I stared at Tasha's text through the rain-blurred screen, the smiling emojis mocking the absolute wreckage of my current reality. I had nowhere else to turn, and swallowing the bile in my throat, I reluctantly typed back three words that tasted like ashes: "Please help me."

Twenty minutes later, Tasha's mom's SUV pulled up to the control. Tasha immediately jumped out with an umbrella in her hand, and her face a show of fake concern. She rushed to where I was standing and wrapped her hand around my shoulder.

"O my God, Oma! What are you doing out here in the rain? You are soaked!" She escorted me into the warm leather interior of the car and her mother was also in the car. I greeted her and tried to make myself as comfortable as I could even though I was wet all through.

Tasha's voice brought me back to the present. "Oma, you didn't answer my question, what happened? Why were you in the rain?" She asked again, feigning sympathy and concern.

I told her what happened, I explained to her that I had just discovered that I was pregnant, and my dad threw me out of the house, threatening that I must not return until I had found the man responsible for it. As I spoke, tears rolled down my cheeks afresh.

Tasha gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "What! That monster! She exclaimed. "Why would he do that? Don't you worry, I've got your back babe. But why didn't you call earlier instead of getting so soaked? Anyway, that's not a problem, you're staying with us. Right, Mom?" she said, turning to her mother who was at the back seat.

Mrs. Davis, who is a very kind woman but perpetually distracted, nodded. "Of course, my dear, we have the guest room and you are welcome to stay as long as you want." She said, giving me a reassuring smile.

Thank you very much for your kindness ma'am, I said, forcing a smile, and feeling a little bit relieved. Turning to Tasha, I responded to her question. "I wasn't even thinking straight, Tasha, but thank God for your text message, it was timely."

The guest room was warm and cozy, sheltering me from the cold. I took a hot shower, changed my clothes and arranged a few of my belongings that I brought.

When I had settled in, my instinctive mind wandered to Tasha's message about going to the movie with Franklin. I decided to ask her about it. "Tasha, you said you were going to see a movie with Franklin, how come? Are you now an item?"

"Come on Oma, are we not friends? What is the big deal about going to see a movie together?" She responded flippantly. Her body language said more than she was ready to spill out though.

I wasn't satisfied with her response, so I asked further. Why did you consider me a third wheel with you, my best friend and Franklin, my boyfriend. Is there something more you are not telling me?

"Relax Oma, and take care of yourself. Going to the movie with Franklin should be the least of your worries at the moment. Tasha said.

My heart was heavy with doubt, but I let it slide and decided to watch.

That night was the longest for me as I tossed and turned. The events of the day were playing in my head like a horror movie; I imagined my ambition of becoming a corporate lawyer shattered with this baby growing inside of me without a father. I sobbed to a weary sleep.

For weeks, I lived in the fawn reservation of Tasha's guest bedroom, drowning in gratitude and guilt at the same time, and feeling like a parasite in another person's house. While. I spent my days vomiting quietly into the guest room toilet and, at the same time, desperately searching online for jobs for pregnant teens with no experience.

I tried to be useful while staying with them. I cleaned the house, folded laundry, and tried to ignore the way Tasha's sugary sweetness seemed to have a brittle edge to it lately, like someone who has some skeletons in her cupboard.

I sensed that something was wrong, but again I said to myself: I'm just hormonal and being paranoid. These people were my saviors in this time of distress; they were the only people who loved me, my only family for now. If anything, I should be grateful for having a roof over my head.

One Tuesday afternoon, I came home early from a failed job interview at a café, looking tired and unhappy. The house was unusually quiet; Franklin had secretly visited and was in Tasha's room. They didn't hear the sound of the door when I entered. As I walked past Tasha's bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, I heard a soft giggling from inside, then Franklin's voice, low and smug, saying-

"You know Tasha, I still can't believe the plan actually worked. With her scrupulous moral sense, I thought she'd chicken out at the party. If she had done, there is nothing we would have done; but you were very insistent though, and she kept gulping the drinks," he said, laughing.

