Isla's POV
The alarm screams at 5 AM and I want to throw it across the room.
Instead, I slap the snooze button and drag myself out of bed. My entire body aches—feet, back, shoulders. Everything hurts all the time now.
Welcome to my life.
I stumble to the tiny bathroom of my Queens studio apartment. The mirror shows a stranger: dark circles under her eyes, cheekbones too sharp from skipping meals, hair that needs cutting but I can't afford it.
Six months ago, I lived in a mansion. Wore designer clothes. Had a trust fund and a future.
Now I live in two hundred square feet with a radiator that only works half the time and neighbors who fight at 3 AM.
The shower runs cold, hot water costs extra and I'm already behind on rent. I wash quickly, shivering, then pull on my work outfit: a thrift store blazer that's slightly too big, a black skirt I've worn so many times the hem is coming loose, and the only pair of heels I own that don't have holes in them.
My phone buzzes. A text from Sterling Finance: Don't forget the Morrison report is due by noon.
I grab my laptop bag and the stale bagel I saved from yesterday. Breakfast and lunch in one.
The subway is packed at 6 AM. I squeeze into a corner, surrounded by other exhausted people heading to jobs they hate. Nobody makes eye contact. We're all just trying to survive another day.
At Sterling Finance, I'm the first one in the office. Always am. I make coffee—the cheap kind that tastes like dirt, and open my computer.
Junior analyst. It sounds important. It's not.
I spend nine hours entering data into spreadsheets, double-checking numbers, running reports for senior analysts who take credit for my work. My boss Mr. Peterson barely knows my name. Calls me the Thornton girl when he remembers I exist.
Isla! His voice barks across the office at 11:45. Morrison report. Now.
I've been working on it since 6:30. It's perfect. Every number triple-checked, every graph color-coded, every projection backed by solid research.
I send it to him. He opens it, skims for thirty seconds, and forwards it to the client with his name on it.
Good work, he mutters, already looking at his phone.
That's all I get. No thank you. No acknowledgment. Just good work before he takes credit for six hours of my labor.
My phone buzzes. A reminder I set: Mom's medication due today.
My stomach drops. The medication costs three hundred dollars. I have seventy-two dollars in my checking account until Friday.
I open my banking app with shaking hands. Overdraft again. The fee will be thirty-five dollars I don't have.
But Mom needs her medication or her heart will
I can't think about that. Can't go down that road.
I call Bright Hope Nursing Facility during my lunch break, standing outside in the cold because I don't want anyone to overhear.
Ms. Thornton, the nurse says, her voice professionally sympathetic. Your mother's account is past due. We need payment by Friday or we'll have to discuss alternative arrangements.
Alternative arrangements. That means kicking her out.
I'll have it Friday, I lie. I promise.
We've heard that before. I'm sorry, but the facility has policies
Please. My voice breaks. She has nowhere else to go. I'm doing everything I can.
Silence. Then a sigh. Friday. Final deadline. After that, we'll have no choice.
The call ends. I lean against the cold brick building, fighting tears.
My mother—my sweet, kind mother who raised me alone after my birth father died, who married Edward Thornton because she wanted me to have a good life—is dying. Her heart is failing. She needs a three-hundred-thousand-dollar surgery that insurance won't cover because it's experimental.
Six months ago, I begged my father to help.
He said no. Said Emma made her choice when she got sick and became a burden. Said he already paid enough supporting her for sixteen years before the divorce.
He cut us off completely. Froze my trust fund. Told everyone I was mentally unstable after the engagement disaster.
Natalie and Derek got engaged two weeks after my party. Had a beautiful wedding last month. I saw the photos on social media, couldn't help myself. They looked so happy.
My father walked Natalie down the aisle.
I worked a double shift that day and cried in the bathroom during my break.
At 6 PM, I clock out of Sterling Finance and take the subway to Marcello's Restaurant in Manhattan. My second job. Bartender and server for the dinner rush.
Isla! Table twelve needs drinks! Marco, the manager, shouts the second I walk in.
No hello. No break. Just straight to work.
I tie on my apron and grab my order pad. The restaurant is already filling up—business executives, wealthy couples, tourists with money to burn. They'll spend more on one meal than I make in a week.
Vodka martini, extra dry, the woman at table five says without looking at me. Like I'm furniture.
Coming right up.
I smile. Always smile. Tips depend on it.
The night blurs into a parade of demanding customers and aching feet. A businessman grabs my wrist when I bring his drink. You're pretty. What time do you get off?
I have a boyfriend, I lie, pulling away politely.
Sure you do. He laughs. Doesn't leave a tip.
At 11 PM, Marco counts out my cash tips. Sixty-three dollars. Below average night.
You okay, Isla? he asks, surprising me. Marco never asks personal questions. You look tired.
I'm fine. Just been a long day.
He studies me for a moment, then adds an extra twenty from his own wallet. Take this. And get some sleep. You work too hard.
The unexpected kindness nearly breaks me. Thank you.
I take the subway home at midnight. The car is half-empty now—just other night workers, a few drunk college kids, a homeless man sleeping across three seats.
My phone buzzes. Maya again: Please call me back. I'm worried about you.
I haven't answered Maya's calls in three weeks. Can't face her cheerful voice, her successful corporate lawyer life, her questions about whether I'm eating enough and sleeping enough.
The answer is no to both. But she can't fix it, so what's the point?
My studio apartment is freezing when I get home. I check the radiator, broken again. I'll call the landlord tomorrow. He won't fix it, but I'll call anyway.
I'm too exhausted to eat. Just collapse on my bed fully clothed.
My laptop sits on the floor, open to my third job. Freelance copywriter. I should work on the project due tomorrow. Five hundred words about 10 Ways to Boost Your Morning Routine for a wellness blog.
I'll write about morning routines while surviving on three hours of sleep and a stale bagel.
The irony isn't lost on me.
My phone buzzes one more time before I pass out. Another medical bill from Bright Hope: Final Notice: $12,847.63 past due. Payment required immediately.
I close my eyes and let the darkness take me.
Somewhere in my dreams, I'm back at the engagement party. Derek is laughing. Natalie is crying fake tears. My father is telling me to stop being hysterical.
And in the corner, watching everything with cold satisfaction, stands a man I don't recognize. Dark eyes. Expensive suit. A smile that promises revenge.
I wake up at 2 AM in a cold sweat, heart pounding.
That dream again. The same one I've had for months.
The stranger from the texts. The one who said my real nightmare would begin when I had nothing left.
Well, I have nothing left now.
Where is he?
My phone screen glows in the darkness. 2:17 AM. I should sleep. Need to be up in less than three hours.
Instead, I open my banking app and stare at the number: $37.42.
That's all I have in the world.
Tomorrow I'll wake up and do it all again. Work three jobs. Skip meals. Send every dollar to keep my mother alive one more week.
And eventually, maybe next week, maybe next month—it won't be enough.
The medication will run out. The facility will kick her out. I'll lose the one person in this world who actually loves me.
I curl into a ball on my bed, pulling my thin blanket tighter.
Six months ago, I lost my fiancé, my family, and my entire life.
Turns out that was just the beginning.
The real nightmare? Realizing that no matter how hard I work, how much I sacrifice, how desperately I fight
I can't save her.
I can't save myself.
And nobody's coming to help.