Nyomi gave up calling Richard for the fifth time. Her thumb hovered over the screen, her eyes scanning his name like he would call back in a jiffy. But the line stayed buzzing. No answer. No message.

She sighed, long and heavy, then pushed the bar door open.

The bartender spotted her the moment she stepped in.

“You again?” he barked, slapping the counter with the flat of his palm. “Bitch, what you doing here?”

His voice was loud enough to turn heads. Nyomi didn’t flinch. She had heard worse.

Her face tightened, irritation written across it. She walked up to the counter, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on his.

“Don’t come for me, man,” she said, voice low but firm. “I ain’t here for drama. Just give me something to drink.”

He scoffed. “Something? You got money to pay for that?”

Nyomi dug her hand into her pocket, fingers brushing lint and old receipts. She pulled out a crumpled note—barely enough for anything decent.

“Yo, I didn’t run off with your money,” she said, placing the note on the counter. “I had an emergency and you know that. Well,this is all I got on me. Whatever this can afford, let me have it.”

The bartender chuckled, shaking his head. “Now you’re welcome. This’ll get you maybe,something soft.”

He turned to fix her drink.

Nyomi leaned on the counter, hands pressed against her forehead. Her thoughts were loud. Her heart louder.

“Shit,” she muttered. “This can’t be happening. Why the hell is he not picking my calls?”

Her phone rang—sharp and sudden. She snatched it up, hope flickering in her chest.

Maybe it’s Richard, calling back.

She glanced at the screen.

“Oh. It’s Jackson,” she breathed, disappointment curling in her gut. She answered anyway.

“Hey bro, what’s good?”

“I’m just here, man,” Jackson replied, in a quiet voice.

Nyomi softened. “How’s Mum?”

There was a pause.

“She’s here,” he finally said. “I know you just came out today, but… when you coming over to check on us?”

Nyomi closed her eyes. The guilt was instant.

“Boy, you know I don’t play with you and Mum,right?” she said. “I’m just trying to put myself together. Hustle up some funds for her hospital bills. And I don’t like that you’re not in the lecture room. I’m working on something, huh.”

“My suspension’s over,” Jackson said. “I’ll be back in class soon. I’ll be a good boy.”

Nyomi’s voice dropped. “Listen. You ain’t going back to that school. Not on my watch.”

Jackson was quiet.

“I’ll find the money,” she continued. “I’ll get your ass into another school. Somewhere better. Somewhere safe,and you gotta be a good boy there, alright?”

“That’s gonna cost a lot,” he said. “We don’t have money.”

“I know,” she said, her voice cracking. “But you think I’m gonna let you go back to where they bullied you? Where they made you feel small? I’ve been through that shit. You’re not going through it again.”

Jackson’s voice softened. “Thanks for coming through for me. Even when things aren’t smiling.”

“You’re my little brother,” she said, a small giggle escaping. “Just a responsible sister you’ve got right here.”

“Bye,” he said.

“Be a good boy,” she whispered.

She hung up and stared at the phone for a moment, her chest heavy.

The bartender slid a glass toward her- cheap orange juice.

“Yo man, you got me a juice?” she raised an eyebrow.

“That’s what your money could buy.”

“Whatever,” she muttered, waving him off.

She took a sip, then just sat there—elbows on the counter, eyes unfocused. The bar buzzed around her, but her mind was somewhere else.

Her mind replayed the last few days like a broken record. The calls,The suspicion,The hospital debt. The weight of it all.

“God,” she whispered. “Do I really deserve all this shit life’s throwing at me?”

She didn’t expect an answer.

Then she heard it.

“Girl, I don’t play with my 20%. Once you get the $2,000 per day…”

Nyomi’s ears perked up. She turned slightly, catching sight of two women seated a few stools down. Their nails were long, their lashes longer. They looked like money. Talked like it too.

Her body stilled.

Two thousand dollars? Per day?

She sat upright, careful not to look directly at them. But she was listening now. Every word.

