"Mom, please! Please! Please!" she pleaded on her knees, eyes brimming with tears as she clung to the woman's legs. Her tiny fingers tightened around the fabric, shaking with desperation.
"Mom, please!" she cried again, her voice cracking, as if something inside her was tearing apart with every syllable.
"Stop calling me that! I am not your mother. And get those filthy hands off my legs!" the woman spat, her voice venomous. With a swift motion, she kicked Daniella away as though she were nothing more than a parasite clinging to her.
Daniella crawled back, her nails scraping the floor, still clutching at the hem of her skirt like a child desperate for a lifeline.
"Mom, please don't push me away," she whispered, her voice trembling. Even as the woman's foot connected with her again, Daniella didn't move—only tightened her grip, hoping that somehow, if she held on tightly enough, her mother's heart would change.
"What are you all looking at? Get this garbage off me and throw her outside!" the woman snapped at the onlookers—housekeepers, relatives, perhaps even strangers. No one dared defy her. The air was heavy with unease.
It was midnight—cold, silent, and unwelcoming—and Daniella couldn't believe that her own mother, her blood mother, had thrown her out like she was nothing more than trash. Her eyes burned from crying. Her cheeks stung. Her knees ached. But worse than all of that was the hollowness inside her chest.
She picked up her small, tattered luggage—barely big enough to carry the fragments of a broken heart—and began walking beneath the star-studded sky. Each step echoed on the empty pavement, the sound mocking her loneliness. The night felt as still and desolate as a graveyard, and just as cold.
*****"*" "" "
"When are you going to pay me, huh?" a male voice asked, cutting through the silence like a blade through silk.
"When I feel like it," replied Isabella, her voice flat, disinterested. She sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, casually examining her nails.
"You said you'd pay me at the end of the month. That was the agreement, remember?" he pressed, leaning against the wall. His sharp eyes bore into her, challenging.
Isabella stared back, unflinching. "You know I don't like people going back on their word," he added, his tone laced with something darker. A subtle warning.
"You gave me money, right?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Then I'll return it. Isn't that simple?" she asked, frustration rising, her eyes wide.
"Not that simple, Bella baby."
"Then you'll have to wait. It hasn't even been a week. What more do you want from me?" she snapped, rolling her eyes with exaggerated patience.
"You could pay with your body... or your life. How about that?" he said, a smirk curling on his lips, his voice thick with smug satisfaction.
"You... how dare you," she said, hand rising to slap him. But she stopped midway. Her hand froze in the air.
She wouldn't dare.
"Bella baby, I don't get why you value that dignity of yours so much. More than your own life, even."
"Stop asking for my body. It's the last thing I'd give you. Maybe to other men—but never you."
"Oh, I know you wouldn't."
"Then what do you want?"
"You'll find out soon enough. Actions speak louder than words."
Her eyes widened slightly. Fear flickered behind her lashes. She masked it quickly, but he had already seen it. A small victory.
"Why are you making such a big deal out of this? I should just pay you back and be done with it."
"You remember the condition you were in when I lent you that money, don't you, Bella baby?"
"It was an emergency! I was stranded by the roadside and only needed twenty dollars."
"Nothing in this life is free."
"Really? Then what about the air you breathe? Are you paying for that?"
"No."
"Then why are you demanding so much from me?"
"Are you comparing me to God? He's God. I'm not. So don't blame me for being rude," he said with a mocking smile.
"You... despicable brat," she snapped, rising from the bed like a queen unbothered by the pest beneath her.
"Did you just call me a brat?" he called after her, but she ignored him and slammed the door behind her.
"How audacious. Pfft. What a temper," he muttered, shaking his head.
******"
The night was bitterly cold as Daniella walked slowly down the sidewalk. Her body trembled—not just from the weather, but from the raw storm of emotions raging inside her. Fear gnawed at her heart, icy and relentless, and the wind felt like a thousand needles stabbing into her skin.
Every rustle of leaves, every whisper of wind made her flinch. Her ears tuned to sounds that weren't there.
She clutched her chest tightly, fingers curling around the fabric of her blouse, trying to hold herself together, as though her body might shatter at any moment. Guilt slithered inside her. Guilt over what, she didn't know—only that it was there.
"How could you? How could you?" she murmured. "I'm supposed to be your daughter. You're supposed to love me... why? Why?"
It felt like someone had driven a stake through her chest, and twisted it.
She needed shelter—just for the night. Every shop she passed was closed, their windows dark and empty. The few still open gave off an eerie glow, the kind that whispered, don't come in.
She pressed on, her feet dragging. The weight of the world—or at least of her broken heart—slowing her steps.
She had no friends, thanks to her mother. The woman had spread lies about her at school—called her a witch, warned others to stay away. It worked.
Eventually, she wandered into a shadowed area lit only by a single flickering streetlamp. The dim light barely pushed back the surrounding darkness.
Then, from the distance, she saw someone.
Long golden hair. A flowing white dress that seemed to shimmer under the weak light.
Who dressed like that—and walked so confidently at this hour?
She froze.
Her legs rooted to the ground. Her breath caught. Her heart beat so fast it almost hurt.
As the figure drew closer, Daniella's eyes widened until they looked ready to burst from her face. She took two shaky steps back, unsure if she should run or bow.
"Don't be scared," the figure said gently.
It was Isabella.