Chapter Two: Misfortune

2 weeks before…

Jolene sat beside me, her presence a small comfort in the face of the Dean's stern gaze. My lips throbbed, a dull ache that mirrored the turmoil in my gut. Cora's hand, swift and brutal, had found its mark more than once, leaving a burning trail across my skin.

The sting was a physical manifestation of the larger humiliation I felt. The Dean's office was a cold, sterile space, the air thick with unspoken judgment.

My earlier encounter with the university bully, a figure of arrogant power, still replayed in my mind – the sudden confrontation, the jarring impact, the way she'd blocked my path, her presence a looming threat. My failure to see her, my lapse in awareness, had led to this moment of reckoning, this uncomfortable sitting before authority. The shame burned hotter than any physical pain.

Cora was mid-bite into a burger, the greasy contents overflowing onto her already messy uniform. It was a picture of casual disregard, a stark contrast to the tense scene unfolding around Jolene. The collision was unavoidable, a clumsy stumble that sent a cascade of burger sauce splattering across Cora's shirt.

My immediate reaction was one of instinctive kindness; I pulled out my handkerchief, a small, almost pathetic attempt to mitigate the damage. The gesture, however, only served to make matters worse, spreading the sauce in a wider, more unsightly pattern. My heart pounded in my chest.

I'd drawn their attention, disrupting their bullying of Jolene, but at what cost? The shame was a heavy weight, a stark reminder of my own vulnerability. I couldn't bear the thought of Cora turning her wrath on me, of becoming another target in her cruel game. I wasn't like her – I wouldn't stoop to her level of pettiness and aggression.

The Dean's voice was sharp, accusatory. "Ms. Salcedo," she said, her tone leaving no room for misinterpretation, "your recent activities have come to my attention."

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. I knew exactly what she meant. The whispers had reached her – the whispers about my job at the bar.

It wasn't illegal, nothing scandalous, just a simple waitressing job. But the Dean, ever vigilant in upholding the university's pristine image, saw it as a potential blemish, a threat to the carefully constructed façade of propriety. Her words were a thinly veiled threat.

"I expect you to rectify this situation immediately," she continued, her gaze unwavering. "Find more suitable employment. This… association… is unacceptable." A surge of anger, of defiance, rose within me.

I wouldn't be bullied into abandoning my job, a job I needed to support myself. But the Dean's power was undeniable, her influence far-reaching.

A professor, her expression unreadable, entered the Dean's office, the quiet rustle of her clothing, a stark contrast to the tense silence that had settled over the room. The Dean, seemingly oblivious, remained engrossed in her phone, her attention completely absorbed by the glowing screen.

A brief, hushed conversation ensued between the professor and the Dean, their words muffled, their meaning obscured. Then, with a swift, almost conspiratorial gesture, the professor led Jolene out of the office, leaving me alone with the Dean. My unease intensified.

"Where is she going?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, a tremor of anxiety running through me. The Dean finally looked up, her gaze cold and assessing. There was no answer to my question, only a sharp command.

"Ms. Salcedo," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument, "sit down." The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air – my questions were unwelcome, my curiosity unwelcome.

I braced myself, anticipating a confrontation with the Dean, a reckoning for my earlier questioning. The silence punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall. Then, the door swung open again, interrupting the charged atmosphere.

A middle-aged woman, her face etched with fury, entered the room. Her eyes, sharp and unforgiving, instantly locked onto mine. There was no mistaking the intensity of her gaze; it was a laser beam of anger, focused, and unwavering. She didn't speak immediately, her silence more menacing than any words.

Then, her voice, sharp and brittle, cut through the silence. "Is that her?" she demanded, her words a clear accusation.

The Dean, her face pale and strained, slowly nodded her head, a silent confirmation that sent a cold wave of dread washing over me.

The attack was sudden, brutal, and unexpected. One moment, I was facing the furious woman. The next, her hands were tearing at my uniform, ripping buttons from their moorings. My shirt gaped open, leaving me exposed, vulnerable.

I instinctively raised my arms to shield myself from her sharp nails, her furious scratches raking across my skin. Panic seized me. Who was this woman? Why was she attacking me with such savage intensity? Then, her words, laced with venom, pierced the chaos.

"Why did you hurt my daughter?" she snarled, her nails digging deeper into my flesh. "My daughter!"

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. Cora. This was Cora's mother. The woman's next words were even more shocking.

"You slut! I heard you're working at a bar!" she shrieked, her voice filled with a mixture of rage and disgust. The accusation was unexpected, jarring. How did she know? How could she possibly know about my job?

The pain was intense, a searing burn across my skin, but I couldn't fight back. My body screamed in protest, but my mind was locked in a battle of its own.

The humiliation, the injustice of the situation, was a heavy weight, pressing down on me. I knew I couldn't retaliate. This wasn't just a random attack; this was a woman wielding power, a woman whose influence extended far beyond this room.

The chilling realization settled over me like a shroud: Cora's mother was one of the university's shareholders, a woman with the power to destroy my life. Any resistance, any show of defiance, would only invite further retribution. I was trapped, helpless, forced to endure the pain, to swallow my anger and humiliation.

"Stop it!" The sharp command cut through the air, a lifeline in the midst of the chaos. Professor Mendoza's voice, familiar and reassuring, brought a surge of hope.

I looked up, my heart filled with gratitude. She was standing there, her expression resolute, her gaze fixed on Cora's mother.

"This is assault," Professor Mendoza stated, her voice clear and strong, "and it's against the law, Dean."

