Chapter 1

Macy

I shove through the weathered double doors of Dave's Diner, the familiar scent of burnt coffee and greasy home fries hitting me like a wall. The lunch rush is in full swing—a sea of tourists cramming their faces with overpriced burgers and locals hunched over their usual orders. I'm running five minutes late, which might as well be an hour in Dave's world.

"Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence." Dave's voice booms from behind the counter as I speed-walk toward the employee locker room.

"Bus broke down again," I call over my shoulder, not slowing my pace. "Had to wait for the next one."

I don't mention I'd spent twenty minutes on the phone with my third collection agency this week before leaving home. They're getting more creative with their threats lately.

The locker room is empty, thankfully. I change into my uniform—a hideous yellow polyester dress with a white apron that does nothing for my figure—and pull my curls back into a quick ponytail. Dark circles shadow my eyes, evidence of last night's double shift at the convenience store. Three jobs and I'm still drowning in debt.

When I emerge onto the floor, order pad in hand, Marge slides me a sympathetic smile from the register. "Section three today, honey. It's a madhouse."

"When isn't it?" I force a grin, straightening my nametag. "How's your grandson doing with those college applications?"

"Applied to five schools already. That boy's going places." Her weathered face lights up. "Unlike his grandmother, stuck in this grease trap for thirty years."

"You love this grease trap." I grab a coffee pot and head toward my section.

"Macy!" A familiar voice catches my attention. Harold, a retired postal worker who's been coming here every Tuesday for as long as I've worked at Dave's, waves from his usual booth. "There's my favorite waitress!"

I paste on my customer service smile. "Morning, Harold. The usual?"

"You know it. How's that financial advisor thing coming along? Still taking those online classes?"

My smile falters for just a second. "On hold for now. But I'll get back to it."

What I don't say: That dream died when my ex-boyfriend convinced me to co-sign on his business loan, then skipped town leaving me with $87,000 in debt. That my credit score is so abysmal I couldn't get approved for a library card. That I'm one missed payment away from losing my crappy studio apartment.

"You'll get there." Harold pats my hand with grandfatherly affection. "Smart girl like you."

"Coffee's on me today," I tell him, pouring a cup before moving to my other tables.

The next hour passes in a blur of food orders, refills, and forced pleasantries. My feet already ache, but I can't afford new shoes until next month. Maybe.

"Table six needs more napkins!"

"Order up for twelve!"

"Customer at four wants to speak to you—something about his eggs."

I juggle it all with practiced efficiency, my mind calculating tips and mentally allocating each dollar toward bills. Rent. Electricity. Minimum payments on three credit cards. The loan that's ruining my life. Groceries, if I'm lucky.

A group of businessmen in expensive suits enters, taking over my largest table. Great. Corporate types either tip exceptionally well or insultingly poor, and I'm betting on the latter from the way they're already snapping their fingers for service.

"Be right with you," I call, rushing to deliver three plates of pancakes to a family with screaming children.

My phone vibrates in my pocket—probably another collection agency. I ignore it.

"Excuse me, we've been waiting for five minutes," one of the suits complains as I approach their table.

"So sorry about that, gentlemen. What can I get you to drink?"

The man at the head of the table barks orders without looking up from his phone. "Sparkling water, no ice, with lemon. And we need menus. And clean silverware—these look spotty."

I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to point out that Dave's Diner doesn't serve sparkling anything, and the silverware is as clean as our ancient dishwasher can manage.

"We have regular water, iced tea, soda, or coffee," I say instead.

He finally looks up, irritation flashing across his face. "Fine. Water. Whatever."

I scribble down drink orders for the table, acutely aware of the dozens of other customers needing attention. The lunch rush always brings out my insecurities—I'm not fast enough, not efficient enough, not enough, period.

As I'm walking away, I hear him mutter, "This is why I never eat at places like this."

My eyes sting with unexpected tears. Normally I'd let comments like that roll off my back, but today—after the collection call, after calculating I'm still $340 short on rent due next week—it cuts deeper than it should.

In the kitchen, I lean against the wall for just a moment, taking a shaky breath. One tear escapes before I can stop it, and I quickly wipe it away before anyone notices.

"You okay, Mace?" Luis, our cook, glances up from the grill.

