Chapter 7: The Chaos I Call Life
1164 Words
Avena’s POV
Sleep was a luxury.
And luxuries weren’t something I could afford.
My alarm blared at 4:30 AM, and I reached for it blindly, shutting it off before it woke Dad. The apartment was still cloaked in darkness, the city outside barely stirring. I sat up, rubbing my eyes, forcing my mind into focus.
My day had to start now.
There was no other way.
I had a scholarship to maintain, a job to keep, and a father who depended on me. If I was going to survive this, I needed a plan.
I slid out of bed, stretching for a second before making my way to the kitchen. The apartment was small, too small for the weight of responsibility I carried, but it was home.
The first thing I did? Make sure Dad had everything he needed.
I prepared his pills, set them next to a glass of water on the counter. Breakfast was simple—oatmeal with honey, easy on his stomach. I checked his schedule, made sure his next doctor’s appointment was marked in my planner, and left a note next to his meal, just in case he forgot when to take his meds.
By the time I was done, the clock read 5:15 AM.
I grabbed my laptop and settled at the kitchen table, opening my notes for class.
There was no room for error. No missing assignments, no half-hearted essays. My scholarship depended on a perfect academic record, and I refused to let it slip.
I worked in silence, the only sound the occasional rustling of papers as I scribbled notes, until the soft creak of a door broke the quiet.
Dad stepped into the kitchen, his movements slow but steady.
"You’re up early again," he said, his voice rough from sleep.
"Habit." I gave him a small smile. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a bus. But what’s new?" He sat down carefully, eyeing the food I left for him. "You don’t have to do all this, you know."
"Yes, I do."
He sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. "You’re doing too much, Avena. School, work, taking care of me—"
"I’m handling it."
He gave me a look, the kind that said he didn’t believe me for a second.
"Sweetheart, you need to take care of yourself too."
I forced a smile, ignoring the exhaustion dragging at my limbs.
"I will. Later."
We both knew that was a lie.
But he didn’t push.
"Try to eat something before you go," he said instead, nudging his oatmeal toward me.
"You need that more than I do," I countered, already grabbing my bag.
He frowned but didn’t argue.
"I’ll be home late," I told him. "I left your medicine out. Call me if you need anything."
He nodded, watching as I moved toward the door.
And just before I stepped out, his voice followed me—soft, but full of something heavy.
"I’m proud of you, kiddo."
I paused, my chest tightening.
"Love you, Dad."
"Love you too, sweetheart."
Then I was gone, stepping into the cold morning air, already bracing for the insanity ahead.
By the time I made it to campus, I was running on sheer determination.
There was no time for breakfast. No time for coffee. The closest thing to a meal I had was a single apple I grabbed on my way out the door.
It would have to be enough.
Classes were a blur. Notes. Lectures. More notes. I wrote everything down, not trusting myself to remember details later. If I slipped, even once, my scholarship could be at risk.
That wasn’t an option.
I kept my focus locked in place, my mind tuned to every word my professors said—until my phone vibrated with a reminder.
11:30 AM. Carter Publishing.
My stomach twisted.
Here we go again.
The Office. The Disaster. The Infuriating Man.
The moment I stepped into the office, I could already feel it.
His presence.
Damian Carter had the kind of aura that demanded attention—even when he wasn’t looking at you, even when he wasn’t speaking. It was there, suffocating the room, seeping into every corner.
I hated that I noticed.
And I really hated that a tiny part of me didn’t mind.
I walked toward my desk—my new desk, which was directly across from his office.
Fantastic.
The second I sat down, a voice cut through the air.
"Cross."
I inhaled sharply, composing myself before turning.
Damian leaned against the doorway of his office, arms crossed, watching me with those unreadable gray eyes.
"You’re late."
"I’m literally on time."
"I prefer people to be early."
"And I prefer to be appreciated for my punctuality, but life is full of disappointments."
His lips twitched.
"Get in here," he said, pushing off the doorframe.
I followed him inside, already regretting every decision that led me here.
"I have a list of things that need to be handled today," he said, tossing a stack of papers onto the desk.
"How generous of you." I picked up the top sheet, scanning it quickly. "Market analysis? Author feedback reports? Production schedules?"
"Do you have a problem with that?"
"No. Just wondering why you didn’t hire three people to do all this instead of dumping it on one person."
"Because I don’t like incompetence," he said smoothly. "And you seemed… competent."
I narrowed my eyes. "Wow. What an incredible compliment. I feel so honored."
"Good. Now get to work."
And with that, he turned and walked back to his desk like he hadn’t just handed me enough tasks to last an entire week.
I gritted my teeth, exhaling sharply.
Fine.
He wanted to play?
I’d play.
Hours passed in a blur of paperwork, emails, and more paperwork.
I didn’t stop. Not for lunch. Not for a break. I worked straight through, fueled by sheer spite and the need to prove that I wasn’t someone Damian Carter could overwhelm.
By the time the clock hit 6:00 PM, I placed a neatly organized folder onto his desk.
"All done."
He barely glanced at it.
"I doubt that."
"Then check it."
His gaze flicked to me, then to the folder.
Slowly, he flipped it open, scanning the pages.
And for the first time all day, I saw it—the exact moment he realized I had exceeded his expectations.
His jaw ticked slightly, his fingers pausing on one of the reports.
I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Problem?"
He shut the folder, looking up.
"No."
But there was something in his eyes. Something that told me he wasn’t used to being caught off guard.
I smirked.
"See you tomorrow, sir."
Then I walked out, feeling his gaze linger on me until the elevator doors closed.
I knew this wasn’t over.
I knew he’d push harder.
And I knew—deep, deep down—that this war between us?
It had only just begun.
- Writer
