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."

I struggled to turn again as I heard the words "I owe you." The sharp pain in my stomach worsened and the last thing I saw before the darkness completely swallowed me was Richard Jones's composed billionaire mask shattering into a look of pure unadulterated terror. He was lunging across the table for me while his glass of expensive wine shattered on the floor, completely forgotten.

When I got around, the wall was white and smelled of antiseptic. The steady beep... beep... beep of a heart monitor was the only sound in the room. I tried to sit up but a hand firmly but gently pressed against my shoulder to put me down on the hospital bed.

"Hey! Take it easy," Richard said. He was sitting in a plastic chair by the bed, his tie loosened, his hair disheveled, and he looked more human than I had seen him. "The doctors said you're suffering from extreme exhaustion and dehydration," he explained.

"I need to go back to work, I rasped with a rising panic. If I miss a shift, I lose the job and if I lose the job....." I couldn't complete the remaining sentence. I looked desperately around the hospital room like I was searching for an exit.

"That is not a problem, I've already spoken to the manager and your job is very safe. In fact, you're on paid leave," he said. I knew that 'paid leave' meant he had written a check that could buy the whole restaurant and cover my pay for as long as it could.

"I don't want your charity, Richard," I snapped using his first name for the first time.

"It's not charity but a necessity. You have been working twenty-hour double shifts, Oma. Why? What are you running away from so fast that you're willing to kill yourself to stay ahead of it?" he asked, his eyes squinted and his brow squeezed.

I looked away, staring at the intravenous drip, but I couldn't tell him. How could I tell this man, this powerful and perfect man, that I was the "disgraced" girl? That I was a high school graduate with no friends, no family, and a baby fathered by a ghost.

"I just need to take care of myself," I whispered a response.

"You're doing a poor job of it, don't you think?" he countered. He leaned closer, his dark eyes searching for mine: "I've spent my life reading people, Oma. You have the integrity of someone ten times your age, but you are living like a fugitive. Let me help you, just one dinner with no strings attached. Let me be a friend. You saved me from an accident that would have probably ended my life and I owe you."

For a moment I almost gave in. I wanted so much to lean into him and tell him everything, but then I remembered my father's face. I remembered Tasha's laughter and I concluded that men like Richard Jones didn't want friends like me. They wanted puzzles to solve and once the puzzle was finished, they moved on.

"I can't," I finally said, my voice breaking. "Anybody could have done what I did, given the circumstances. Please just leave me alone. I didn't know you when I saved you, but it's fine. I'm glad you are alive."

He stood up, looking hurt but resolute. "I'll leave for now, but I'm not giving up on you Oma Johnson."

He walked out of the room, leaving a heavy silence behind. Seconds later, a doctor walked in flipping through a clipboard. "Ah, Miss Johnson, you're awake. That is very good, we've stabilized your fluids, but we need to discuss the ultrasound. With the stress your body is currently going through, the pregnancy is at a high risk."

I didn't notice that the door hadn't fully closed. I didn't see Richard standing in the hallway, his hand still on the doorknob, freezing as the doctor's words echoed into the corridor.

The doctor's words hung in the air like a guillotine. "High-risk," my heart plummeted as I took in the words. But the real shadow fell across the room when the door swung wide open again, and Richard Jones stepped back inside, his face as pale as the hospital sheets.

"Pregnancy?" Richard asked, his voice just above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a thunderclap.

The doctor looked from me to Richard, obviously confused. "I am so sorry, I assumed the father knew..." he said.

"He's not the father," I blurted out, the shame I had been hiding for months finally boiling over. I pulled the thin hospital blanket up to my chin, desperately wishing I could disappear into the mattress. "He's... he's just a customer from the restaurant where I work. He was already leaving," I concluded, looking away.

The doctor, sensing the sudden atmospheric shift, cleared his throat. "Alright, I'll give you two a moment." He scurried out, closing the door firmly this time.

Richard didn't move. Rather, he stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed on my stomach, as if he could see through the layers of fabric. "How far along are you Oma?"

"Four months," I answered impulsively.

"And the father?"

"There is no father," I said, my voice hardening and gaining strength. "There's just me, and I'm going to be fine. I don't need a billionaire lawyer to swoop in and fix a situation he doesn't know anything about. Please go away," I grumbled.

Richard walked toward me, but he didn't stop at the chair. He sat on the edge of the bed and forced me to look at him. "Oma, now I can see; this is why you've been working yourself to death? This is why you won't let anyone in?" he asked with concern in his tone.

"My father threw me out," I confessed, the words finally tumbling out in a broken rush. "My best friend and my boyfriend... they set me up. It was a joke, a prank on them, to see if I'd keep my integrity. They drugged me, Richard, and I don't even know his name. My father told me never to come home until I found him. So, you see? There is no happy ending here. I'm just a girl who was a punchline to a joke."

I expected him to look disgusted, expected him to leave, but instead, his jaw tightened, and a terrifyingly cold anger settled into his features, but it wasn't aimed at me.

"A prank," he repeated, his voice vibrating with a predatory edge. "They violated you, took your home, and left you on the street to starve to death for a joke?"

"It doesn't matter now," I choked as all the unshed tears rushed down like a broken tap. I didn't try to stop it, there was no need to as I felt so exposed and naked that nothing made a difference again at the moment.

"It matters to me," Richard said. He took my hand and this time, he didn't let go. He leaned in until our foreheads were almost touched. "I have spent my career protecting people who don't deserve it Oma. For the first time, I want to protect someone who does. You aren't going back to that restaurant, and you aren't going back to that shelter."

"What are you saying?" I asked, my heart hammering in my chest.

"I am saying that a woman who instinctively saved my life cannot be under this condition and I would do nothing. I owe you my life, and you need to tell me how to pay you back.

I kept quiet and thought for a while. "The only reward I need from you is to leave me alone, Mr. Jones." I said finally.

"Richard's face dropped. "Really, Oma? But I'll have you know that it's not an option."