Destined By Hate

CHAPTER-3

                                                                  ~Bella~

I woke up with my head pounding, the kind of headache that felt like a dull hammer tapping from the inside of my skull. My face was swollen, eyes puffy and sore from crying—again. The mirror reflected the mess I'd become. Red, tear-stained eyes, my cheeks still blotchy from last night. I hadn't cried like that in a long time, but last night... last night was different.

Dad had come home, drunk again, like always. But this time, he wasn't just yelling. He'd broken down, tears in his bloodshot eyes, pleading with me to forgive him for everything. For how useless he was, for how broken we'd become since Mom died. For begging that mafia boss for money, dragging us into this hole we were stuck in. And for a second, just a second, I thought maybe he meant it. Maybe he really would change this time. But then, like always, his words turned to slurred anger, and I was back to being the punching bag for his guilt.

I cried myself to sleep after he passed out on the couch, wishing—like I had so many times before—that life would be different. But it wasn't. And today, I had to pick myself up and pretend like it was all okay.

I threw on my café uniform, not bothering to do much about the redness in my eyes. People at the café didn't care about stuff like that. No one ever noticed how much you were hurting when you were the one serving coffee.

The morning rush was in full swing when I got there. The usual blur of orders, the clinking of cups, the smell of espresso filling the air. I kept my head down, trying to stay busy, my headache still pounding behind my eyes. I hadn't even fully woken up yet when a man walked in, the kind who always made me feel uneasy.

He was tall, maybe mid-thirties, and from the moment he sat down, I could feel his gaze on me. His eyes lingered, too long and too intent, making my skin prickle. But I couldn't let it show. I walked over, my smile forced, a routine act.

"What can I get for you?" I asked, pen ready, avoiding eye contact.

Instead of answering, he gave me a slow, sweeping look, like I was something on display. "How about a smile first?" he said, his voice dripping with arrogance.

I bit the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. I wasn't in the mood for this today. I wasn't in the mood for much of anything after last night.

"What do you want to order?" I repeated, my voice flat.

He reached out, brushing his fingers against my arm in a way that made my stomach turn. His touch lingered, and I immediately pulled back, my pulse quickening. "You're too pretty to be working here," he added, smirking. The way he said it made my skin crawl.

"I'll get your coffee," I muttered, turning away quickly, trying to breathe. My hands trembled as I prepared the drink, my thoughts swirling. Last night's pain, this morning's headache, and now this—the unwanted attention, the feeling of being trapped, the way his touch had made me feel powerless, just like when Dad spiraled into his drunken rages.

When I brought the cup back to his table, I kept my distance. But he leaned in close, too close, as I set it down. His breath was warm and unpleasant near my ear. "You really should smile more, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice low, like he thought he had power over me. "It suits you."

I clenched my jaw, feeling the heat rise to my face, but I didn't say anything. I couldn't. Not here, not in front of everyone. Instead, I just nodded, stepping back, my mind screaming at me to run, but my feet planted firmly in place.

I walked away, pretending like his words didn't matter. Pretending like the tears hadn't threatened to spill again, the same way they had last night.

But inside, I knew. They always mattered. And I was so, so tired of pretending they didn't.