Destined By Hate

CHAPTER-2

                                                                       ~Bella~

The café was quiet now, the rush of the day long behind, but the weariness still clung to me. My feet ached, my hands were stiff from hours of serving customers, and yet it was the weight in my chest that made it hardest to breathe. Ever since Mom died, everything had fallen apart—home, school, even the parts of me I used to recognize.

I wiped down the last table, glancing at my reflection in the darkened window. People told me I was pretty, though sometimes I wondered what it was they saw. My eyes were like the deep ocean—dark, restless, always holding secrets I wasn't ready to share. And my hair... my mom used to say it reminded her of the forest at dusk, thick and wavy, as though it had a life of its own. But I didn't feel beautiful. Not with the exhaustion dragging me down, not with the world on my shoulders.

Locking up the café, I made my way home, the streets quiet under the night sky. I dreaded going back, but there was nowhere else to go. I'd spent every ounce of energy trying to keep things together after Mom died—working endless shifts, trying to stay on top of school. But nothing could prepare me for what waited at home.

When I opened the door, the familiar stench of alcohol hit me like a wave. There he was, my father, sprawled on the couch, an empty bottle teetering on the edge of the coffee table. His face was flushed, eyes half-lidded, his words slurred even before they left his mouth. I stood there for a moment, frozen in the doorway, watching him. This was my life now—coming home to the man who used to be strong and kind, but who had turned into someone I barely recognized after Mom died.

He muttered something incoherent, barely lifting his head as I entered. The sight of him like this, night after night, never got easier. The anger, the sorrow—it all blended into one constant ache.

I couldn't forget who he had become. The same man who had knelt, begging the mafia boss for mercy. I hadn't seen it myself, but I'd heard the rumors—whispers about how he had pleaded for his life, humiliated, broken. I didn't know how much of it was true, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the man he was now, the shell of the father he used to be.

Sighing, I slipped off my shoes and headed for my room, trying to ignore the sound of him groaning on the couch. I wished I could turn off the thoughts that swirled in my mind, but they followed me, heavy and relentless. It felt like every day I was just trying to survive, trying to keep my head above water.

I wished I could be as strong as people thought I looked. But some days, it felt like the ocean in my eyes might just swallow me whole. 

As I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to shake off the exhaustion, I heard him stir in the living room. The sound of his shuffling feet sent a familiar knot of dread tightening in my chest. I had hoped he would pass out like most nights, too drunk to notice anything, but tonight was different. His voice, slurred but oddly coherent, broke through the quiet of the apartment.

"Bella..." His voice was raspy, heavy with drink, yet there was something else beneath it—a strain I hadn't heard before.

I didn't respond at first, hoping he'd give up, but his footsteps grew closer, and soon, he was standing in the doorway of my room. He leaned against the frame, eyes bloodshot, face unshaven, with the smell of alcohol clinging to him like a second skin. He looked worn, older than he should have.

"Bella," he said again, this time softer, almost pleading. "We need to talk."

I stared at him, my gut twisting with a sense of unease. The way he was looking at me—like he couldn't quite hold himself together—made me wary. I couldn't remember the last time he'd asked to talk. I braced myself for another drunken confession or a misplaced apology for what our lives had become, but what came next hit harder than anything I could have imagined.