging them to wait until she could sell her remaining inventory.
Kuya Ben was arguing about permits and proper notice.
But I couldn't move.
This cart is my everything!
Something inside me snapped.
"Wait! I heard myself shout, driven by a desperation that overrode my usual caution. "We have permits! We pay our fees!"
The officer barely glanced at me. "Take it up with City hall."
City Hall. I knew exactly what it was. My stepmother had always been generous with "donations" to local officials.
Have they found me?
"We need more time," I insisted, hating how my voice cracked. "Please, this is our livelihood-"
"Four minutes."
The reduction of our survival to a countdown ignited something I thought Victoria had poisoned out of me three years ago.
Rage.
"You can't do this!" my hands clenched into fists. "This is an illegal seizure! Where's your court order? Where's the proper documentation?"
The officer finally looked at me, and I saw the moment he registered that I knew too much.
Mistake. Stupid mistake.
"You're a lawyer now, lady?"
"I can read," I shot back before I could stop myself. "And I know that demolition without proper notice violates -"
"Three minutes. You want to stand here arguing or save whatever you can carry?" he mocked.
My mind raced, calculating options with the same strategic thinking that had once made me the youngest board member of Imperial Oil.
I could call.. Who? I had no one. No connections. No power.
I was reminded that I was just a nobody.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I held my ground. This battered, second-hand cart with its squeaky wheel and temperamental burner is all that I have left.
I couldn't let them take it.
"I'm not moving." I stepped in front of my cart, arms spread wide like a human shield. "You want it? You'll have to go through me."
A hand grabbed my arm, trying to pull me away. I yanked free, stumbling backward against my cart.
The metal was hot against my back, burning through my thin shirt.
It was hot.
Just like that night.
The tea was too hot but Victoria insisted -
"One minute!"
The men advanced. I saw crowbars lifting. Then I heard the first crash as someone else's cart went down.
My vision started to blur at the edges. I couldn't feel my legs.
"Victoria… what did you…"
"Move her!"
Rough hands seized me. I tried to fight, but my body wasn't responding right.
I heard myself screaming - or was that three years ago?
"She's having another episode. Sedate her!" Victoria's voice was as cold as poison. "Call the facility. Tell them the patient is ready."
My knees hit the concrete but I barely felt it. It's like the present and the past emerged into one endless moment of violation and loss.
The men tore my cart apart. Metal bent and buckled.
My carefully maintained equipment scattered across the pavement while the small lockbox where I kept my emergency money disappeared into someone's pocket when they thought no one was looking.
But I froze. Helpless.
Victoria's face was above me, beautiful and terrible. "It's for the best, Mela. You do not belong in this family."
The bitter taste of almonds in my tea.
My body convulsing, blood dripping down my mouth.
Darkness pulled me under while she watched with those cold, satisfied eyes.
"Someone call an ambulance!"
"It's a panic attack! Give her space!"
Voices swirled around me like water, distorted and distant.
Through the haze of panic, I became aware of a presence.
A pair of expensive leather shoes entered my limited field of vision. The owner crouched down, bringing himself to my level.
I caught a glimpse of coal black suit pants, a crisp white shirt, and a watch that cost more than my entire year's income.
Rich. Danger. Victoria. Death.
I wanted to move away but I can't. I couldn't even breathe.
"Easy," the voice was male, deep and unexpectedly gentle. "Breathe with me."