Page 4

Where does he pick this stuff up from? And why are we always yelling in this house?
A loud retching echoes from the bathroom, and I wince, my own stomach turning in sympathy.Dad had another round of chemo yesterday, and it always leaves him like this—weak, nauseous, and spending too much time with his head in the toilet.
“Are you okay, Dad?” I knock softly on the bathroom door, hating how helpless I feel.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just the usual.” His words come out with a raspy edge.
“Can I get you anything?” I offer, even though I already know the answer.
“I’m okay. Just need a moment.”
I rest my hand on the doorframe, staring at the chipped paint. “Try to rest in bed, Dad. I’ll put a bucket and some towels in your room when you’re ready to come out.”
“Thanks, love. I’ll be out in a minute.” There’s a pause, then, “You need to leave soon, or you’ll be late again. Say goodbye to pumpkin head for me.”
I close my eyes for a second, willing myself to keep it together. “Will do. Love you,” I reply, hoping he hears me as another wave of nausea overtakes him.
I head to Leo’s bedroom, pausing in the doorway. The sight of him hiding under his quilt makes me smile, despite everything. Even at four, he still believes that if he can’t see me, I can’t see him. I crawl into the bed and pull the covers over my head, joining him in his hiding spot. “What are you doing in here, baby?”
“Hiding, Momma,” he giggles.
“Hmm, I can see that.”
“Can I stay home with Grandpa?” His hopeful voice makes my heart ache.
“Sorry, baby, Grandpa’s not feeling well today.”
Leo’s face falls, and guilt hits, sharp and deep. I don’t want to disappoint him, but I don’t have any other options. “How about we stop for a milkshake after kindy?” I offer. A little bribery can go a long way.
His eyes light up. “Strawberry?”
“Sure, any flavor you like.”
“Okay, Momma, let’s go. Don’t wanna be late.” He flings off the covers and dashes to the front door to put on his shoes, his earlier defiance forgotten in a heartbeat.
Cheeky monkey.
As I follow him, I hear my phone ring from the living room. I lunge for my purse, fingers scrambling through the clutter until I finally grab hold of it. Missing a call—and a potential job offer—isn’t an option. Not anymore.
“Hello, Cora speaking,” I answer, trying not to sound as out of breath as I feel.
Fuck’s sake, when did I get so out of shape?
“Hi, Cora, my name is Hailee, and I’m calling from Eden. You recently applied for a cocktail waitress position. We’re pleased to inform you that you’ve passed the background check, and we’d like you to come in for an interview tomorrow evening at eight if you’re available?”
“Ah, sure… I mean, yes, I’d love to! Thank you so much, Hailee!” I reply, excited but a bit surprised. After providing the address, she hangs up, leaving me with a glimmer of hope I haven’t felt in a long time. I don’t recall agreeing to a background check, but whatever… I’ll take anything at this point.
A job. Finally. I can almost feel the weight lifting off my shoulders.
But then, of course, his smug face flashes in my mind, and that weight comes crashing back down.
Fucking prick.
How is it fair that my married ex-boss had an affair withhisassistant, andI’mthe one who got fired? Ten months on, my savings are stretched thinner than my panties. He gets to keep his cushy job while I’m tossed aside for not being able to bury the story. As if that wasn’t enough, the asshole blacklisted me, making sure I couldn’t find work in my field. He screws up, and I pay the price. The corporate world is brutal, and I’ve learned that the hard way.
I’ve applied for countless jobs, sat through dozens of interviews, but every door slams shut because of him. It doesn’t matter how good my résumé is—his influence overshadows everything. I eventually turned to a recruiter for help, hoping she could open some doors for me, but so far, nothing.
I quickly type “Eden club” into Google on my phone. It instantly pops up as an “exclusive gentlemen’s club” in Double Bay. I blow out a deep breath. I don’t remember applying to such a place, but with all the wine-fueled late-night job hunts, it’s not impossible. At this point, beggars can’t be choosers.