The Dean, her face a mask of annoyance, snapped back, "Professor Mendoza, I suggest you do not interfere in this matter."

But Professor Mendoza stood her ground, her defiance unwavering. "I will not stand by and watch this happen," she declared, her voice ringing with conviction.

Cora's mother, her fury momentarily checked, glared at Professor Mendoza before turning her attention back to me. "You'll pay for this," she hissed, her voice dripping with menace.

Then, with a final, disdainful glance, she adjusted her hair and swept out of the office, leaving behind a trail of tension and uncertainty.

Professor Mendoza's eyes, filled with concern, met mine. With a swift, almost instinctive movement, she removed her blazer and draped it over my shoulders, offering a small measure of comfort and concealment.

The pain was pervasive, a dull ache that permeated my entire body, a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil within. Yet, strangely, I couldn't cry. Tears wouldn't come, leaving me in a state of numb shock.

The Dean's phone rang, its shrill tone cutting through the silence. After a brief, hushed conversation, she looked at me, her expression shifting from annoyance to something akin to dismay. The weight of her gaze was heavy, a silent acknowledgment of the injustice of the situation.

I hadn't started the fight; Cora had. Her shove, the jarring impact as I hit the ground, the fear of her renewed attack – it all played back in my mind, a stark reminder of the helplessness I'd felt.

The Dean's words hit me like a physical blow, a crushing weight that stole the air from my lungs.

"I'm afraid I have some unpleasant news, Ms. Salcedo," she said, her tone devoid of empathy. "Your scholarship has been revoked." A sentence of doom. My world tilted, the floor seeming to disappear beneath my feet. Had I misheard? Was this some cruel joke?

Professor Mendoza's voice, sharp and indignant, cut through my despair. "You can't do that, Dean," she protested, her words a lifeline in the midst of my turmoil.

The Dean's attention snapped to Professor Mendoza, her eyes blazing with anger. "If you continue to interfere, Professor," she warned, her voice dangerously low, "I will see to it that you are removed from this institution."

A wave of panic washed over me. I couldn't let Professor Mendoza sacrifice her career for me. I reached out, my hand gripping her arm, a silent plea to stop, to let this go.

My gaze locked with the Dean's, a silent plea for understanding, for justice. I needed to clear my name, to set the record straight.

"Ms. Dean," I began, my voice trembling slightly with a mixture of anger and frustration, "I didn't start that fight. Cora—" My words were abruptly cut short.

The Dean's hand slammed onto the table with a resounding thud, the sharp, percussive sound silencing me completely. The gesture was dismissive, abrupt, a clear indication that my explanation was unwelcome, my defense irrelevant.

The Dean's voice, sharp and dismissive, cut through the air like a whip. "I have no time for your excuses, Ms. Salcedo," she barked. "Leave. Now."

The words were a dismissal, a rejection, a final silencing. I nodded, my head bowed, my spirit crushed.

As I walked away, the weight of injustice pressed down on me, a heavy cloak of despair. Outside the Dean's office, the reality of what had happened washed over me in full force. The betrayal, the unfairness, the sheer helplessness of it all – it was overwhelming.

Professor Mendoza's voice, soft and concerned, reached me. "Sol," she said, her hand gently resting on my shoulder, "I'm so sorry." Her words were kind, meant to comfort, but they only served to amplify my feelings of guilt. All of this had happened because of me.

My future, once bright with promise, now lay in ruins. The scholarship, my lifeline, was gone. The weight of financial insecurity pressed down on me, a crushing burden. How would I continue my education? More pressing, how would I afford my mother's medication?

The thought sent a fresh wave of despair washing over me. I closed my eyes, trying to regain my composure, to find a sliver of strength amidst the overwhelming sense of loss.

Then, the insistent ringing of my phone sliced through the quiet. It was Sanguine. Relief washed over me, a sudden, unexpected calm in the storm. I answered immediately. He was my brother, my mother's caretaker, and in this moment of crisis, his call was a lifeline.

"Guin," I said, my voice tight with concern, "what's wrong?" But all I heard on the other end of the line was his ragged breathing, shallow and strained, each inhale a gasp.

Panic began to tighten its grip on my chest. "Guin, answer me!" I urged, my voice rising in alarm.

Then, another voice, a woman's voice, sharp and agitated, cut through the silence. It was Gaile. Their voices, tense and strained, were a confusing jumble of accusations and recriminations. Then, silence.

Gaile's voice, choked with tears, replaced the earlier bickering. "Sol," she whispered, her voice trembling, "you need to come here. Mom… Mom is gone."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unbelievable. "Wait," I stammered, my mind struggling to grasp the enormity of what she was saying. "What do you mean, gone?"

Gaile's voice cracked, the fragile composure shattering into a torrent of grief. "Mom's gone, Sol! She's gone!”

The strength drained from my body, leaving me weak and trembling. My knees buckled, and I sank to the ground, the cold pavement a stark contrast to the burning tears streaming down my face.

My hands instinctively flew to my chest, clutching at my ribs as if to hold back the shattering grief that threatened to consume me.

"No," I whispered, the word a broken sob, a desperate denial of the terrible truth. "No, no, no…"

The words repeated themselves, a mantra of disbelief and despair.

Professor Mendoza's voice, soft and concerned, cut through the fog of my grief. "Sol," she said gently, "are you alright?" But I couldn't answer.

The words were caught in my throat, choked by the rising tide of sorrow. Not my mother. Please, not my mother.