Chapter 3 This isn’t me

Tia's POV

It's been three days. Three days of searching, clicking, hoping—nothing.

Hannah opens the door just as I'm about to knock. "You're lucky you caught me." Already turning, bag swinging. "I have to go in early but I'll be back early. Don't miss me too much."

She kisses my cheek then rushes down the hall, keys jingling. The door stays open. I step in.

The laptop waits on the table. I sink into the chair and press the power button. A black screen comes on with just the cursor blinking.

"Great."

I tap escape. Nothing. My jaw tightens. I hold the power button until it dies, then start over fingers moving through commands I'm overly familiar with. When the desktop finally loads, I exhale and lean back.

Then the thought arrives. Maybe I've been looking in the wrong place. I sit forward, opening new tabs.

"Entry-level tech jobs."

Portfolio. 

GitHub account. 

Past projects.

My throat tightens. Same requirements. Different titles.

The screen flickers. Goes black. My hands freeze.

I lean in, fingers moving faster—adjustments, configuration changes. The system stutters then restarts.

I sit back slowly. If I can do this... fix a broken system without help... The thought shifts. Darker. If I can't make money from tech legally... maybe I don't need to.

Hacking. Ransom. My fingers tap against the armrest. Companies? Too risky but individuals...

Jordan used to do it. I remember pieces—tools, steps he walked me through and how I assisted him a couple of times. I could figure it out.

I walk to the fridge and find some leftover rice. I heat it, leaning against the counter. VPNs. Fake accounts. Subscriptions. All the things that cost money.

The microwave beeps.

I eat standing up, chewing slowly. The plan builds—then crumbles. I don't have the to finance any of it.

"Of course."

I set the container down and walk back to the couch. At some point, my eyes close.

••••••••••

The door unlocking jolts me awake.

Hannah steps in, keys clattering onto the table. "Tell me. Any luck today?"

I sit up slowly, blinking. My eye throbs. "It was... good. I finally got a job."

She stops. "Tia."

"Customer service. Remote. Some company overseas. Nine to two."

Her face breaks open. "You got it?"

"I did." I smile. It feels tight. "Looks like I'm finally going to do something with my life."

She screams and grabs my shoulders, shaking me. "We're going out. Tonight. No arguments."

My eyes spin. "Hannah, I'm tired."

"You'll rest when you're rich. Get up."

I don't fight her. Staying alone with my thoughts feels worse.

"Fine. But I have to be back early."

She sits me down. Wig first—long curls with a fringe covering the bruise. Then makeup. Concealer. Eyeliner. Red lipstick that feels heavier than it looks.

"Look at you. Dangerous."

My hoodie is swapped with a dress thing clings, accompanied by heels that make me taller and less steady.

"This isn't me," I say quietly.

"Tonight, it is. Tonight, you're not the girl who got hit. You're the girl people hit on."

I don't argue.

••••••••••

The lounge glows before we reach the door. Cars line the entrance—glossy, expensive. Inside, the sounds of mix of music, voices and laughter crash over us.

Hannah leads us to the bar and orders without asking. I take the first sip. It burns but the second one doesn't. My shoulders drop.

"Relax. You look like HR is about to call your name." Hannah yells into my ears.

My mouth spreads into a grin as my head follows the beat of the music. "This is research. Future club owner, remember?" I yell back and we both laugh.

I continue surveying the place. Men leaning back in booths, girls laughing too loud and deals happening in corners, concealed by shadows. The one thing everyone and every activity had in common was money. 

Hannah orders us a rack of shots and I swing one back immediately. Tequila. I squeezed my eyes and lips tight as the drink made its way past my chest.

A tap on my shoulder drew me back to focus.

"Excuse me, miss. A gentleman from VIP would like to speak with you."

I glance at him. He looked too good to be a waiter. My lips curve upward. "Then he can come down."

"He asked me to invite you up."

I look to Hannah who joins me to laugh mockingly. "I'm not a room service order."

"You heard her." Hannah says still laughing.

The man shifts. "I'm not sure he would like that... ma'am."

"Oh, but I don't care."

He leaves.

Hannah leans closer, he face a tad more serious. "If he comes, at least look before you turn him down."

"I'm not a hooker."

"No one said you are. Just... don't let pride be louder than your hunger."

My lips tighten at that. I take another shot and let the music flood my ears.

••••••••••

A waiter appears with a chilled bottle of wine and pours it in bottles.

"Compliments of the gentleman. He'll join you shortly."

I recognize the label and my fingers tighten around the glass.

"You see?" Hannah murmurs.

"I don't owe him anything"—but I drink anyway.

Not long after, a voice whispers in my ear. "Enjoying the wine?"

I turn to find a tall, clean-shaven guy. His shirt fit perfectly with a heavy watch catches the light. He looks like the kind of man who sits and receives his girls, not walk up to them.

"Not bad but who's asking?"

"Dylan. I sent for you earlier."

I huff. "I don't respond to summons."

He lifts his hands, palms open. "Then consider this an apology."

I study him for a bit. "You've apologised. We're drinking. That's enough."

"Not yet. We haven't been properly introduced."

Hannah's nails press into my thigh.

"It's loud here. Let's go somewhere quieter."

No. But then— 

I remembered my empty purse, barred phone, nonexistent job. The weight of everything I don't have.

His car key glints, catching my eye and then my eyes sight his watch. A watch that could pay rent for months.

"What's your name?"

"Gigi." The lie slips before I could stop it or even think things through.

He smiles. "Beautiful." He glances at Hannah. "May I?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "I'm not her keeper."

I slide off the stool. The room tilts. I catch the bar, steady myself but Hannah's hand catches me first. We lock eyes for second before she squeezes my palm tight.

"I'll text you." I assure.

I follow him outside. The noise drops and the cool air hits my skin.

The valet drives his car over—low, sleek, polished. I catch my reflection in the window. Wig. Makeup. Dress. A version of me that looks like she belongs.

I pause. Then I reach for the door handle. I'm just going to talk, I tell myself. But girls who look like this at a nightclub don't get into cars like his just to talk.

The door clicks open and I get in.