“Bitch, I can only do 10%,” one of them snapped. “I’m the one doing the job. Don’t be selfish.”

“I got you this gig,” the other retorted. “I’m not being selfish.”

Nyomi’s heart thudded.

What kind of gig pays that kind of money?

She didn’t know what they were talking about. But she knew one thing—she needed it.

Nyomi’s eyes traced the women. Her gaze landed first on the bags resting on their table—sleek, structured, with that unmistakable GUCCI logo glinting under the lounge lights.

She swallowed.

The hair on their heads wasn’t joking either—laid, glossy, expensive. Nyomi blinked, suddenly aware of the frizz in her own ponytail. She shifted in her seat, uneasy.

Sammy had a bag like that once, she thought. It cost more than their rent.

Her fingers curled around her glass. She wasn’t even sipping anymore—just holding it like it might anchor her.

“Two thousand dollars per night?” she whispered to herself, barely audible.

Her mind went into overdrive.

Mum’s hospital bills,Jackson’s school fees,rent,food..

She couldn’t breathe for a second.

Across the bar, one of the women leaned in. “It’s okay. 20% deal,” she said, finally giving in.

The other nodded, pulled out her phone. “I’ll text you the address. Meet me there tomorrow. I’ve got other stuff to handle.”

She took one last sip from her glass, then dropped the rest. She stood, adjusted her sunglasses, and slung her bag over her shoulder.

Then she walked.

Not just walking, she glided. Like she owned the lounge. Like she owned the city.

Nyomi’s eyes couldn’t look away. Everything about her screamed Don’t play with me.

“Oh my goodness,” Nyomi muttered. “She’s leaving already.”

She stood up fast, almost knocking her stool over. Her heart was racing. Her feet moved before her brain could catch up.

Outside, the woman clicked her car key. The lights blinked on a Mercedes Benz—black, sleek, spotless.

Nyomi stopped in her tracks.

“Wow,” she breathed. Her voice was barely a whisper.

She jogged forward, nerves bubbling in her chest.

“Excuse me! Excuse me, miss!” she called out.

The woman turned, one brow raised, car key dangling from her fingers. “Me?”

“Yes, please. My name is Nyomi. I was—”

“Excuse me,” the woman cut in, sharp and cold. “Do I know you? How may I help you?”

Nyomi hesitated, then took a breath. “I’m interested in the $2,000 job per day.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Bitch, were you eavesdropping at our conversation in the bar?”

Nyomi raised her hands in defense. “. No I-I wasn’t. I was just sitting close enough to hear your conversation.”

The woman’s gaze dropped to Nyomi’s outfit. Her lips curled slightly. The disgust was loud.

“You?” she said. “Are you sure you can do the job?”

“Yes,” Nyomi said quickly. “I’m very hardworking. I don’t play with any source of income. Please—I can do it. I promise your percentage won’t be affected.”

“Shush,” the woman snapped. “You talk too much.”

She tilted her head, studying Nyomi again. “Give me a 360.”

“360?” Nyomi echoed, confused.

“Are you a kid? It means turn around.”

Nyomi turned slowly, unsure what she was being judged for. Her heart thudded in her chest.

“Hmmm,” the woman said. “You’re not bad.”

She reached into her bag, pulled out a card, and handed it over.

“Have this. Call me by 2 p.m. tomorrow. I’ll direct you. But I need to confirm you’re medically approved.”

Nyomi blinked. “When does the work start? And what kind of job does interviews at 2 p.m.?”

“Tomorrow,” the woman said, already opening her car door. “Just call me, girl. Like I said—you talk a lot.”

“I’m sorry,” Nyomi said. “What’s your name?”

“Miana. But call me Mia.”

“Thank you, Mia. I’ll put a call through.”

Mia slid into her car, shut the door, and drove off like she had somewhere important to be.

Nyomi stood there, watching the taillights fade.

Then she looked down at the card in her hand.

$2,000 per day.

Her lips parted into a smile. A real one. The first in days.

She clutched the card like it was a lifeline.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt like maybe—just maybe—things were about to change.