Every day for two long years, the hospital became my reluctant second home. When I finally turned eighteen, I had imagined freedom — nights spent laughing under bright lights, the carefree chaos of youth. Instead, I was tethered to sterile halls and the endless waiting, my adolescence swallowed by duty.

Today was no different. My footsteps echoed softly as I approached my father’s room, the familiar corridor stretching before me with its muted hum of machines and hushed voices. I paused, steeling myself, willing a smile to appear.

"Alright, Valentina," I murmured to myself, brushing invisible dust off my resolve. "Put on the smile."

Sliding the door open, I set the tray carefully on the bedside table. "Hello," I greeted, forcing warmth into my voice, the smile broad and practiced.

Our relationship was a tangled web of silence and cold glances, but that never stopped me from trying. I searched endlessly for the root of his bitterness, perplexed by the distance he maintained even as I devoted myself to his care.

"How are you feeling, Dad?" I asked gently, perching on the edge of his bed.

"Fine," he replied curtly, eyes fixed away, leaving an icy void where connection should have been. It was the usual—brief, clipped answers that left me aching for more.

Sometimes, I yearned for a spark of affection from him, a sign that beneath his hardness, I mattered. Despite the weight of his illness and the ghost of my mother’s abandonment years ago, I carried a fierce love that refused to waver.

"That's good to hear. Here’s your medicine," I said, offering the pills with a gentle smile.

"I said I’m fine," he snapped, still staring away. Doctors insisted on the regimen, but his stubbornness was legendary.

"Dad, you need to take these. You know what’s at stake," I pleaded, recalling the doctor’s warnings during last week’s visit. My voice softened, but the urgency remained.

He grunted, slowly rising, the effort clear despite his pride. "Leave them on the table. I’ll take them after I eat," he muttered, heading toward the bathroom.

I nodded silently, pushing back a surge of helplessness and standing as well. Time was slipping through my fingers, and I couldn't linger — an interview awaited, and I couldn't afford to be late.

• • •

The club's neon sign flickered above the entrance, its glow casting long shadows on the wet pavement. I hesitated, swallowing a lump of apprehension. Was this really my choice?

Fuck it.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside, the sharp scent of alcohol and sweat assaulting my senses. My nose wrinkled in distaste; I’d always avoided drinking — just one sip and control slipped through my fingers. I could count on one hand the times I’d tasted liquor.

Inside, the heat was suffocating. Bodies pressed close, moving in rhythm with the pounding bass, sweat and desire mixing in the heavy air. I pushed forward, weaving through the crowd, every sense alert.

Suddenly, a rough hand grabbed my behind, stopping me cold. My heart slammed against my ribs as I spun around, eyes blazing.

"Excuse me?" I snapped, disbelief and fury lacing my words. "What the hell?"

The man grinned, unabashed. "Relax, beautiful, accident. My bad," he said with a smirk, brushing past me like I was nothing.

I scoffed, unimpressed. His excuse was pathetic—he could have tried harder at least.

Without hesitation, I grabbed his arm, yanking him around to face me. My fist itched to connect with his smug face.

"Tell me, would shoving a flagpole up your ass count as an accident?" I hissed, watching his knuckles whiten as he clenched his fists.

"Listen here, bi—" he started, but I cut him off, pushing past without looking back. I had better things to focus on.

My gaze scanned the room, seeking a familiar face. There, perched on a barstool, sat Paige, chatting easily with the bartender.

"Paige!" I called out, raising my voice above the music.

Her face lit up at the sound of my name. "Valentina!" she shouted back, hopping up and enveloping me in a warm hug.

"I thought you'd be working," I said, returning the embrace.

"Not until eleven. Wasn’t sure you’d actually show," she replied with a teasing grin.

Money was running thin. Between my father's mounting medical bills and the bills I had to cover, working at the coffee shop just wasn’t cutting it anymore. Paige’s new job here at the club had seemed like a promising option.

"Thought I’d give it a shot," I admitted, breaking from the hug.

After Mom left us for another man, the weight of responsibility had fallen squarely on my shoulders. Two jobs, endless worry, and a future uncertain. Paige had quit the cafe months ago and found work here as a dancer. When she told me about the decent wages, I decided to try my luck at the club as a waitress — nothing more.

"Need any help settling in?" Paige asked, concern softening her usual bold demeanor.

"You’ve already helped more than you know," I said, gratitude flooding me. She was my anchor, my sister in the chaos.

She playfully slapped my arm. "You don’t have to thank me. I’m always in your corner."

An abrupt cough interrupted us. The bartender, a man with sun-kissed skin and an easy charm, glanced over with a curious smile.

"Who's the new girl?" he asked, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Paige rolled her eyes at his obvious flirtation. "Valentina’s thinking of joining us," she explained.

"That’s great. I’ll have to keep an eye on you," he joked, winking. Heat rushed to my cheeks.

"This is Angelo," Paige said. "Bartender, ladies’ man, and occasional flirt."

Despite the noisy chaos around us, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this new path could bring more than just survival. But deep down, I knew the night held shadows waiting to engulf me, and the choices ahead would test everything I thought I knew about trust and strength.