Genevieve POV
The water in the industrial sink had turned a shade of gray that bordered on offensive, slick with grease and floating debris.
I plunged my hands back in, scrubbing the burnt remnants of lasagna off a chipped ceramic plate.
The diner was chaotic tonight.
The cacophony of clattering dishes and the line cooks bellowing orders drowned out my own thoughts, which was a mercy.
My hands were red and swollen, the skin cracking painfully around my fingernails.
Once upon a time, these hands saw a manicurist every week.
Now? I couldn't remember the last time they’d seen a bottle of lotion.
"Hey, Gen! Table four needs water!" the manager yelled over the din.
I wiped my raw hands on my stained apron and grabbed the plastic pitcher.
I moved like a machine.
Numb.
Efficient.
Invisible.
My shift finally ended at ten.
I walked out the back door, stepping into an alleyway that smelled of rotting vegetables and stale rain.
A black sedan was idling next to the overflowing dumpster.
It was jarringly out of place.
Too clean. Too shiny. A diamond sitting in the trash.
The tinted window rolled down with a soft hum.
"Get in, Genevieve."
It was my father.
My feet stopped moving, rooting themselves to the cracked pavement.
I hadn't spoken to him since the wedding ultimatum.
I stood there in the drizzle, letting the rain soak into my hair, plastering it to my skull.
"Why?" I asked.
"Just get in. You look like a drowned rat."
I hesitated, then opened the heavy door and sat on the edge of the plush leather seat.
It was warm inside, a different world entirely.
It smelled of expensive leather and conditioned air—the scent of power.
He looked older.
The lines etched around his eyes were deeper than I remembered.
He didn't look at me. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, staring through the rain-slicked windshield.
He reached into his tailored jacket pocket and pulled out a velvet box.
He tossed it into my lap like it was nothing.
I opened it.
A sapphire necklace glittered up at me.
My favorite when I was a child.
"I thought you sold it," I said, my voice sounding hollow in the quiet cabin.
"I kept it. In case you ever came to your senses."
He turned to look at me then.
His cold gaze swept over my grease-stained uniform, my ruined hands, my wet, stringy hair.
"Is this the life you wanted? Scrubbing plates for minimum wage?"
"It's an honest life," I said, lifting my chin.
"It's a pathetic life."
He leaned closer, invading my space.
"Come home, Gen."
The words hung in the air, tempting and poisonous.
"Ignatz is a loser. He will never amount to anything. Come home. I have a project for you."
My ears perked up despite myself.
"A project?"
"The new casino. The lead architect is an idiot. You could fix it."
He remembered.
He actually remembered that I wanted to build things, not just wear them.
For a split second, I was a little girl again, desperate for her daddy to be proud of her.
I touched the cold metal of the necklace.
"I..."
Just then, his phone rang.
The sharp, default ringtone cut through the moment like a knife.
He glanced at the screen.
His face changed instantly.
The mask of cold indifference dropped, replaced by genuine, frantic panic.
He answered it immediately.
"Talk to me. Is he hurt?"
He listened, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the phone.
I sat there, frozen.
I knew exactly who he was talking about.
The nephew.
"Keep him there. Do not let the police in. I am coming."
He hung up, his breathing ragged.
"Driver, go. Now!" he barked.
The car lurched forward, throwing me back against the seat.
"Papa?" I said.
He didn't even look at me.
"Get out, Genevieve."
"What? We're moving."
"I said get out!"
The car screeched to a halt at the end of the alley.
He didn't wait for me to move. He reached across me and shoved the door open.
"I have to go. It's an emergency."
"But—"
He pushed me.
Physically pushed me out of the car, hard.
I stumbled and fell backward into a puddle.
The door slammed shut.
The car sped off, tires squealing against the wet asphalt, spraying me with dirty water.
I sat in the mud, clutching the velvet box.
He hadn't asked if I was okay.
He hadn't asked a single thing about my life.
He had offered me a crumb, and the moment his precious nephew needed him, he threw me into the dirt without a second thought.
I opened the box again.
The sapphire glittered under the harsh streetlamp.
It looked cold.
It looked like a chain.
I snapped the box shut.
I stood up, wiping the mud off my legs as best I could.
He didn't come to save me.
He came to check if he still owned me.
He didn't.
Not anymore.