I froze on the spot, I didn't know whether to go forward or run out, to laugh or cry.

"Pleeease!" that was Tasha's voice, dripping with venom I had never heard before. " I guess little "Miss Perfect" was desperate to fit in. All it took was three vodka cranberries, and she was everyone's for the night. Besides, we won the pool. Five hundred bucks is five hundred bucks. That's something," she said, giving Franklin a triumphant tap on the shoulder. They both laughed heartily.

My blood ran cold, my heartbeat became faster, my legs were weak, and the floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. Hot sweat rolled down my eyes from my forehead; I closed my eyes and opened them again. I suddenly became dizzy, and I asked myself, am I dreaming? What did I just hear?"

"Yeah, that was it," Franklin continued, "but now she's pregnant and living right here in your house. Did you ever think that part through? I guess not, so you will have to deal with it"

"Whatever," Tasha said, flinging her hand nonchalantly. "It's not like it's your kid, Franklin. Why are you even bothered? And you know that we just needed her to be side-tracked so we could hook up without her grumbling. Who knew the random guy we pointed her to, didn't believe in protection? We didn't plan for it to end this way, but then again, it's not my circus, not my monkeys," she said dismissively.

I released the breadth I was holding with a loud, strangled gasp escaping my lips before I could stop it. Inside the room, the laughter cut off instantly.

The ground squeaked, and Tasha pulled the bedroom door wide open. Her eyes went wide, her face paling as she saw me standing there, trembling with the shattering realization of what they had done.

Oma," Tasha started, her voice shaking, reaching a hand out toward me. "How long have you been standing there?" she asked.

I ignored her question, and instead I looked down at her hand-the hand that had painted my nails before prom, the hand that had offered me shelter and promised me friendship and protection, and I saw nothing but a poisonous snake. I didn't yell, neither did I cry. The only thing I knew was that something inside me, the soft part of me that still believed in friendship, had just died.

"You won a pool, Tasha?" I asked, my voice sounding completely unacquainted, flat and dead. "Five hundred dollars? That's what my life is worth to you. That is how cheap you rated me? Thank you for ruining my life, and my entire future, just for Five Hundred dollars."

"It was just a joke, Oma! We were drunk, and believe me, it wasn't supposed to go this far!" Tasha's defense was dumb and pitiful. Franklin, on the other hand, wandered behind her, looking down at the floor.

"You fed me drinks, and you pushed me toward some stranger; so, you two could... what? Hook up behind my back? You could have done that without ruining me like this." I looked straight at Franklin, "You were supposed to be my boyfriend, and what did you do? You betrayed me."

"Come on Oma! We were barely a thing. Chill out, and don't play the victim here," Franklin mumbled.

"Oh, am I playing the victim? Have you realized the damage your joke has done to me?" I asked, my voice rising in what could be described as anger or frustration.

The betrayal was so total, it was almost illuminating. The fog of sadness lifted, and was instantly replaced by a cold, hard rod of fury in my spine. I am not safe here, and from all indications, I have never been safe with you two. It's better for me to leave, I said and walked away.

"Don't be dramatic, Oma, where are you going?" Tasha panted, crossing her arms and trying to regain control from the initial shock of being found out. "Your dad hates you at the moment, and you don't have friends anywhere. You need us, you better stay."

I would rather sleep under a bridge than spend another second in this house with you, Tasha, I replied, feeling drowned with the weight of their betrayal.

I marched to the guest room, threw my few belongings, the ones I'd managed to save from my dad's house into my duffel bag. I crammed everything into the canvas sack in a hurry, and didn't fold anything. I just needed to get out of that house and the entire environment that had suddenly become very hostile to me.

I walked out, hurrying past them without another word. I heard Mrs. Davis calling from the kitchen, asking what the noise was about, but I was already out through the front door and no longer cared what transpired between them.

