Aria’s POV
I’d been here three weeks now, and every single day felt like drowning in slow motion. The cheap motel room with its water-stained ceiling and cockroach problem had beco my entire universe. Four walls. One lumpy bed. A bathroom where the hot water worked maybe half the ti.
And a stack of job applications that kept growing, even as my hope kept shrinking.
I spread the newspaper across the wobbly desk, my eyes scanning the "Help Wanted" section for the hundredth ti. Most of the listings were already crossed out in red pen. Rejected. Not qualified. Position filled. Co back when you have experience.
The words blurred together until they all ant the sa thing: You’re not good enough.
My hand drifted to my stomach without thinking. Still flat. Still nothing to show for the life growing inside . But I knew it was there. I could feel it in the constant nausea that plagued my mornings, in the bone-deep exhaustion that never went away, in the way my body felt foreign and strange without Artemis to guide through it.
I grabbed my jacket and headed out before I could talk myself out of it. The morning air was crisp, biting at my cheeks as I walked. My shoes were falling apart—the soles worn paper-thin from all the walking I’d been doing. Every step sent a dull ache through my feet.
But I couldn’t afford new shoes. I couldn’t afford anything.
The first place on my list was a diner called "Sunny’s." The na was a cruel joke. The building looked like it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since the eighties, and the neon sign flickered pathetically in the gray morning light. But they were hiring, and that was all that mattered.
I pushed through the door, and the sll hit like a wall—grease and burnt coffee and sothing that might have been bacon three hours ago. My stomach lurched violently. I pressed my hand against my mouth, breathing through the wave of nausea until it passed.
"Help you?"
The woman behind the counter was in her fifties, with gray hair scraped back in a severe bun and deep lines around her mouth that spoke of decades of disappointnt. She looked at the way everyone looked at now—with suspicion, with pity, with the kind of judgnt that made want to crawl out of my own skin.
"I’m here about the waitress position," I said, forcing my voice to sound steady and confident. "I saw your ad in the paper. I have five years of experience, and I can start imdiately."
Her eyes traveled over slowly. Taking in my worn clothes. The shadows under my eyes. The way my collarbones jutted out too sharply because I’d been eating one al a day to make the money last.
"References?"
My heart sank. "I... the restaurant I worked at closed down. The owner passed away, and I lost contact with everyone else. But I’m a hard worker. I’ll prove it if you just give a chance."
The woman sighed heavily, like I was wasting her ti. Like she’d heard this story a thousand tis before.
"Look, honey. I appreciate you coming in, but I can’t hire soone off the street with no way to verify anything you’re telling . For all I know, you could be so junkie looking to steal from the register."
The accusation burned through like acid.
"I’m not—I would never—"
"There’s a shelter three blocks east," she continued, cutting off like I hadn’t even spoken. "They help people like you get on their feet. Find paperwork, that kind of thing."
The words echoed in my skull long after I walked out the door. The bell jingled cheerfully overhead, mocking my humiliation.
I made it half a block before the tears started falling.
I ducked into an alley, pressing my back against the cold brick wall, and let myself cry. Really cry. The kind of ugly, gasping sobs that shook my whole body and made my chest feel like it was caving in.
Three weeks. Three weeks of this nightmare, and I was no closer to finding work than the day I arrived.
The shelter? Begging on street corners? Selling my body like my mother had taught , like everyone always expected Shadow Moon won to do?
No.
NO.
I pressed both hands against my stomach, feeling the warmth of my own body heat through the thin fabric of my shirt.
"I won’t," I whispered fiercely. "I won’t beco that. I won’t let them be right about ."
But the words felt hollow. Empty promises to a baby that couldn’t hear yet.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand and stepped out of the alley. There were more places on my list. More chances to be told I wasn’t good enough.
I kept walking.
---
The grocery store manager laughed in my face.
Actually laughed. Like my desperation was the funniest thing he’d seen all week.
"Sweetheart, this is physical labor. Lifting boxes, stocking shelves. You look like a stiff breeze would knock you over."
"I’m stronger than I look," I insisted, hating how weak my voice sounded. "Please. I’ll work harder than anyone you’ve ever hired. I just need—"
"What you need is a sandwich." He was already turning away, dismissing completely. "Co back when you don’t look like death ward over."
The door swung shut between us.
I stood on the sidewalk, my hands shaking with fury and sha. A woman walking past gave a wide berth, clutching her purse tighter against her side. Like I was dangerous. Like I was sothing to be afraid of.
If only she knew.
I used to be a wolf. I used to have Artemis burning bright inside , giving strength and courage and a voice that was louder than my own. I used to be part of sothing, even if that sothing was broken and cruel.
Now I was nothing.
Just a pregnant woman with no money, no ho, and no one in the world who gave a damn whether she lived or died.
*Artemis,* I called silently, desperately. *Please. I need you. I can’t do this alone.*
The emptiness inside echoed back. Vast and cold and permanent.
She was gone. Really gone. Whatever that woman had forced down my throat had ripped my wolf away like tearing out a vital organ. And I was left with the wound, bleeding and raw, that would never heal.
---
By noon, I’d tried seven more places.
A laundromat where the owner pretended not to speak English even though I’d heard him chatting fluently with a custor monts before. A hair salon where the receptionist looked at my ragged clothes and told they "weren’t hiring at this ti" while the Help Wanted sign sat prominently in the window. A fast food restaurant where the teenage manager said I needed to fill out an online application—but I didn’t have a phone or a computer or an email address.
Each rejection carved a little deeper into my soul.
I found a bench in a small park and collapsed onto it, my legs trembling with exhaustion. The morning sickness had passed, but hunger had taken its place—a gnawing, desperate ache in my stomach that I’d learned to ignore.
When was the last ti I’d eaten? Yesterday morning. A stale bagel from the day-old bin at a coffee shop. That was... almost thirty hours ago.
The baby needed food. I knew that. Every rational part of my brain scread that I was hurting my child by starving myself. But the money was almost gone, and I needed it to last as long as possible.
What was I supposed to do?
I pulled out my wallet and counted the bills again, even though I already knew exactly how much was there. Forty-three dollars. That was it. My entire net worth. The sum total of everything I had in this world.
A bitter laugh escaped my throat.
I used to dream about escape. About getting away from my mother, my sisters, the suffocating expectations of the Shadow Moon pack. I used to imagine what freedom would feel like.
Nobody told freedom would feel like starving.
"Excuse , miss? Do you need help?"
I looked up, startled. A man stood in front of —middle-aged, wearing a worn jacket and carrying a paper bag from the convenience store across the street. His face was weathered but kind, the kind of face that had seen hard tis and co out softer instead of harder.
"I’m fine," I said instead. The lie tasted like ash on my tongue. "Just resting."
The man nodded slowly, his eyes full of a kindness that made my chest ache. He reached into his bag and pulled out a granola bar.
"Here." He held it out to . "For the road. And there’s a community center a few blocks that way—they do job training, help people find work. Might be worth checking out."
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