🏚️ I sold myself to my enemy's mom to save mine — but he's the one who plans to own me.

PERSONAL NIGHTMARE

ASTRA

The hallway smelled like cheap body spray and desperation.

“Is the little piggy gonna cry?” one of the jerks sneered, his voice loud enough to bounce off the lockers. They circled the other girl like hyenas, poking her, laughing when she flinched. I recognized her shaky hands clutching her books to her chest. Same hands I’d seen on myself in the mirror too many times.

I pulled my own hoodie up higher, letting the fabric swallow my hair and half my face. Keep moving. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t exist. I knew the rules: if they saw me, I’d be next. And nobody—nobody—ever stepped in when it was my turn. Why should I play the hero now?

I took another step.

Then a pair of expensive sneakers planted right in front of me.

My heart slammed so hard I tasted it in my throat.

“Going somewhere, Trash-tra?”

That voice. Low, lazy, laced with venom. Zane freaking Ashton.

I froze. Of course it was him. The king of this hellhole. Star quarterback. Golden boy. My personal nightmare.

He wasn’t with the piggy crowd, he ran with his own pack. Four of them flanked him now, all smirks and letterman jackets, like they’d rehearsed this in the locker room. Zane tilted his head, dark hair falling just over one eye, and flicked my glasses with one long finger. They slid crooked across my nose.

“S-stop it,” I whispered.

He leaned in closer, mocking my stutter perfectly. “S-stop it.”

I hated how my whole body vibrated when he got this close like every nerve remembered every time he’d made me feel small.

I hated him. I hated the way the entire school worshipped him. Yes, objectively he was stupidly handsome: sharp jaw, bright green eyes, broad shoulders that filled out that jersey like it was custom-made. But to me? Ugly. Rotten. A walking red flag in cleats.

This wasn’t random hallway cruelty. This was personal.

I glared up at him through my smudged lenses, channeling every ounce of sass I kept buried deep. “Move.”

His lips curved not a smile, more like a predator deciding whether to play with its food. “Or what, Trash-tra? You gonna write me a strongly worded essay?”

His friends snickered. One muttered something about “nerd.” My cheeks burned, heat crawling up my neck, but I didn’t drop my stare. I’d learned early: looking away was surrender.

The bell rang suddenly, sharp and deafening. Everyone scattered like roaches, rushing to class. I tried to sidestep him.

Zane shifted, blocking me effortlessly. He leaned down until his breath brushed my ear, voice dropping so low only I could hear.

“Keep walking around like you’re invisible, and maybe one day you will be. But not to me.”

A shiver raced down my spine, cold, unwanted, electric. He straightened, smirking like he’d won something, then turned and sauntered off with his squad, leaving me rooted to the spot.

The hallway emptied.

I sucked in a shaky breath, fingers trembling as I fixed my glasses.

“It’s almost over,” I muttered to myself, the words barely audible. “Senior year. One more semester. Then I’m gone.”

But deep down, I knew better.

Guys like Zane didn’t let things end that easily.

The rest of the school day dragged on in a haze of lectures I barely heard and hallways I tried to disappear in. I kept my head down, hoodie up, weaving through corridors and avoiding any spot where Zane or his crew might appear. When the final bell finally rang, I didn’t wait around. I bolted out the side exit, grabbed my scooter from the rack, strapped on my helmet, and slung the delivery bag over my shoulder.

I kicked the scooter to life and headed straight to the strip on Maple Street, the busy stretch with the pizza place, burger joint, and coffee shop where orders came fastest after the school rush. It was my daily routine: park near the curb, open the app, wait for the first ping.

The city air hit different out here, cooler, freer. My regulars were the only people who ever smiled at me like I mattered.

“Extra pepperoni, just how you like it, Mrs. Hannah.” I handed over the warm box at her door. The old lady’s wrinkled face lit up.

“You’re a blessing, sweetheart. Here…” She pressed a crumpled five into my palm. “For your trouble.”

I tried to wave it off, but she wouldn’t hear it. “Thank you, Mrs. Hannah. Have a good night.”

Next stop: Mr. Brown’s apartment on the third floor. He opened the door in his usual bathrobe.

