Chapter 4 Survival

Elena's POV

The morning sickness was a liar.

It didn't just come in the mornings. It came at noon while I was stocking shelves at the convenience store.

At three AM when I couldn't sleep. At six PM when the smell of someone's takeout on the bus made my stomach revolt.

I learned to keep crackers in every pocket, ginger tea in my purse, and my dignity somewhere I couldn't see it.

Three months pregnant, and I was working two jobs—the convenience store during the day, cleaning offices at night.

My body screamed at me to rest. My bank account screamed louder.

"You look terrible," Mrs. Chen said one afternoon, eyeing me over the counter.

She was a regular, always bought the same lottery tickets and complained about her grandson.

"I'm fine."

"You're green. Sit down before you fall down."

"I can't, I'm working—"

"Sit." She pointed at the plastic chair behind the register with the authority of someone who'd raised six children. "I'll watch the store. Sit."

I sat, because my legs were shaking and the room was tilting.

She handed me a ginger candy from her purse. "How far along?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Don't play dumb. I had six kids. I know that look." Her expression softened. "Where's the father?"

"Gone."

"Family?"

"Also gone."

She nodded like that explained everything. Maybe it did. "You're keeping it?"

I pressed a hand to my stomach—rounder now, impossible to hide much longer. "Yes."

"Good." She unwrapped a lottery ticket, studying the numbers. "Babies are hell, but they're worth it. Mine are all idiots, but I'd die for them." She glanced at me. "You got a plan?"

"Working on it."

"Work faster. Kids are expensive."

She left, and I ate the ginger candy, and tried not to think about how I was going to afford diapers when I could barely afford rent.

Six months pregnant, the convenience store let me go.

"It's not personal," the manager said, not meeting my eyes. "We need someone more... mobile."

Translation: I was too pregnant to be useful.

I still had the cleaning job, but it wasn't enough.

The bills piled up like snow—electricity, water, food, the ancient heater that barely worked. I wore three sweaters indoors and told myself I was fine.

I wasn't fine.

At night, I lay in my grandmother's bed—the same bed she'd died in—and felt the baby kick. Strong, insistent kicks that said I'm here, I'm real, I'm coming whether you're ready or not.

"I'm not ready," I whispered to the ceiling.

The baby kicked again.

"Yeah, yeah. I hear you."

I tried to imagine what he'd look like. Or she. I didn't know yet—couldn't afford the ultrasound that would tell me.

But somehow, I knew it was a boy. Just a feeling.

Would he have my eyes? My mother's smile?

Or would he look like his father—that stranger whose face I still couldn't quite remember, whose voice haunted my dreams?

I pushed the thought away. It didn't matter. That man was gone, probably didn't even remember me. This baby was mine. Only mine.

I just had to survive long enough to meet him.

Eight months pregnant, I went into labor alone.

It started at two AM—a pain so sharp and sudden I gasped awake, clutching my stomach.

At first, I thought it was nothing. False alarm.

Those Braxton Hicks contractions the free clinic had warned me about.

Then my water broke.

I called an ambulance because I had no one else to call.

No father to drive me, no friend to hold my hand, no mother to tell me it would be okay.

The paramedics were kind. The hospital was not.

"Insurance?" the admissions nurse asked.

"I don't have any."

Her expression didn't change. "Payment plan?"

"I'll figure it out."

She handed me forms I couldn't read through the pain, and I signed them because what choice did I have?

Labor lasted fourteen hours.

Fourteen hours of pain that rewrote my understanding of suffering.

Fourteen hours of nurses checking in and leaving, doctors I'd never see again, machines beeping, fluorescent lights burning my eyes.

Fourteen hours of being utterly, completely alone.

Until suddenly, I wasn't.

"It's a boy," the doctor said, and placed this tiny, screaming, perfect thing on my chest.

I stared at him—red-faced, eyes squeezed shut, fists waving like he was ready to fight the world.

Dark hair plastered to his head. My nose. My mother's chin.

And dimples. Deep dimples when he finally opened his mouth to wail.

Something in my chest cracked open.

"Hi," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "Hi, baby. I'm your mom."

He stopped crying, just for a second, like he recognized my voice.

"We're going to be okay," I told him, even though I had no idea if it was true. "I promise. We're going to be okay."

I named him Leo. For strength. For courage. For the fierce, lion-hearted life I wanted him to have.

The life I was going to give him, no matter what it cost me.

Two Years Later

"Mama, up!"

I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. Outside, the world was still dark.

Inside my room, a tiny dictator was demanding attention.

