Chapter 4

Hannah

I pushed myself up from the floor and grabbed my phone. First things first – I needed more hours at work. I dialed the café where I'd been serving coffee for the past two years.

"Moonbeam Coffee, this is Jerry."

"Hey Jerry, it's Hannah. Listen, I need all the extra shifts you can give me. Like, starting today."

There was a pause on the other end. "Hannah, you're already working twenty-five hours."

"I can handle it," I insisted. "I'll take morning shifts before class, night shifts after, whatever you've got. Please, Jerry. It's important."

He sighed. "I can maybe get you up to thirty-five hours, but that's pushing it. And no advances on paychecks – corporate policy."

My heart sank. "Thirty-five is better than nothing. Thanks."

After hanging up, I did some quick math. Even with the extra hours, I'd make maybe $2,000 in a month. Nowhere near enough.

I showered quickly, trying to wash away the feeling of Vincent's eyes on my body. The hot water couldn't scrub away the memory of his words: "Pretty girl like you could make that money back in a weekend." I punched the shower wall, welcoming the sting in my knuckles.

By noon, I was sitting in the financial aid office, leg bouncing nervously as I waited for my appointment. The advisor, a kind-faced woman with gray-streaked hair, pulled up my file and frowned.

"I'm sorry, Hannah, but you've already maxed out your federal loans for the year. And your emergency hardship grant from last semester..." She trailed off, looking sympathetic. "The university simply can't offer any additional assistance at this time."

I left feeling hollow. The campus was bustling with students lounging on the grass, laughing, completely unaware that my life was imploding. It must be nice.

I met Emma at our usual café spot between classes. Her face fell the moment she saw me.

"Jesus, Hannah, you look like hell. What's wrong?"

I poured out the whole story—Vincent's showing up, his disgusting suggestions, the thirty-day deadline. Emma's expression shifted from concern to outrage.

"That perverted asshole!" she exclaimed, loud enough that several nearby students turned to look. She lowered her voice. "He actually suggested you... what, become a prostitute to pay him back? Who does he think he is?"

"Someone who knows I'm desperate," I said, stirring my coffee without drinking it. "And he's right – I am desperate. I've got $32 in my account, and I need fifteen thousand."

Emma reached across the table and grabbed my hand. "I've got some money saved. About a thousand dollars from that bartending gig. It's yours."

I shook my head. "I can't take your money."

"You're not taking it; I'm giving it. And I'm not taking no for an answer." Her eyes softened. "Han, that creep threatened you. He threatened your mom. This isn't just about money anymore."

I squeezed her hand back, fighting tears. "Even with your thousand, I'm still way short."

"What about another loan?" Emma suggested.

"That's how I got into this mess in the first place!" I pulled out my phone and showed her what I'd been researching all morning. "Look at these horror stories about loan sharks. One guy borrowed ten grand and ended up owing fifty. Another woman had to skip town because they were threatening her family."

Emma paled as she scrolled through the articles. "Okay, scratch that idea. No more loans. Especially not from guys like Vincent."

That evening, I sat cross-legged on my bed with my laptop, spreadsheets open as I calculated every possible scenario. Between classes and my now-expanded coffee shop schedule, I could maybe scrape together $3,000 with Emma's help. I'd need to sell everything I owned to get another thousand or two.

That still left me at least $10,000 short.

I flopped back on my pillows, exhausted. The café job barely covered rent and groceries on a good month. Even if I dropped out of university right now and worked full-time – which would mean kissing my studies goodbye when I was so close to finishing – the math simply didn't work.

"Fuck," I whispered to my empty room. My phone buzzed with a text from my boss confirming my new schedule – morning shifts on Tuesday and Thursday before classes, evenings Monday through Saturday, and double shifts on Sunday. I'd be working nearly forty hours a week on top of my full course load.

And it still wouldn't be enough. Not even close.

I rolled onto my side, hugging my pillow to my chest as tears leaked onto my sheets. Vincent's leering face appeared in my mind, his voice slithering through my thoughts: "Pretty girl like you could make that money back in a weekend."

I threw my pillow across the room. "Not happening," I said aloud to the empty apartment. There had to be another way. There had to be.

My phone buzzed. Emma.

Emma: Come over. I've got wine and a plan.

I sighed, grabbing my jacket. Emma's "plans" usually involved either tequila or terrible ideas. Sometimes both. But right now, even a terrible idea sounded better than wallowing in my empty apartment.

Twenty minutes later, I was knocking on Emma's door. She swung it open, wearing pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt, her hair piled messily on top of her head.

"Where is everyone?" I asked, stepping inside. Emma shared her place with two other girls who usually lounged around the common area.

"Jess is at her boyfriend's, and Mia's visiting her parents." Emma poured me a generous glass of red wine. "Which means we can talk freely."

I sank into her couch, kicking off my shoes. "Talk freely about what?"

"About how we're going to get you fifteen grand in less than a month." She clinked her glass against mine. "I've been thinking."

"That's dangerous," I mumbled into my wine.

"Hear me out. What about Michael?"

I nearly choked. "Michael? As in our friend Michael? CEO Michael?"

"Yes, that Michael. The one who just bought a second vacation home and drives a car that costs more than our combined lifetime earnings."

I shook my head vigorously. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?" Emma pressed, refilling my glass before I'd even taken a proper sip. "He's loaded, Hannah. Like, stupid loaded."

"That's exactly why not." I slumped deeper into the couch. "Michael's our friend. You don't ask friends for fifteen thousand dollars."

Emma rolled her eyes. "Friends help each other out."

"There's helping out, and then there's asking someone to pay off your loan shark." I took a large gulp of wine. "Besides, what happens when I can't pay him back? Our friendship would be ruined."

And there was the other thing. The thing I wasn't about to tell Emma, even after three glasses of wine. Every time Michael smiled at me with those perfect teeth or rolled up his sleeves, revealing those forearms, my stomach did this annoying flippy thing. The last thing I needed was to mix money into whatever this stupid crush was.

"Fine," Emma said, interrupting my thoughts. "Keep Michael in your back pocket. A last resort."

I nodded, relieved she'd dropped it. "Last resort. Got it."

Emma topped off our glasses again and tucked her feet under her. "So, I have another idea."

"Please tell me it doesn't involve selling organs on the black market."

"Nothing that dramatic." She grinned mischievously. "Have you ever heard of sugar dating?"

I nearly spat out my wine. "Sugar dating? Like being some rich guy's... whatever?"

"His sugar baby," Emma supplied helpfully. "And yes."

"That's basically prostitution!"

"It is not," Emma insisted. "It's an arrangement. My roommate Jess has been doing it for months."