The locker room smelled faintly of perfume and sweat, mixed with the sharp tang of disinfectant. I tugged at the zipper of my worn bag, hands still trembling, heart hammering as I prepared myself to walk out into the night.
I hated this part, leaving. Always left me uneasy. Wondering if someone would follow me, if one of the men who grinned too wide and waved too much cash would take it further than just words. I kept my head down, clutching my bag close.
“Aurora.”
I froze. The manager was standing by the doorway, something heavy in his hand. A thick white envelope. My brows furrowed, and I hummed low in my throat, tilting my head in question.
He gave me a small, uneasy smile. “It’s yours. Your tip.”
My confusion deepened. I reached out slowly, and the weight of it nearly made my knees buckle. It was thick, so thick it felt wrong in my hand.
The manager cleared his throat. “The bill came out to $3,983. We just closed his tab a few minutes ago.”
I blinked, staring blankly at him. That number didn’t even register in my head. It couldn’t.
“He tipped you a hundred per cent,” the manager added. “In cash. Out of his own wallet.”
I shook my head, clutching the envelope tighter.No. That couldn’t be right. Tips were good here, yes. Sometimes outrageous. But not this. Never this.
“And,” the manager hesitated, “he also paid five grand to keep you upstairs tonight. As company. I thought you should know. He didn’t have to pay that much, but he did. I was shocked myself.”
My lips parted soundlessly. Five thousand. Almost four thousand in drinks. Almost four thousand in tips. Tens of thousands in one night. For me.
It was too much. Too heavy. My fingers dug into the envelope as if it might disappear if I loosened my grip. And then the manager added the name that made my stomach drop straight to the floor.
“It was Mr Lockhart. All him.”
Joshua.
Joshua Lockhart. The boy who had made my life hell since the moment I stepped onto campus last year. The one who told me I didn’t belong, who humiliated me like it was his form of fun, who never let me breathe.Him.
Why?
Why wouldhespend that kind of money? On me?
The envelope felt like it was burning through my skin, like every bill inside was laced with questions I couldn’t answer.
By the time I walked home, I was gripping it so tight my knuckles were white. He got me dinner today, yeah. It was oddly comforting, sweet, and didn’t humiliate me. But this? I didn’t understand it.
I don’t think I ever will understand him.
I shut the apartment door behind me and leaned against it, my knees weak. The quiet hit me first. No music pounding, no hands brushing against me, no voices calling me things I hated to hear. Just silence. And the envelope.
I opened it with trembling fingers, and the sight nearly made me choke. Cash. Stacks of bills. More money than I’d ever held in my entire life. I stared at it. Stared until my eyes blurred. My mind wouldn’t stop racing.
If he gave me this, then he must expect something. He must want me to…no. No.My stomach twisted violently, and I shook my head hard, pressing the envelope shut with both hands like it could erase the thought.
No. I can’t. I won’t.
He might think this means something. That I owe him. That I have to give him something back.I won’t. I’ll give it back. I can’t keep it. I can’t let him think…
But my thoughts stuttered. Halted.
Because—
Someone like him wouldn’t—
I froze. The words caught in my throat.
