Mira worked on weekends.
No one in the Blackwood mansion knew.
On Saturdays, she woke before sunrise, dressed quietly, and slipped out through the side gate with a small backpack slung over her shoulder. The guards barely glanced at her—she wasn't important enough to question.
The restaurant was nothing special.
A modest place tucked between two busy streets, smelling of coffee, oil, and warmth. The owner was a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and tired kindness.
"You've worked before?" the woman asked, looking Mira up and down.
"Yes," Mira replied honestly. "I learn fast."
That was enough.
She was given a black apron and a simple instruction.
"Smile. Don't break anything."
Mira nodded. "I won't."
---
Being a waitress was harder than livestreaming.
Her feet ached by noon. Customers snapped their fingers at her. Some ignored her completely. Others stared a little too long.
But Mira endured.
She carried trays steadily. Took orders politely. Apologized even when she wasn't wrong.
Every plate she served reminded her of one thing—
She was surviving on her own terms.
During her break, she sat in the back, sipping water and counting the hours left. The tips weren't much, but they were real. Honest.
She thought of her father then.
Work with dignity, he had once said. Even if the world looks down on you.
She straightened her shoulders and returned to the floor.
---
That evening, Dominic noticed something strange.
Mira returned late.
Her shoes were scuffed. Her hands smelled faintly of soap and food. She looked exhausted—but calmer than usual.
"You're late," he said from the living room.
Mira stopped.
"I went out," she replied.
"Where?"
She hesitated.
"To work."
The word seemed to echo.
Dominic laughed softly, without humor. "Don't be ridiculous."
Mira met his gaze. "I'm a waitress."
Silence followed.
Dominic's expression hardened, irritation flashing in his eyes.
"You live in this house," he said. "You don't need to pretend."
"I'm not pretending," Mira replied. "I don't like depending on people."
Something about that struck him the wrong way.
"Careful," he said coldly. "People like you always say that."
Mira didn't ask what he meant.
She simply bowed her head slightly. "Good night."
And walked past him.
---
Upstairs, Mira washed her hands slowly, watching the water turn cloudy.
She checked her phone.
A small deposit from the restaurant.
Another from her livestream.
It wasn't much.
But it was hers.
She lay on the bed, exhaustion settling into her bones, and stared at the ceiling.
If Dominic thought she was like her mother—
Then he didn't know her at all.
And one day, he would.