MARRIED TO MR POPULAR: His secret wife

The back of Zara’s heels had worn entirely through her cheap nylon socks, rubbing raw against the stiff backing of her work shoes. Every time she crossed from the espresso machine to the register, pain shot up her legs. It was 11:42 PM. The neon sign buzzed above the window, and after eight hours of listening to it, Zara thought it might drill straight through her skull.Actually, it was her second shift of the day. She had spent the morning working the university library's returns desk, rushing across campus with just enough time to swallow a stale granola bar before clocking into the cafe. "Zara, pull the blinds when you’re done with the steam wand," her manager, Greg, called out from the back room. The heavy jingle of his car keys signaled he was already halfway out the door, leaving her to handle the final cleanup alone. "Make sure the pastry case is wiped down. Don't forget the locks." "I won't," Zara said, her voice sounding raspy even to her own ears. She waited for the back door to click shut before finally relaxing. She blinked hard at the counter, trying to steady herself.”, The red glow from the sign hurt her eyes.Walking over to the counter, she untied her stained green apron and tossed it onto the espresso machine. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the crumpled wad of cash she had accumulated over nine hours of serving overpriced lattes to the elite, entitled students of Harrington University. She smoothed the bills out on the marble countertop one by one. A five. Two ones. A handful of quarters. Seven dollars and fifty cents. Zara stared at the money and swallowed hard.The table of freshmen socialites who had spent three hours occupying the velvet couch, demanding extra oat milk and demanding she rewrite their order three times, hadn't left a single dime. They had just laughed, grabbed their designer bags, and walked out into the crisp autumn night without a backward glance. Seven dollars wouldn’t even cover the bus ride and a pack of basic painkillers for her mom’s joints. Before she could spiral further into the math of her survival, her phone vibrated violently against the marble, its cracked screen lighting up with her mother’s name. Zara forced a breath into her lungs, trying to shake the exhaustion from her voice before hitting answer. "Hey, Mom. I'm just closing up. I'll catch the midnight bus, so I'll be home in about—" "Zara." Her mother’s voice stopped her mid-sentence. It was a broken, breathless gasp, followed by a ragged sob that made Zara’s entire body freeze. "Mom? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?" Zara gripped the edge of the counter, the skin on her heels completely forgotten. "They came by today," her mother wept, the sound muffled, as if she were trying to hide her face in her hands. "A man from the bank. He didn't even knock properly, Zara. He just taped it to the front door. I tried to tell him about your father's old accounts, I tried to tell him we just needed a few more months to catch up on the back interest, but he wouldn't listen." Zara struggled to breathe. "Taped what to the door, Mom? What did they leave?" "The final eviction notice," her mother whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of the words. "“They said thirty days, Zara. Thirty days. If we don’t pay them, they’ll take the house”. They’re going to lock us out, Zara. Your father’s workshop, your childhood bedroom... everything. We have nowhere to go." Zara’s grip tightened on the counter. Thirty days. A debt that ran into tens of thousands of dollars, left behind by a father who had worked himself into an early grave trying to keep them afloat. "Mom, listen to me," Zara said, her own voice trembling as she fought back the sudden, hot sting of tears. She couldn't break down. If she broke down, her mother would completely collapse. "Don't touch anything. Don't pack. Just stay inside. I'm coming home right now. We're going to figure this out." "How?" her mother sobbed. "We don't have the money, sweetheart. We never have the money." "I'll find it," Zara said fiercely, though her mind was a blank, terrifying void. "I promise you, Mom. Just hang up and lock the door. I'm on my way." She ended the call and let her hand fall to her side. Her hand had gone cold around the phone. She scooped the money into her bag, her hands shaking so badly she could barely pull the zipper shut. She didn't wipe down the pastry case. She didn't care about Greg’s rules. Zara grabbed her worn jacket, locked the cafe doors behind her, and stepped out into the freezing night air. As she walked toward the bus stop, her eyes adjusted to the dark, catching the distant, glittering lights of Harrington University’s clock tower on the hill. A world of infinite wealth, completely closed off to people like her. She didn't know whose hands she had to shake, what extra shifts she had to beg for, or what she would have to give up to make it happen. But as the headlights of the midnight bus cut through the darkness, Zara made a silent, desperate vow to the empty street. She climbed onto the bus without even checking if she had enough fare. Her head was pounding. Thirty days. Thirty freaking days. She leaned her forehead against the cold window and shut her eyes. Maybe there was something she’d missed. Maybe the bank would change its mind. But deep down she already knew. Nobody was coming to save them. So somehow, she would have to save them herself.