The Price Was Us

Chapter 1

Catherine’s POV

They say it’s easy for ladies—females—should I say we, the weaker vessel, to get the bag.

Only if they knew.

Only if they knew that there are women like me—striving, surviving, pushing through hell without selling our bodies, betraying our loved ones, or destroying others. Women who refuse to get the bag through anything illegal or illicit.

That’s what brought me to this filthy place—to earn the bag and pay my mother’s surgery bills.

A loud bang snapped me out of my thoughts.

"The bag," I muttered, clumsily and coherently.

Shit. I f****d up again.

And yes—you’re right if you guessed I just voiced that out loud. That’s how clumsy I can be.

“Snap out of your dirty thoughts, Cathy, and get this paperwork done in 30 minutes.”

“What? Thirty minutes?”

“How is this even possible? Paperwork that’s supposed to take five days?”

No one answered my surprise or rhetorical question—just the click-clack of heels fading down the hallway.

Left to help myself again.

While arranging the files, I couldn’t stop asking myself—what exactly did I do to deserve all this? Yeah, I’ve always done extra time, taken on menial tasks beyond my role, but this? This is too much.

Was it because the manager called me to his office yesterday?

God, I hope not. I got reprimanded just because she pushed the blame on me.

Snap outta your thoughts, Cathy.

Oh my days… Sandra, why now? At least you could’ve prepped this paperwork earlier so I could work on it!

Sandra—the office witch. The same woman dating the manager. The same woman who just dumped this stack of work on me to be completed in thirty minutes. And for what?

A presentation.

The meeting starts in fifteen minutes.

My God, Sandra.

Now I had to draft the presentation slides from scratch using PowerPoint, arrange the boardroom—which takes at least an hour—and somehow act like everything is fine.

With glossy eyes and blurred vision from tears that refused to fall, I rummaged to check if I’d prepared anything ahead.

Thank God.

I had already prepared the presentations for the next three months. I made a few corrections, then dashed to the other department—the one with the printer room. There were still other files to print, shred, and bind.

I needed to meet up with this impossible task given to me by that she-devil.

But then—I bumped into a hard wall.

Not again. Why am I so clumsy today?

As I bent to pick up the papers, a finger helped me organize them. I looked up—and there he was.

The handsome guy.

I snatched the documents awkwardly, muttered a silent apology without eye contact, prioritized the most urgent, and rushed to the ground floor to grab the remaining materials.

Then back to the sixth floor.

The elevator was full.

Urgency made me take the stairs.

By the time I reached the boardroom, I was thirty-five minutes late. Struggling to open the door, I finally pushed it open—

And froze.

Everything in my hands dropped.

Don’t ask me why I was shocked. Just let me cry first before I explain.

The meeting—the one I nearly died to prepare for—was over.

With tears in my eyes, I picked up the materials and walked away.

Then an office assistant stopped me: “The manager wants to see you.”

Inside his office, I stood silent, tired, and broken.

With a loud voice and spit flying from his mouth, he shouted, “Catherine, what exactly is your problem? The meeting was for everyone to show what they were good at. You didn’t show up. You need to be penalized for that. Now get out of my office!”

I returned to my desk—laptop, sketchbook, pens. I lowered my head, trying not to fall apart in front of my colleagues.

But I still got the stares.

The mocking.

I left my seat, went to the restroom, and cried. Cried until I was breathless. Then I wiped my face, looked in the mirror, and whispered:

“Don’t give up, Catherine. You’ve come this far. To be great, you must pass through the fire. You can do this. You will do this.”

Every week comes with new issues. I’m tired. I’m broken. I sometimes feel like ending it all.

But I can’t.

My mother needs me. I need the bag.

So every morning, I tell myself—

Catherine, you can do it. Trust in yourself. Be brave. Be strong—for Mom.

As I returned to my desk, I opened my inbox—and froze.

30% salary deduction.

Because I missed the meeting.

A snicker and a familiar annoying laugh broke through the silence.

“That’s just a warning to stay away from my finances,” Sandra said, smugly.

I stared at her. My eyes burned.

“You could have asked me what the manager and I talked about yesterday before pulling that s**t,” I spat. “Get out of my way!”

I packed up my things and left the office. Thank God the day was over.

At the entrance, right as I was checking out, my phone rang.

It was my best and only loyal friend—Elorah.

“Cathy, I sent you a message. Please read it now and go to the address.”

I checked. It was a location.

Thinking she was in danger, I rushed. While running, I slammed into someone—again.

Him. The same handsome guy from earlier.

“Sorry,” I mumbled and flagged down a taxi.

The location led to a narrow alley. No one around. No houses. Just silence.

I called Elorah.

No answer.

I kept calling.

Still no answer.

Then I felt something.

A presence.

A shadow.

Before I could turn around, everything went black.