I wanted to go somewhere, anywhere was better than staying with them. I went straight to the bus station. It was a shabby, grey building that smelled like diesel fumes and desperation. I bought a ticket to the biggest city on the route map. Capital City, San Diego. A place where millions of people lived, and not one of them knew Oma Johnson.

I sat on the hard-plastic bench, waiting for the 11:00 PM Greyhound, but I had absolutely no plan. With little amount of money, no friends, and a baby growing inside me, the future was terrifying, but for the first time since I saw those two pink lines, I felt awake to the current reality of my life and was determined to face it.

The bus hissed to a stop in front of me, its doors opening like the maw of a giant beast. As I stepped up to board, a hand clamped down hard on my shoulder, spinning me around.

I impulsively whipped around, ready to swing my duffel bag as a weapon, only to discover that it was just the ticket inspector, a grumpy man with nicotine-stained fingers. "Your ticket girly, move it along," he said, stretching his hand.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I handed over the ticket to him and climbed onto the bus. I searched for a seat and finally sank into a window seat near the back, pulling my hood up.

The six-hour ride was pure misery for me. The bus rocked over every pothole, sending shockwaves through my sensitive stomach. I drifted in and out of disturbed sleep, dreaming of my father's angry face transforming into Christine's scornful one.

We arrived in the Capital City just as the dawn was breaking. It wasn't the beautiful sunrise you see in movies. It was grey light revealing grimy skyscrapers, wet streets, and an overwhelming sense of bigness.

As I stepped off the bus, I was hit by the noise. Honking horns, shouting vendors, the rumble of subway trains beneath the grille I stood on. It was a sensory overload, while I looked just like another piece of debris blowing down the walkway.

I walked aimlessly for hours, without knowing where I was going. One thing I knew was that I couldn't stop moving, or the reality of my situation would crush me. I was hungry, and my feet were blistering in my cheap sneakers.

By midday, I found myself in the financial district. The atmosphere was different, the sidewalks were cleaner, and the people walked faster and wore suits that cost more than my dad's car. Glass towers stretched up into the clouds, reflecting the cold sky.

I felt painfully conspicuous in my faded jeans and oversized hoodie. I paused near a sleek, black marble fountain outside a massive corporate high-rise, just to rest my feet for a second. I was dizzy because I hadn't eaten anything since yesterday's lunch at Tasha's house.

I closed my eyes, swaying slightly.

"Careful."

The voice was deep, smooth, and startlingly close.

I opened my eyes and jerked back, losing my balance completely, and stumbled right into a man exiting the building. I grasped at his arm like a lifeboat, to steady myself, my fingers digging into the immaculate, charcoal-grey wool suit fabric.

I looked up feeling embarrassed. The man was tall, easily six-foot-three, with sharp features and eyes the color of frozen espresso. He didn't look irritated, but looked intensely focused, analyzing me like a complex contract. He didn't pull away from my grip either. Instead, his other hand came up to steady my elbow with a firm grip.

"You're about to pass out," he stated, not as a question, but a fact.

I came into the city with three hundred dollars in my shoe and a heart that had turned to stone. I was lucky to have accommodation in a women's shelter. I spent most of my nights clutching my stomach and whispering apologies to the life growing inside me. I was determined to put my heartbreak and disgrace aside and focus on surviving at all costs.

I scrubbed my face, pulled my hair into a tight, professional bun, and walked into "The Heroine" restaurant-the fanciest restaurant in the city. I lied about my age, lied about my experience, and by a stroke of luck, the manager saw the desperation in my eyes and handed me an apron to start working as a waitress.

"You are welcome to the Heroine restaurant. Note that our customers' satisfaction is our top priority and no sluggishness or unruly behavior is allowed here," the manager warned.

It is understood sir, I appreciate your kindness and trust. I will do my best, and you have absolutely nothing to worry about. I assured him with a smile.

I worked like someone possessed, hiding my small bump under a loose-fitting vest. I was doing fine, and was somehow making it; until a Tuesday night in November, when I was returning from a grueling late shift job where I witnessed a high-end sports car veer off the road into a gutter. I forgot about my tiredness and frantically pulled the barely conscious driver, Richard Jones, from the wreckage just seconds before the car ignited. I disappeared before the corps arrived, not wanting to be robed into a public spectacle.