“Saved me from another frozen dinner,” he said, chuckling. “You’re keeping me alive, kid.”

I laughed—real, for the first time all day. “Happy to help, Mr. Brown.”

I ran four more deliveries before the sky turned bruised purple. My legs burned, my throat dry, but every dollar counted.

I had no idea this would be my last normal night.

When I finally pulled up to our building, my stomach dropped.

Everything was outside.

Mom’s faded quilt, my textbooks, clothes spilling from ripped bags, a cracked lamp, my old stuffed bear half-buried under papers, scattered across the cracked sidewalk like trash. A couple of little kids from the next building were poking through it, giggling as one held up my old sketchbook.

“No—drop that!” I lunged forward, snatching it back. My voice cracked. “That’s mine.”

They scampered off, laughing. I knelt, trying to gather things, hands shaking so badly I couldn’t hold anything.

The door creaked open. Mrs. Delgado, our landlady, stepped out with her arms crossed, face scrunched in a familiar frown.

“Two months, Astra. Two months behind. I warned you.”

I stood up fast, heart hammering. “Please, Mrs. Delgado. I’m working every day after school. My mom’s in the hospital, you know that. The bills….”

“I know.” She cut me off. “I feel for you, girl. But I got my own bills. This ain’t charity.”

People were staring, neighbors on balconies, a guy walking his dog. Heat crawled up my neck. I dug into my pocket, pulled out the crumpled bills from today’s tips, maybe forty bucks total and thrust them toward her.

“Please. This is all I have right now. Take it. I’ll get more tomorrow, I swear.”

She looked at the money like it insulted her, then snatched it anyway. “Not even close to what you owe.” She pocketed it and turned away. “You’ve got till morning to clear this mess off my property.”

The door slammed.

I sank to my knees on the cold concrete. Everything hurt, my chest, my eyes, the back of my throat. Tears came hot and fast, silent at first, then choking sobs I couldn’t stop. No one came over. No one asked if I was okay. Neighbors watched from windows, then looked away.

I had no friends to call. No aunt, no cousin, no one. Books and TV always gave the lonely girl a secret support squad, but real life didn’t work that way.

At Harrington Academy, the fancy private school I’d clawed my way into at thirteen after winning that stupid statewide science competition—nobody had ever really wanted me around. The scholarship covered tuition, not belonging. My one almost-friend freshman year drifted away when her real friends decided I was too “weird.” Too raggedy. Too poor. I stopped trying after that.

I started packing what I could salvage into my backpack and two grocery bags, clothes, books, Mom’s favorite scarf, the bear. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

An old voice behind me. “Child, you got somewhere to put all this?”

Mrs. Rivera, the elderly lady from 3B. She leaned on her cane, eyes soft.

I sniffed, wiped my face on my sleeve. “No. I… I don’t.”

She sighed. “Bring what you can carry up to my place. I got space in the closet. Come get it tomorrow or the next day when you figure things out.”

I stared at her, throat too tight to speak. “Thank you,” I managed.

We hauled what we could, two trips. She didn’t ask questions, just patted my arm when we finished.

I slung the heaviest bag over my shoulder and started walking. No money for bus fare, but the hospital wasn’t far. Three miles. I could do three miles.

The streets blurred past. My sneakers slapped pavement, shoulders aching. By the time I reached St. Mary’s, the sky was full dark. Nurses at the entrance gave me weird looks, a girl with bags, tear-streaked face. I didn’t care.

I found Mom’s room on autopilot. Fluorescent lights buzzed. She was asleep, small and pale under the thin blanket, IV dripping slowly. She didn’t stir when I came in.

Dr. Ray was in the hall, clipboard in hand. He saw me and his face changed—concern, then alarm.

“Astra? What’s going on?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out at first. Then the dam broke.

I slid down the wall, bags tumbling, and just… bawled. Ugly, wrenching sobs that echoed down the corridor. Everything poured out—the eviction, the money, the stuff on the sidewalk, Mom not remembering my name last week, how I was failing her, failing everything.

Dr. Ray knelt beside me, voice low and steady. “Hey. Hey, breathe. Tell me what happened.”

But all I could do was cry harder, because saying it out loud made it real.

And I wasn’t sure I could survive real anymore.