SWIPE RIGHT FOR THE ALPHA

CHAPTER FIVE

ARIA

The walk home was quiet after Adrian turned down the side street. I tried to focus on my own footsteps, listening to the faint hum of the city around me. But my thoughts kept circling back to his eyes. Glowing. Not brown. Not normal. And yet… he acted like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just flickered gold in the streetlight.

I shook my head, trying to convince myself I was imagining things. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or maybe I’d just been too exhausted after the chaotic tutorial. But the memory of his hand brushing against mine as he saved the textbook made my chest tighten in a way I couldn’t ignore.

The sun had already dipped behind the row of old buildings by the time I reached my front door. My bag felt heavier than usual, my legs sluggish from another long day of tutorials with Adrian

Not like he was even interested in learning.

The street smelled faintly of smoke and roasted corn, a scent I used to love but now just reminded me of hunger I pretended not to feel.

As soon as I pushed open the door, the sound of my mother’s voice met me.

“Aria, you’re late.”

I froze halfway into the small living room, the dim light from the single bulb casting long shadows over the peeling wallpaper. “I had tutorials, Mum.”

Her sigh came out like a groan, the kind that carried more years of frustration than words could explain. “I told you getting a job after school would do us better in this house. But no, you insist on doing these free tutorials for students who can’t even pay you.”

I let my bag slide from my shoulder, landing beside the sofa with a soft thud. “I love to teach, Mum. You don’t expect me to start charging to help students.”

“Well, why can’t you?” she snapped, turning from the small kitchen corner where a pot of soup simmered weakly on the stove. “I need all the help I can get.”

Her voice cracked on that last word, and I noticed then how thin she looked — the dark circles beneath her eyes, the faint tremor in her hand as she stirred the pot. The same woman who used to stride through her office in heels now stood in a faded house dress, her strength eroded by disappointment.

“Mum, we’ll be fine,” I said softly, forcing a smile I didn’t feel.

She laughed with that hollow tone that comes from knowing better. “Will we? Because I just got laid off.”

The words hit me like a slap. “What?”

She sank into the nearest chair, pressing her hand to her temple. “They said the company’s cutting costs. ‘Restructuring,’ they called it. After fifteen years.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. The only sounds in the room were the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint bubbling from the pot. I walked toward her, kneeling beside her chair. “Mum… I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t pay rent,” she muttered, but her tone had softened. She looked at me then, really looked — as if searching for the daughter she used to believe would save them both. “I just… I thought things would get easier.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “They will. I promise.”

She shook her head, eyes glassy. “You’re too much like your father, always dreaming.”

That one stung more than it should have. I wanted to argue, to tell her that hope wasn’t weakness — that it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart. But I stayed quiet. Instead, I stood and moved to the kitchen, pretending to check the soup. The scent of burnt pepper stung my eyes.

Soon enough, the food was ready.

We ate in silence, both lost in thoughts we didn’t share. The room felt too small, the air thick with all the words we wouldn’t say — about bills unpaid, promises broken, futures uncertain.

When she finally rose to clear the plates, I tried again. “Mum, maybe tomorrow I’ll apply for something part-time. At least till—”

“Don’t bother,” she cut in. “You’ll just end up like me — tired and replaceable.”

Her bitterness startled me. I wanted to hug her, but she turned away before I could. She disappeared into her room, leaving me alone with the sound of the ceiling fan creaking overhead.

I sat there for a long time, tracing the cracks on the wall with my eyes. This house used to feel warm — now it felt like a waiting room for disappointment.

Finally, I dragged myself to my room and collapsed on the bed. My phone buzzed almost immediately.

Aaron.

For a moment, I stared at his name glowing on the screen, my stomach twisting. I’d ignored him all day.

The message blinked in:

> “I knew you didn't love me, You couldn't do such a simple task. Disappointing, really.”

I exhaled sharply. The words felt like tiny needles pricking my chest. Typical Aaron — mixing charm with cruelty, possession disguised as affection.

I didn’t reply. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew whatever I said would only feed his satisfaction. Instead, I dropped the phone beside me and stared at the ceiling.

My mind drifted back to his last request — that “simple task” he’d asked of me, something that had made my stomach knot the moment he said it. He was the reason Adrian was blackmailing me.

Gosh, if only I never tried to do anything, just maybe I would be free from all this.

I turned on my side, hugging my pillow. The scent of detergent lingered faintly on the sheets, mixed with the dust from the old curtains. A single tear slid down my cheek before I could stop it.

“Mum’s right,” I whispered into the dark. “I need to do more.”

But even as I said it, exhaustion swallowed the thought. My limbs felt heavy, my mind foggy. I closed my eyes, hoping for a dream that didn’t involve Aaron’s voice or my mother’s disappointment.

Sleep didn’t come easily. My phone buzzed again, but I didn’t reach for it. The screen flashed once, then went dark — a small light extinguished in the darkness

I thought about my students, their laughter, their eager faces when they understood something new. That was the only time I felt like I mattered. That small flicker of purpose was all I had left.

Outside, the night wind rattled the loose windowpane. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. The city never truly slept — it only shifted moods, just like people did.

I turned again, pulling the thin blanket over me. My last thought before drifting off was a quiet prayer — not for success, not even for happiness, just for strength.

Because deep down, I knew tomorrow would demand more of me than today ever had.