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5

Scarlett

Sighing inwardly, I drag my feet down the hall. The thick air is scented with sweat and desperation, and I can almost taste the tang of perfume mixed with alcohol. Tonight is another fight to keep Mom alive.

My heels click-clack against the tiled floor, each step a metronome counting down to showtime. The locker room is empty, just how I like it. No need for small talk or prying eyes. I slide my key into the lock, twist, and swing the metal door open with a practiced ease.

I reach for my first outfit for tonight, a whimsical maid number that knows its job well. It’s a costume that says, “I’m here at your service,” even though my service ends on stage. At the trail of my thoughts, my mind drifts back to the stranger from days ago, and I blush. Who would have thought I would toss caution to the wind with a stranger in a darkened car park?

I wrestle my mind back to the present. The one-piece maid costume clings to my skin like a second flesh—provocative, black and white, impossible to ignore. Rummaging in my locker for my dust feather, I feel a foreign texture beneath my fingers, tucked at the back of the locker. Rigid and rectangular. My curiosity piques, my pulse already quickening with an unspoken suspicion.

It’s an envelope. Brown, nondescript, entirely out of place amidst my scattered makeup, wigs, props, and costumes. My heart hammers against my ribcage; this isn’t mine.

Easy, babe.

I slip a single finger under the flap, peeking inside. The sight that greets me is both unbelievable and terrifying—wads of $100 bills, more than I’ve ever seen. It’s a small fortune that could mean everything ... or nothing but trouble.

"Damn," the word escapes, a gasp that hangs heavy in the air.

Panic laces through my veins, cold and sharp. What if someone sees? What if they think—

No time for what-ifs. With shaky hands, I shove the envelope into the deepest corner of the locker and slam the door shut. The metallic clang is a harsh punctuation mark that seals my locker off to the outside world.

"Get it together," I tell myself, taking a deep, steadying breath. My hands tremble as I spin the combination lock, securing away the mystery that’s just landed in my lap. The weight of this discovery sits heavy on my shoulders, but I push it down and force it into the box labeled ‘later.’

For now, there’s a show to do and customers to charm. The envelope will have to wait. But the promise—or threat—it carries won’t be ignored for long. Not by me.

The thud of my heels on the stage syncs with the pounding in my chest as I step into the spotlight. Lights flare, a blinding white for just a moment before my eyes adjust and the music swells around me. I move, hips swaying, arms lifting, but my mind is a million miles away from the pulsing beat and the hungry eyes that follow each dip and twirl.

"Attention," I mutter under my breath, a silent echo of the command I gave myself earlier. But it’s no use; the envelope burns in my memory, and I wonder if it’s a beacon of hope or a harbinger of danger.

I plaster a smile on my face, and let it spread like a mask to hide the chaos underneath. My body remembers the routine, muscle memory guiding me through motions that have become second nature. Yet every sway feels weighted, every turn filled with the rustle of unseen bills whispering secrets I’m not sure I want to hear.

"Smile," I remind myself, even as my thoughts betray me, circling back to that damned envelope again and again.

Finally, the last note of my set fades away, applause erupting from the shadows beyond the stage. I offer a practiced bow, my heart racing not from the exertion but from what comes next.

"Good show," the DJ whispers as I pass him, the words lost in the din of the club.

"Thanks," I reply without really hearing, my feet already carrying me backstage, urgency fueling my steps. The locker room is quiet now, most of the girls had left in the small hours that cling to night like a bad dream.

My hands are steady as I open my locker and slip the envelope inside my bag before retrieving it. I hoist it over my shoulder and wonder if I should be going home with this small fortune.

"Lock up tight," I murmur to myself, spinning the combination until the click tells me my secret is safe again. My fingers linger for a second on the cold metal before I pull away.

It’s done. The money is mine, tucked away like a dangerous secret. And with its weight added to my bag, I feel the burden of its presence, a constant reminder of choices made and paths yet to tread.

"Time to go home," I tell my reflection in the mirror. She looks back at me, steel-gray eyes fierce with resolve. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it head-on. We always do.

I burst through the club’s back door, my breath catching in the chill of the night. The city sleeps around me, but I’m wide awake, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. The streetlights cast long shadows as I hustle to my car, the black leather of my bag digging into my shoulder.

"Keep moving," I whisper to myself.

The envelope inside is a dead weight, its contents a mystery that both terrifies and thrills me. A hundred grand doesn’t just appear out of thin air – not in my world. It reeks of danger, of strings attached, but the need burning in me drowns out the fear.

Scarlett Wood, what have you gotten yourself into?

The thought tickles my brain, but I shove it aside. There’s no room for second-guessing. Not anymore.

My apartment is a haven of silence when I slam the door behind me. The lock clicks – a flimsy barrier from whatever’s outside, but it’s all I’ve got. I drop my keys on the counter, my movements frantic, driven by an urge I can’t control. The envelope lands on my bed with a soft thud, and suddenly, it’s just me and this fortune in this tiny room.

