Chapter 3

Ella wasn't rich. If she were, she wouldn't have married a loser like my dad.

He controlled all the money in the house. Every time I needed to pay for class materials, he'd glare at me with those deep, spiteful eyes, yank a few crumpled bills from his wallet, and slap them onto my head.

"School, school, school! All you do is ask for money! Raising you costs more than raising a damn pig!

"Why the hell should I spend my money on you? Figure it out yourself next time. Can't pay? Then get your ass to the factory and work!"

While I stressed about every meal and every bill, Emilio Hanks found me. He tossed a few bills my way like breadcrumbs. "Hey. Wanna make a deal?"

He was a year below me, a known troublemaker. He once punched a pregnant teacher so hard she lost her baby. His parents barely blinked; they just wrote a nearly million-dollar check and called it a day. Rich kids. They were untouchable.

He had a thing for my sister Tracy. But they'd had a fight and hadn't spoken for days. Now he wanted to use me to make her jealous.

I glanced at the money; it looked like over a thousand. For me, it was a small fortune.

When I crouched down to pick up the cash, he looked at me like I was a dog accepting scraps. "So? Easy money, right?"

"What exactly do you want me to do?"

He smirked. "Write some poetic apology letters. Then fold a thousand paper cranes with 'Tracy, I love you' written on them. Maybe grab lunch with me a few times."

"Not enough."

"What?"

I slipped the bills into my pocket. "Letters, cranes, lunch... These are all separate charges. Negotiate properly."

He hesitated. I egged him on. "What? Don't tell me you don't really love Tracy."

His face flushed with pride and rage. "Screw it. Here!" He threw three grand at me.

Sure enough, a few days later, Tracy couldn't sit still anymore. When she saw us chatting, her lips trembled. She looked like she wanted to claw my face off.

One afternoon, my dad blew up my phone, asking me to drop something off for Tracy.

No one was in the classroom, so I shoved the bag into her desk and left.

The next morning, she stormed into the teacher's office, crying like the world was ending.

"Yara," she sobbed, "you can hate me all you want, but how could you steal that money?"