Mated to My Fiancé’s Alpha King Brother - Chapter 164

Chapter 164: Chapter 164
Seraphina’s POV

The next morning hit me like a sledgehammer.

My alarm screamed at six AM, dragging me out of a restless sleep filled with dreams about empty bank accounts and angry landlords. My body ached like I’d been hit by a truck. Every muscle protested as I rolled out of bed.

Everything would be fine by Friday.

The walk to work felt longer than usual, my feet dragging against the cracked sidewalk. The morning air was crisp and sharp, cutting through my thin jacket like it had a personal vendetta against me.

I pushed through the automatic doors at exactly 7:58 AM. Two minutes early, like always. No matter how shitty my life got, I was never late.

Gary stood behind the customer service counter, his face already red with whatever crisis had ruined his morning. When he saw me, his expression soured even more.

“About time,” he grunted.

“I’m early,” I pointed out.

“Don’t get smart with me.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Mia called in. Family emergency. She’s taking a few days off.”

My stomach dropped. “A few days?”

“That’s what I said. Which means you’re covering register two and three today. Think you can handle that without attacking any customers?”

The jab about yesterday’s incident made my jaw clench. “I can handle it.”

“Good. Because I’m not in the mood for any more drama.”

I stared at him, processing what this meant. Two registers. Double the work. Double the stress.

“Will I get overtime pay for covering Mia’s shifts?” I asked.

Gary looked at me like I’d suggested he donate a kidney. “Overtime? You’re not working overtime. You’re just doing your job.”

“But I’m covering two registers—”

“You’re covering one register. Register two. Mia’s register. Same hours, same pay.” He turned away, clearly done with the conversation.

“That’s not fair,” I said.

Gary spun back around, his face purple with irritation. “Fair? You want to talk about fair? How about the three hundred dollars I’m taking out of your paycheck because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself?”

Heat flooded my cheeks. Other employees were starting to stare. I could feel their curious gazes like little needles in my skin.

I walked to register two with my cheeks burning and my hands shaking with suppressed rage. Other employees looked away quickly, pretending they hadn’t witnessed my humiliation.

But I needed this job. I needed the paycheck, even if it was pathetic. Even if Gary was a power-hungry asshole.

I turned on the register and forced my face into a customer service smile. “Next!”

—

Wednesday came and went. No Mia.

Thursday dragged by in a haze of cranky customers and broken price scanners. Still no Mia.

By Friday afternoon, worry was eating me alive from the inside.

During my lunch break, I called Mia’s cell phone for the tenth time that week. It went straight to voicemail. Again.

*”Hi, you’ve reached Mia! I’m probably doing something way more fun than talking on the phone, so leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I remember!”*

Her cheerful voice made my chest ache. Where was she? Why wasn’t she answering?

I tried texting instead.

*”Mia, are you okay? Haven’t heard from you. Getting worried.”*

No response.

*”Please just let me know you made it home safe.”*

Nothing.

*”I need that money back today. My rent is due.”*

Still nothing.

I stared at my phone, my hands trembling slightly. She’d promised. Cross her heart and hope to die, she’d promised to pay me back by Friday.

It was Friday.

—

At six o’clock, I clocked out and walked to the bus stop with dread sitting in my stomach like a lead weight. The ride home felt eternal, every minute stretching like taffy.

My apartment building looked even more depressing than usual in the fading evening light. Peeling paint. Broken security door. The smell of garbage and desperation.

I climbed the stairs to the third floor, my legs feeling like lead. Outside my door, a bright pink slip of paper was taped to the wood.

My heart stopped.

An eviction notice.

I ripped it off the door with shaking hands, my eyes scanning the typed text.

*NOTICE TO QUIT – You are hereby notified that your tenancy is terminated. Rent for the month of October is past due. You are required to quit and surrender the premises to the owner. If you fail to do so, legal proceedings will be instituted against you.*

*Amount Due: $450.00*

*Pay by Sunday, October 27th, or vacate the premises.*

Sunday. Two days.