"Okay, let’s see you," I say, ripping it open.

Ten bundles stare back at me, bands around them screaming their value. One hundred thousand dollars. My hands shake as I touch the crisp paper. It feels like touching fire like every bill is a potential burn that could consume me.

"What in the…." I gasp, my voice barely above a whisper. Disbelief numbs my mind while gratitude tries to seep through. This money ... it’s freedom. It’s hope for Mom. A chance to start over. But it’s also a siren call, luring me into depths unknown.

"What if someone had hidden this cash in my locker?" I ask the empty room. “What happens when the owner comes after me?”

Fatigue wins over, and I sink onto the mattress, surrounded by banknotes and the scent of possibility. My eyes trace the neat stacks of cash, each bundle a paradox—freedom and chains intertwined. It feels like holding a lifeline while teetering on the edge of a trap. Questions swirl in my mind: Who left this for me? What do they expect in return? Is it even for me? The crisp scent of the bills carries a strange weight, pulling me toward relief yet anchoring me in unease. I let out a slow breath, trying to quiet the storm inside me. This money could save my mom, but it could also put me in danger.

"Later. I'll figure it out later."

For now, it's just the money and me and the pulsing realization that my life has taken a turn down a road with no signposts or pointers.

"Relief," I whisper, fingering the bands around the money. "And danger." They're a perfect mix of emotions now mingling in the pit of my stomach.

I rake my fingers through my hair, the dark room swallowing my silhouette. With every breath, relief battles unease, and assurance spars with doubt. Sleep is a relentless tide, pulling me under despite the tempest in my head. I lie down, thinking only of Mom—her laugh, her strength—before this wretched illness sapped them away.

"Mom," I murmur into the void as sleep claims me. "You will be back to your usual self soon."

The alarm drags me out of my restless sleep, a shrill cry slicing through dreams I can only half-remember. Fragments linger—My mom’s soft and reassuring voice blends into shadows of faceless figures looming closer. My chest tightens as the images slip away, leaving behind a hollow ache. I jolt upright, gasping, the dream dissolving into the stark reality of my cramped apartment. My heart pounds against my ribs, the weight of the hundred grand in the duffel bag pulling me back to the present. There’s no time for lingering fears or second-guessing now; this money is meant for Mom, and by Thor’s hammer, I will use it for her, no matter what consequences might follow. I bolt upright, urgency gripping me. This money is meant for Mom, and by Thor’s hammer, I will use it for her and face whatever consequences later.

As my feet hit the floor, I run into the bathroom for a quick shower. With the bundles of cash stuffed into my old duffel bag, I set out for the hospital feeling light and heavy at the same time. The sun is up, dispelling the earlier chill of the day and mirroring my internal feelings. My heart is full of hope for my mom, and this hope is painting everything with the hue of new beginnings.

"Come on, Scarlett," I urge myself with a steady voice. "Time to save her."

I lock the door behind me, and the weight of the duffel constantly reminds me of the risk I may be taking. My sneakers pound the pavement, the rhythm syncing with my racing pulse.

At the hospital, the sliding door parts like the Red Sea, and I stride through with a determination and confidence that surprises even me. The crisp air-conditioned breeze hits my face, momentarily chilling the warmth of my resolve. My palms are clammy, gripping the strap of my duffel bag like it’s a lifeline. The faint antiseptic scent mingles with the steady beep of monitors and the low murmur of voices, grounding me in this familiar yet daunting reality. My heartbeat matches the rhythm of my steps, a drumbeat of hope mixed with an edge of desperation as I move closer to the receptionist’s desk. This place, with its sterile smells and muted beeps, has been a second home lately—a home of waiting and hoping.

"Good morning," I greet the receptionist, my voice betraying none of the storm inside me. "I'm here to pay for my mother's treatment."

"Of course," she replies, her smile practiced, yet kind. "If you'll tell me her name and the doctor in charge of her treatment."

“Emily Woods and the person in charge of her treatment is Dr. Williams … Dr. Frank Williams.”

She punches the information into her system and, after a moment, informs me I need to see the doctor before making the payment.

“Is everything alright with my mother?” I ask immediately, feeling scared, but the lady assures me that it’s standard practice to speak to the doctor in charge to ensure that the patient’s treatment plan is well understood before payment is made.

"Thank you," I say, heading towards the elevator and pulling the strap of my bag closer. This is mom's only hope, clenched tightly in my fist.

The doctor's office feels cold and sterile, with stark white walls interrupted only by generic landscape paintings that fail to soften the room’s harsh edges. A faint smell of antiseptic lingers in the air, mingling with the sterile chill of air conditioning. I sit across from him, my hands clenched in my lap to stop them from trembling, while he studies a folder with the kind of focused intensity that makes my stomach churn. His desk is immaculate, devoid of anything personal, and the absence of warmth in this space mirrors the uncertainty that gnaws at my insides. "We've done all we can with the current treatment plan," he says, his gaze steady, analytical. "The plan in place is barely keeping her alive these past weeks, and it’s time for more aggressive treatment."