"Yeah. Just tired." I force a smile, loading my tray with drinks. "Another day in paradise, right?"

But as I push through the swinging door back into the chaos of the diner, all I can think is: I'm trapped. This isn't temporary anymore. This is my life, an endless cycle of barely making it, of serving people who look through me rather than at me.

And I have no idea how to escape.

I finally get my fifteen-minute break after the lunch crowd thins out. My ankles throb as I collapse onto the metal folding chair in the break room, kicking off my shoes under the table. The relief is immediate and almost sexual—if I could marry the sensation of taking off work shoes after a six-hour shift, I would.

"You look like hell warmed over." Lisa slides into the chair across from me, pushing a chipped mug of coffee in my direction.

"Thanks. I aim to please." I accept the coffee gratefully, wrapping my hands around the warmth. Lisa's been at Dave's for three years—two longer than me—and somehow maintains her sanity despite it all. Her dark hair is pulled into a perfect bun, not a strand out of place despite the kitchen heat.

"Those suits at table six leave you a decent tip at least?"

I snort. "Five percent. And they had the nerve to complain about the prices." I take a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. "It's fine. I made up for it with Harold. He left twenty on a twelve-dollar check."

Lisa stretches her legs out, crossing her ankles. "So what's going on with you? And don't say 'nothing'—your customer service smile is slipping. I could practically see your soul leaving your body when that guy complained about the silverware."

"That obvious, huh?" I stare into my coffee, watching the ripples as my hands shake slightly from exhaustion. "Just the usual. Bills. Work. More bills."

"Macy." Her voice softens. "We've worked together long enough. Talk to me."

Something in her tone breaks through my carefully constructed wall. Maybe it's the genuine concern, or maybe I'm just too damn tired to keep pretending I'm fine.

"I got another call from the collection agency this morning." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Third one this week. They're threatening to garnish my wages now."

Lisa's eyes widen. "For the business loan? Your ex's loan?"

"Yep. All eighty-seven thousand dollars of it." I laugh, but it comes out hollow. "Turns out co-signing for someone is a really bad idea when they skip town with both the money and another damn woman on his arm."

"That Marcus guy was a piece of work."

I nod, memories flooding back—his charming smile, the way he'd make me feel like I was the only woman in the world. How stupid I'd been.

"I thought I was helping him start his dream business. He seemed so passionate about it—talked about how we'd build something together." I trace the rim of my mug. "Meanwhile, he was gambling away the loan money and sleeping with my friend behind my back."

"Men are trash." Lisa states this like it's a fundamental law of physics.

"Not all of them." I think of Harold, of my dad who worked three jobs to put me through college. "Just the ones who target women with good credit scores and savings accounts."

"So what are you going to do?"

I shrug. "What I've been doing. Work until I drop. Pay what I can. Try not to cry when I check my bank account."

"And in five years? Ten?"

The question hits me like a physical blow. I've been so focused on surviving day to day that I haven't allowed myself to think that far ahead. The math is brutal—at my current rate, I'll be paying off this debt until I'm in my forties.

"I don't know." My voice cracks. "Every time I start to get ahead, something happens—car repair, rent increase, medical bill. I had plans, Lisa. I was going to be a financial advisor, help people like my parents who never understood money management. Now I can barely manage my own disasters."

Lisa reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "Listen to me. What happened to you sucks. It's unfair and it's cruel. But you can't let that asshole take your whole life from you."

"Kind of feels like he already did." The words taste bitter.

"No." Lisa shakes her head firmly. "He took your money and your trust, but only you can give away your future. You need to find a way to reclaim your power."

"Reclaim my power?" I laugh weakly. "What, like hire a hitman with my nonexistent savings?"

"I'm serious, Macy. There's got to be options—bankruptcy, loan consolidation, something. You're smart as hell. The woman I see handling six tables while calculating tips in her head and remembering every regular's order isn't someone who gives up."

A small, dangerous flicker of something ignites in my chest. Not quite hope—I'm too practical for that—but possibility. The faintest spark of it.

"Maybe you're right," I murmur, straightening my shoulders slightly.

"I know I'm right." Lisa taps her watch. "Break's over in thirty seconds. But promise me you'll think about what I said. Find your power again. That jerk doesn't get to write the end of your story."