I fumbled with my keys, nearly dropping them twice before managing to unlock my door. Inside, the apartment felt smaller than ever. The walls seemed to press in around me like a trap.

I collapsed onto my threadbare couch and pulled out my phone, calling my bank’s automated line to check my balance.

*”Your current balance is… forty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents.”*

Forty-seven dollars.

I needed four hundred and fifty.

My rent was due, and I had forty-seven fucking dollars.

—

Saturday morning, I swallowed my pride and went to find Gary.

I found him in his office, hunched over paperwork and looking as miserable as I felt. When I knocked on the doorframe, he looked up with obvious irritation.

“What now, Sara?”

“I need to ask you a favor,” I said, hating how desperate I sounded.

“If it’s about getting more hours, the answer’s no. Corporate’s been breathing down my neck about labor costs.”

“It’s not about hours.” I stepped into his office, my palms sweating. “I need an advance on my paycheck.”

Gary’s eyebrows shot up. “An advance?”

“Just two hundred dollars. Maybe three hundred. I’ll work extra shifts to pay it back.”

“No.”

The word hit me like a slap. “Gary, please—”

“I said no.” He turned back to his paperwork, dismissing me. “We don’t do paycheck advances. Company policy.”

“I could lose my apartment,” I said desperately.

“Not my problem.”

“I’m a good employee. I show up on time, I don’t call in sick, I cover other people’s shifts—”

“You attack customers and cost me money,” Gary interrupted without looking up. “Good employees don’t create problems.”

“That wasn’t my fault!”

“Everything that happens on your shift is your fault.” His voice was flat, final. “Figure out your money problems on your own time.”

I stood there for a moment, staring at the top of his balding head. He didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge that he was basically telling me to go fuck myself.

“Fine,” I said quietly.

“Good. Now get back to work.”

—

Sunday evening, my landlord knocked on my door.

Mr. Peterson was a squat, greasy man in his fifties who always smelled like cigarettes and cheap cologne. His beady eyes gleamed with the kind of satisfaction that came from having power over desperate people.

“Time’s up, sweetheart,” he said, not bothering with pleasantries.

“Mr. Peterson, please. I just need a few more days. My friend owes me money, and as soon as she pays me back—”

“Save the sob story.” He held up a hand, cutting me off. “I’ve heard them all. Rent was due three days ago. You got until tomorrow morning to pay or pack.”

“Tomorrow morning?” My voice cracked. “That’s not enough time—”

“Should’ve thought of that before you decided not to pay your bills.” His smile was cruel, satisfied. “I got three people on the waiting list for this place. People who can actually afford the rent.”

“I can afford it! I just need—”

“You need to grow up and face reality.” He leaned closer, and I caught a whiff of stale tobacco and something that might have been whiskey. “You’re broke, honey. Broke people don’t get to live in nice places.”

Nice places. I almost laughed. This dump with its leaking faucet and broken radiator was a nice place?

“Pack your shit and get out,” Peterson continued. “I want you gone by noon tomorrow, or I’ll have the sheriff’s department escort you out.”

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the narrow hallway. I stood in my doorway, watching him go, my whole body numb with shock.

Noon tomorrow.

I closed the door and leaned against it, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor. The apartment looked so small suddenly. So temporary. Like it had never really been mine at all.

I called Mia’s number again. Straight to voicemail.

“Mia,” I said after the beep, my voice shaking. “It’s Sara. I really, really need that money. Please call me back. Please.”

I hung up and let my head fall back against the door.

Forty-seven dollars in my bank account. No job prospects. No friends except for a girl who’d apparently disappeared off the face of the earth after borrowing my last forty-three dollars.

I crawled to my bedroom and collapsed face-first onto the mattress. The pillow smelled like cheap detergent and desperation.

That’s when my hand hit something sharp.

I lifted my head, confused. There, sticking out from under my pillow, was a small white business card.

Rico Santos. Talent Acquisition.