"Anything," I say, the word slicing through the tension like a scalpel. "Whatever it takes."

He nods, jotting notes into a file that seems too thin to contain a life, my mother's life. "We'll need to schedule her for another round of tests as soon as possible."

“Why?”

“To determine if the malignant cells have spread or not. The results of these tests will determine our course of treatment.”

"Let's do it." The money cooling in my bag, that unexpected blessing, charges my words with a power I didn't know I had. It's my mother's lifeline, and I'm not letting go.

"Very well, I'll have the nurses set everything up." He stands, signaling the end of our meeting. “The bill for the tests that your mother’s insurance will not cover will be sent to you.”

"Thank you, Doctor." My gratitude is genuine, a warm contrast to the clinical surroundings.

I weave through the maze of hallways to my mother's room, where she rests, her breathing a soft lullaby in the quiet. I take her hand, the one that used to hold me when nightmares came calling. Now, it's my turn to be her strength.

“Hey Scar.” She stirs awake, and a part of my heart feels guilty for pulling her from her slumber.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.” I smooth loose tendrils of hair off her face. “How are you feeling today.” I inject fake cheeriness into my voice.

“Like crap.” She says, trying to sit up, and I quickly move to help her.

“Don’t worry, Mom, you’ll feel better soon.” I adjust her pillow, hoping to make her feel more comfortable.

The news that she would be starting her treatment did little to cheer her up, and I find myself worrying.

“Did the insurance company change their mind and agree to cover the cost of my treatment?”

“No Mom.” But don’t worry, I’ll be paying for it.

“How are we going to afford to pay?”

“I told you I found a better job.”

“And in just a few weeks, you already earned so much?”

“I am paid based on commission.” This is not a lie. “My first commission is enough to put down a deposit, and hopefully, I should be able to come up with the rest by the end of your treatment.”

She looks at me suspiciously but does not question me further, and I sigh internally. My phone buzzes against my thigh, jolting me from my reverie. A text from the club manager pops up on the screen: 'Club closed indefinitely – a foolish customer OD'd last night on the property.' My heart stutters, then races, not from fear but from the stark realization that I didn’t have to put in my resignation. I’ve been thinking about how to approach Marina with the subject of quitting. After all, she helped me get into DanceCheck, and I’ve only been there for six weeks.

"Scarlett?" My mother's voice, frail but clear, draws my eyes back to her. “Is everything alright?”

"Hey." I squeeze her hand, anchoring myself in the moment. "Just some news from work. Nothing to worry about."

"Always look forward, sweetheart," she murmurs, her words wrapped in wisdom and love.

"Always," I promise, and I mean it. With the weight of the envelope lighter in my bag, and the closure of the club severing ties to a life I'm ready to leave behind, I feel the first real surge of hope in what feels like forever.

"Rest now, Mom. We've got a big day of testing ahead." And as I watch her eyelids flutter closed, I believe it—we're moving forward, no looking back.

"Good things come from the most unexpected places," she says, her voice trailing off as fatigue claims her.

"Rest now, Mom." I brush a strand of hair from her forehead, watching her eyes flutter closed. An indescribable emotion presses against my chest, the last tie to a life I never wanted is severed. There's freedom in that—a terrifying, exhilarating freedom.

I stand and move to the window, looking at the city that's tested me in ways I never imagined. But here I am, still standing, still fighting. This money, this unexpected gift, it's more than just cash—it's opportunity, it's hope.

"Scarlett," my mom murmurs, half-asleep, "thank you."

"Save your strength," I tell her, but I know what she means. We're turning a page, and this next chapter? It's ours for the writing.

With the sun blazing in the sky, I allow myself to dream of days without the fear of debt collectors, nights without the glare of stage lights, a life where my mom's laughter wouldn't become a treasured memory. And for the first time in a long while, the future doesn't look so dark.

I stride out of the hospital after spending the day with Mom, the automatic doors whooshing closed behind me with a soft thud that resonates in my chest. Clutching the strap of my bag a little tighter. Inside rests not only the hundred thousand dollars from God-knows-who but also every penny of the fifteen grand I've scrimped and saved, dollar by sweat-soaked dollar. It's the weight of change, heavy and full of promise.

The drive home is a blur, each turn propelling me forward with newfound purpose. Streetlights flicker overhead, casting shadows that dance just out of reach, like the doubts I'm determined to leave behind.

"New life," I whisper, the words tasting sweet on my lips. The responsibility doesn't crush me as it once did. The rest of the drive home feels like I am literally driving into a sunnier future.

"Scarlett Wood, you've got this."

The key turns in my lock, and I push the door open to the modest sanctuary I call home. It's time to plan, to dream, to do whatever it takes for Mom and me. Because finally, it feels like we might win.