"Leo, it's not morning yet."

"Up! Up! Up!"

Small hands patted my face, insistent and sticky with something I didn't want to identify. I cracked one eye open.

Leo stood next to the bed in his dinosaur pajamas, hair sticking up in every direction, grinning like he'd just won the lottery.

God, he looked like his father. Those eyes—dark and intense, too knowing for a two-year-old.

Those dimples that appeared whenever he smiled, which was constantly because Leo found everything hilarious.

"It's five AM, buddy."

"Hungry."

Of course he was. Leo was always hungry, always moving, always talking.

A tiny hurricane of energy I could barely keep up with.

I dragged myself out of bed, scooped him up—he was getting so big, too big—and carried him to the kitchen.

The house was freezing. The heater had died again last week, and I couldn't afford to fix it yet.

"Cold, Mama."

"I know, baby." I wrapped him in a blanket, settled him in his high chair, and started making oatmeal because it was cheap and filling and all we had left until I got paid.

While it cooked, I checked my phone.

Three missed calls from bill collectors.

An email from the landlord about overdue rent.

A text from my boss at the diner asking me to cover an extra shift.

I texted back: Yes.

I always said yes. I had to.

Leo banged his spoon on the tray, humming to himself.

I watched him, this perfect little human I'd made, and felt the familiar weight settle on my chest—love and terror in equal measure.

I was barely surviving. Two jobs, sixty-hour weeks, and we were still drowning.

The diner paid minimum wage.

The cleaning service paid less. I was one emergency away from disaster.

And Leo deserved so much more than this.

He deserved a warm house. New clothes that weren't from thrift stores.

Toys that weren't secondhand. A mother who wasn't exhausted all the time.

He deserved the world.

I gave him oatmeal and promised myself I'd figure it out.

After breakfast, I dropped Leo at Mrs. Chen's—she'd started babysitting for me, charging almost nothing because she claimed she was bored anyway.

Then I went to the diner for the morning shift, came home to grab Leo, worked the afternoon at the cleaning service with him strapped to my back in a carrier until he got too heavy and I had to leave him with Mrs. Chen again.

By the time I collapsed into bed that night, every muscle ached and my brain felt like static.

This was my life. This was survival.

And I was so, so tired.

The job posting appeared on a Thursday.

I almost missed it. I was scrolling through listings on my phone during my break, the same listings I'd seen a hundred times.

Retail positions that wouldn't cover rent.

Data entry jobs that wanted five years of experience for entry-level pay.

Warehouse work that required physical labor I couldn't manage while caring for a toddler.

Then I saw it.

PERSONAL ASSISTANT WANTED

Thorne Empire seeking professional PA for executive management. Competitive salary. Benefits. Immediate start.

My heart jumped.

Thorne Empire. I knew that name. Everyone did. One of the biggest conglomerates in the country—real estate, tech, hospitality.

The kind of company I'd never thought I could work for.

I read the requirements. College degree—I had that.

Professional experience—did two years of juggling impossible schedules count? Discretion, organization, ability to work under pressure.

I could do that. I could do all of that.

The salary listed made my breath catch. It was three times what I was making now.

Three times.

With benefits—actual health insurance, paid time off, things I'd stopped believing existed.

This job could change everything.

I looked at Leo, sleeping in Mrs. Chen's apartment while I worked, his face peaceful and perfect.

This could give him everything.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I updated my resume.

I lied about being divorced—single mother sounded better than knocked up by a stranger.

I wrote a cover letter that made my chaotic life sound like valuable experience. I attached my diploma and hit send.

Then I waited.

Three days later, my phone rang.

"Miss Moreno? This is Victoria Thorne's office. We'd like to schedule an interview."

I almost dropped the phone.

"Yes," I managed. "Yes, absolutely. When?"

"Tomorrow. Ten AM. Don't be late."

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone, heart hammering.

Tomorrow. I had one shot. One chance to escape this endless cycle of exhaustion and fear.

One chance to give Leo the life he deserved.

I couldn't blow it.

I looked at my reflection in the microwave door—exhausted, underfed, wearing clothes that had seen better years.

I didn't look like someone who belonged at Thorne Empire.

But I didn't have a choice.

I'd figure it out. I always did.

"Leo," I called softly. He stirred, blinking sleepy eyes at me.

"Mama?"

"We might be okay," I whispered, pulling him into my arms. "We might actually be okay."

He snuggled into my shoulder, trusting and warm and perfect.

Tomorrow, I'd walk into that interview and fight for our future.

Tonight, I let myself hope.