THE DEAL'S OVER, MR CEO

CHAPTER ONE THE NIGHTMARE ALLISON'S POV I woke up gasping for air. For a few seconds, I couldn't remember where I was. My heart hammered against my chest, and my hands were twisted tightly into the blanket, my fingers aching from the pressure. I could still hear the car horn. I could still see the headlights. And most of all, I could still see my mother's face. Then the old refrigerator in the kitchen hummed loudly, pulling me back into reality. I was in my apartment. Alone. Again. I slowly wiped the sweat from my forehead and turned toward the small clock beside my bed. 3:16 a.m. "Not again." Almost a year had passed since the accident, but the nightmares hadn't stopped. Sometimes I dreamed about the argument. Sometimes I dreamed about the moment Mom pushed me out of the way. Other nights, I watched the accident happen from a distance, screaming and running toward her while my body refused to move. Tonight was the worst kind. I had been standing there again, watching her get hit over and over without being able to save her. I hated sleeping. I hated waking up. Most days, I wasn't sure which one was worse. I pushed the blanket aside and forced myself out of bed. The apartment was freezing. I searched for my slippers before making my way into the tiny kitchen, rubbing my arms as the cold floor pressed against my feet. There wasn't much to see. A small couch sat against one wall, my old study table occupied another corner, and the kitchen was barely big enough for one person to stand comfortably in. Most of the furniture had been bought secondhand, and the few things that belonged to Mom had been packed away in boxes. I couldn't bring myself to throw them away. I also couldn't bring myself to keep looking at them. I switched on the kitchen light. That's when I noticed the bills. They were still spread across the table from the night before. Hospital bills. College fees. Rent. Loan payments. I stared at them for several seconds before pulling out the chair and sitting down. I was twenty-four years old, but sometimes I felt like I had spent my entire life calculating money. I picked up my phone and opened the calculator. My café job paid me every week, but the money disappeared almost as quickly as it came. I had another part-time job cleaning offices in the evenings, and whenever I could get extra hours at a restaurant on weekends, I took them. I didn't have the luxury of saying no. Even with all of that, it still wasn't enough. My eyes settled on the hospital bill. Mom's treatment for next month would cost almost a thousand dollars. I swallowed. Then there was the loan. I had already paid part of it, but the people I borrowed from weren't exactly known for their patience. They had called twice yesterday. I ignored both calls. If I could save three hundred dollars from this month's pay, I could make another payment and maybe get them off my back for a while. Then I could start putting money aside for Mom's hospital bill. Maybe. I entered the numbers into the calculator again, even though I already knew the answer. It wasn't enough. A tired sigh left my lips as I dropped the phone onto the table. "One problem at a time." Mom used to say that whenever I panicked over something I couldn't fix. I hated how often I heard her voice in my head now. I glanced at the clock. 3:28 a.m. My shift started at four. "Great." I hurried back into my room and changed into my work clothes. After pulling my hair into a messy ponytail, I grabbed my coat and bag. Before leaving, I stopped beside the small photograph sitting on the shelf near the door. It was one of the few pictures I had of Mom and me before the accident. She was smiling. I was smiling too. We looked happy. I reached out and touched the edge of the frame. "Good morning, Mom." The words came out softly. She couldn't answer me. I knew that. Still, I said it every morning. I grabbed my keys and left. The hallway was just as cold as my apartment. By the time I reached the street, my fingers were already numb. Snow had fallen during the night, covering the sidewalks in a thin white layer. I pulled my coat tighter around myself and started walking. Taking the bus would have been faster. It would also cost money. So I walked. Twenty minutes later, I pushed open the back door of the café. Mr. Harris looked at the clock before looking at me. His face immediately hardened. "You're late again." I stopped in the doorway. I glanced at the clock. 4:07. "I'm sorry. I—" "Save it, Allison." He picked up a cloth from the counter. "I've heard enough excuses." I swallowed the irritation rising in my throat. "I'll make up the time." "You'd better." He pointed toward the kitchen. "If this happens again, you're fired." I nodded. "Yes, sir." There were several things I wanted to say. Instead, I tied my apron and went to work. I needed the job. That mattered more than my pride. For the next few hours, I moved from one task to another. I took orders, carried trays, cleaned tables, washed dishes and smiled at customers even when my feet began to ache. Nobody cared that I had barely slept. Nobody cared that my mother was lying unconscious in a hospital. And honestly, I didn't expect them to. Everyone had their own problems. When my shift finally ended, I walked toward Mr. Harris and waited for my pay. He counted the money, pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. I opened it. My stomach dropped. "This isn't the full amount." "You were late." "It was seven minutes." He shrugged. "Seven minutes is still late." "I can make up the time." "I don't care." He turned away. "If you don't like it, there's the door." I stared at the envelope in my hand. For a moment, I wanted to throw it back at him. I wanted to tell him exactly what I thought of his attitude. But then I thought about the hospital. The rent. The loan. I forced the anger back down. "Thank you." He didn't answer. I put the money into my wallet and walked out. I could be angry later. Right now, I had class. And an assignment to deliver. I hurried across campus with my bag hanging from one shoulder and my books pressed against my chest, wondering how I was still functioning. College was supposed to be my way out of poverty. At least, that was what I had always believed. So I couldn't afford to fail. Not now. Not after everything. I reached the classroom just as the professor walked toward the door. I slipped inside behind the last student. "Ms. Summers." I froze. The professor looked at me over his glasses. "Nice of you to join us." "I'm sorry, Professor." He gave me a disapproving look before returning to his desk. I quickly moved to my seat. A girl sitting two rows ahead turned around the moment she saw me. "Did you finish it?" I pulled the assignment from my bag and handed it to her. "Yes." Her face brightened. "You're a lifesaver." She slipped the agreed money into my hand beneath the desk. I closed my fingers around it. Another twenty dollars. It wasn't much. But twenty dollars could buy groceries. Twenty dollars could go toward the hospital. Twenty dollars could mean one less thing to worry about tonight. I slipped the money into my pocket and looked toward the front of the classroom. The professor had already started teaching. I opened my notebook and tried to concentrate. For the next hour, I would be a student. After that, I would go to the hospital. Then work again. Then study. Then repeat the same thing tomorrow. And the day after that. Until somehow, things got better. Or until I ran out of strength trying to make them better.