When Richard woke up in the hospital, he was haunted by the dim image of a familiar "chocolate-skinned angel" who saved him. He decided to use his resources and connections to track Oma down. He found her working at a high-end fancy restaurant, the Heroine restaurant, and decided to show up in disguise.

The revolving doors pushed open, and a man walked in who made the entire room go silent. He didn't just walk; he owned the air he breathed, and he was headed straight for her table.

"I'll have the 1945 Cabernet and your undivided attention," the man said, not even looking up from his phone as he sat down. I stood there, pen in hand and trembling over my notepad, because for the first time in months, I felt like a deer caught in a high-powered spotlight.

I couldn't recognize him, but I soon learned from the frantic whispers of the kitchen staff, that he was Richard Jones, the city's most feared corporate lawyer. A billionaire who dismantled companies for breakfast and never lost a case. He was devastatingly handsome in a way that felt dangerous, with a sharp jawline, eyes like flint, and a suit that probably cost a fortune.

The Cabernet is an exceptional choice, sir," I said with a professional smile of a waitress, my voice strangely steady despite the fluttering in her stomach. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn't place my finger on it.

He finally looked up, and his gaze didn't just skim over me; it lingered, sizing me up. It was a heavy, searching look that made me feel like he was reading the secrets written deep in my bone marrow. Then he finally stated, "You're new here."

"No, I've been here two months, sir," I responded.

"And yet, you're the first person in this building who hasn't stuttered while taking my orders. That's very impressive and I like it."

Thank you for the compliment, I said, looking down. Can I get your orders now sir? I asked, trying to look him in the eyes.

"Yeah, please do," he replied absentmindedly. He looked me over and watched me as I walked away while planning what to do next. At least he was glad to find the Angel who saved his life.

Over the next few weeks, Richard Jones became a fixture at table four. He always asked for me, and would ask me about the specials, but his eyes were constantly on my face. He tried to engage me in conversation. "Where are you from? What are your dreams?" he would ask. I gave him my name but tried to keep the wall high, not wanting to have anything to do with him.

I am a simple waitress while he was a titan, and most importantly, I am a secret carrying a secret. I thought to myself. What could possibly happen between me and a billionaire corporate lawyer? We are worlds apart. I said, dismissing any funny ideas that might be creeping into my head.

Richard started chasing me in the most sophisticated of ways. He would leave tips that were five times the bill. He once left a bouquet of lilies at the host stand with a note: 'For the girl who refuses to smile, for the unseen angel''

I knew what he was trying to do, but I didn't understand what he meant by "the unseen angel" and I was not interested in taking anything from him, not because I didn't need them but because I felt that there was no future between me and Richard. I would always give the money to the kitchen staff, and leave the flowers in the trash bin.

"You're being stubborn, Oma," he said one evening as I refilled his water. He caught my wrist just for a second. His skin was warm, and a jolt of electricity shot through me and I felt terrified. "A woman like you," he continued, "shouldn't be carrying heavy trays until midnight. Let me take you to dinner somewhere where someone else will serve you."

Thank you, Mr. Jones, but I'm here to work, not to be a conquest, I replied, pulling my arm away sharply. And I would appreciate it if you didn't harass me further, I murmured.

"I don't want a conquest," he said, his voice dropping to a low, sincere tone. "I want to know why you look like you're carrying the weight of the whole universe on those narrow shoulders of yours, and I want to know you better, Oma. How does that amount to harassment?"

I looked at him and turned briskly to walk away, but all of a sudden, I felt a sharp cramp in my abdomen. The world blurred, and the clinking of silverware and the low hum of jazz music began to fade into a dull roar. I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles white, I was on the brink of passing out.

"Oma?" Richard screamed, his voice sounding desperate. "You saved my life, I owe you."