Signed away by my step father

CHAPTER 3

My mother was sitting at the dining table, meticulously polishing a pair of Monique's expensive shoes. She didn't look up when the door clicked shut. She never did. Her entire survival strategy in this house was to pretend she didn't notice anything—not the insults Helen threw at me, and certainly not the bruises.

Before I could even set my backpack down, the heavy, commanding voice of my stepfather, Richard, boomed from the living room doorway.

"Sylvia! Change out of your uniform right now," he barked, his face flushed and his brow furrowed as he checked his watch. "The lunch rush ran late, and the dinner crowd is already starting to pick up. The restaurant is short-staffed today."

"But Richard," I hesitated, my voice barely above a whisper. "I have three chapters of history reading tonight, and I haven't—"

"I don't care about your history reading," he cut me off sharply, taking a step toward me. His tone carried that familiar, dangerous edge that made my muscles instantly tense up. "That restaurant pays for the roof over your head. You get your ass down there and get behind the register. Go."

My mother kept her eyes fixed firmly on the shoe in her lap, her hands moving back and forth with rhythmic, cowardly dedication. She didn't say a word. She didn't look at me. She didn't acknowledge the day I was born, or the fact that I was being sent straight to work a grueling night shift on an empty stomach.

Nobody remembered. To them, I was just a nameless cog, an unwanted burden meant to be used until there was nothing left.

"Yes, sir," I muttered, keeping my head down.

I hurried up the stairs to change, swallowing the bitter lump of disappointment in my throat. I couldn't afford to cry. If I cried, my eyes would be red, and Richard hated when I looked miserable in front of the customers. I just had to survive the shift, handle the money, and keep moving like the ghost they wanted me to be.

The neon sign for *Richard’s Bistro* buzzed with a low, irritating hum that vibrated straight through my temples. By 8:00 PM, my feet were completely numb inside my cheap flats, and my shoulders ached from standing rigid behind the heavy wooden counter.

The restaurant was packed. Steam rolled out of the kitchen doors every time the waiters kicked them open, carrying the heavy scents of charred garlic, overcooked pasta, and cheap oil. My stomach growled fiercely, a reminder that I hadn't eaten anything since that single slice of dry bread at dawn. But I couldn't leave the register.

"Table four needs their ticket split, Sylvia. Hurry up," Richard barked, slamming a leather presenter onto the counter right next to my hand. He didn't look at me; his eyes were frantic, darting toward a group of men in suits by the bar.

"Yes, sir," I whispered, my fingers flying across the touch screen.

I took in all the money. Every single credit card swipe, every crumpled hundred-dollar bill went directly through my hands. I watched the daily revenue counter at the bottom of the screen tick higher and higher, crossing into the thousands. Yet, when Richard slid my weekly envelope across the counter during a brief lull, it felt entirely weightless.

I opened it discreetly under the counter. Fifty dollars. For forty hours of after-school labor, handling the entire cash flow of his business, he paid me peanuts.

"Richard, um..." I cleared my throat, my voice trembling as I looked at the meager bills. "The hours this week... we agreed on—"

"You’re lucky you get anything at all," he shot back, his voice dropping into a harsh, warning growl as he leaned over the counter. "You eat our food. You live under my roof. If it weren't for me, you and your useless mother would be out on the street. Besides, it’s not like you’re contributing anything of real value. You have zero cooking skills, Sylvia. You're just pressing buttons on a screen. Don't get greedy."

His words stung, a familiar poison that tried to dissolve the one thing I held onto. *Zero cooking skills.* He said it so often I almost believed it, even though my mind was currently correcting the sloppy plating of the chicken parmigiana sitting on the pickup counter. The sauce was too watery; they hadn't reduced the crushed tomatoes long enough, and the mozzarella was scorched instead of beautifully melted. I could have fixed it in five minutes if they ever let me near the line.

But I just swallowed the humiliation, shoving the envelope into my apron pocket. "I understand."

Richard didn't answer. He was already distracted, pulling out his phone and frantically typing a message. Over the last few weeks, his temper had grown shorter, his face permanently flushed with an anxious sweat. I caught him staring blankly at the restaurant's inventory sheets, muttering about market rates and margins. Something was wrong with his finances, but in this house, asking questions only invited a closed fist.

By 10:30 PM, the dinner crowd finally thinned out. My eyes were burning from the harsh glare of the monitor. Nobody had mentioned the date. My mother hadn't called. The day was almost over, and my eighteenth birthday was passing by like a ghost.

Suddenly, the front door of the bistro chimed.

"We're closed," Richard snapped toward the door without looking up from his phone.

"I'm not here for a table," a sharp, confident voice ringing out.