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The Contract Luna

Ighoyovwin_Fejiro
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Chapter 1 - CHAPTER ONE

Haley's Point of View

The door wasn't locked.

That should've been my first warning.

I stepped in quietly, not wanting to believe what I already knew. The scent of cinnamon hung in the air, the same fragrance I bought for him, back when I still thought this was love. Back when I still thought he was love.

Joel was slouched on the couch, eyes glued to his TV screen, fingers clicking rapidly on his game controller. Not even a glance. No startled look. No guilt. Just a grunt, like I was some noise he had to tolerate.

"You could at least knock," he muttered.

"I used to have a key," I said. My voice was shaking, even though I was trying so hard to keep it steady.

He didn't pause his game. "Yeah, well. Used to."

I took a few steps in, gripping my phone so tight I thought it would snap. "I saw the messages, Joel. The hotel bookings. The photos."

That got his attention.

He set the controller down slowly and looked at me with a kind of boredom that made my stomach turn. He didn't look worried or ashamed. Just done.

"So?" he said with a smirk. "You want a gold star for figuring it out?"

My heart dropped. I had come here hoping, stupidly, that he'd at least pretend to care. That he'd lie, even. Instead, I got this.

"I want to know why," I whispered. "After everything I—"

"Why?" he scoffed and stood up, stretching like I'd just interrupted a nap. "Because you're a damn princess, Haley. A spoiled, clueless little daddy's girl."

The words hit harder than I expected. I stared at him, the insult sticking in my throat like ash.

"You think I cared about you?" he continued. "I was with you because your dad had money. That's it. Everything you bought me, everything you gave me, I took it because I could."

I felt like I couldn't breathe.

"I never wanted you," he added.

And just like that, I broke a little more.

He took a few steps toward me, voice smooth like he was explaining something obvious. "I stayed because the money was good. Rent was paid, bills were covered, food in the fridge. You were like a free subscription service."

"Joel…" I barely recognized my own voice.

"I've been done for months. Just waiting for the right time."

Then came the footsteps.

Soft. Bare. Feminine.

A girl, no, a stranger—came down the stairs wearing his shirt. My shirt, actually. I bought it for him last Christmas.

She looked at me with this smug little half-smile like I was the intruder. Like I was the outsider in a story I'd written.

Joel walked to her, placed a kiss on her forehead like they were in some stupid rom-com, and said, "This is Vanessa. My real girlfriend."

My chest felt like it had caved in. "What?"

"We're moving in together," he said casually. "Thanks to your little charity fund, I've got everything I need for a fresh start."

I didn't cry, not in front of him. I wanted to. God knows I did. I could feel the tears clawing at the back of my eyes, hot and blinding, like fire trying to escape. My chest tightened, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. But I held it in. I swallowed the lump in my throat, clenched my jaw so tight it hurt. I refused to give him that piece of me, the satisfaction of seeing me break.

Not after everything he'd taken.

So I turned away. My fists curled, my nails digging into my palms like they were the only things keeping me grounded. I walked out like I still had pride stitched into my skin.

I turned, walked out the same door I once used to walk in with love in my hands.

And this time, I didn't look back.

The memory hit me like a cold slap as I stared at my cracked phone screen, the past screaming louder than the present.

"Miss Palmer?" a woman's voice asked again on the line. "Can you hear me?"

I blinked, forcing myself to sit upright. "Yes. Sorry. I'm here."

"This is Mrs. Louis from Goldstream Accountants. You submitted your resume with us?"

I nodded instinctively, even though she couldn't see me. "Yes. I remember."

"There's an opening on the janitorial team. It's a day shift, and you will be starting tomorrow. I know it's not what you were hoping for, but—"

"I'll take it." My voice cracked. "Please. I'll take it."

There was a pause, then something softened in her tone. "You start at 8 a.m. Ask for Mr. Taylor when you arrive. Wear something comfortable."

"Thank you," I whispered.

When I hung up, I just stared out the window. My reflection stared back at me—pale, tired, unfamiliar.

This wasn't the life I dreamed of. This wasn't the job I studied for. I didn't stay up all night memorizing formulas and flipping through textbooks with trembling fingers just to end up wiping fingerprints off office desks. I didn't pour years of my life into lectures, sleepless exam weeks, and graduation fantasies to earn a call about mopping tiles.

This wasn't supposed to be me, desperate, overlooked, reduced to a name they skipped over in every real interview. I once imagined myself wearing sleek suits, handling big accounts, watching my name climb some corporate ladder.

But life had other plans. Cruel ones. But bills didn't care about dreams. And my mother, my fragile, grieving mother, needed medication and food, not fairy tales.

From the next room, I could hear her soft breathing. A rare good night. No crying, no restlessness. The silence almost made me nervous. Most nights, she called out for people who were no longer here, my father, my brother—her voice trembling, confused, as if trapped between memories and pain. Sometimes she wept quietly, other times she screamed, and I'd rush in, holding her hand, whispering lies like "You're safe," and "I'm here," while a part of me shattered inside.

But tonight… just the sound of her breath. Soft, even. Peaceful.

I stood outside her door a little longer, just listening, clutching the tray of untouched food I'd brought in hours ago. She hadn't eaten, but at least she was resting. For now, that was enough.

I placed the phone on the table and leaned back against the chair, eyes burning.

"I'll make it through," I whispered.

But deep down, I wasn't sure I believed myself anymore.