Their little princess

The shrill blare of an alarm clock shattered the silence of the early morning, slicing through the warmth of Isabella Monroe's cozy dreams like a vengeful blade. The digital device screeched on the nightstand beside her modest twin-sized bed, screaming a cold reminder that rest was a luxury she couldn't afford.

Isabella groaned, pulling the thin, floral-printed blanket over her head as if that could drown out the sound. It was a losing battle. The alarm, persistent and merciless, blared on; an unrelenting enemy in the war against sleep. She smacked at the clock blindly, her hand fumbling through a stack of scattered notebooks, half-read textbooks, and a crusted-over cup of coffee from the night before.

"Ugh," she muttered into her pillow, voice muffled. "Traitor."

Finally surrendering to the inevitable, she shoved off the blanket and sat up, blinking into the sunlight streaming through the cracked blinds.

Her heart dropped when her eyes landed on the blinking red digits: 10:03 AM. Her breath caught. Her chest tightened.

"Oh no."

Panic slammed into her like a freight train. She had a test. A very important, unscheduled, grade-determining test. At 11:00 AM.

She launched herself out of bed, her socked feet slipping on the hardwood floor as she dashed toward the tiny bathroom that barely had space for a standing shower and a cracked sink. As she peeled off her oversized t-shirt-an old one from high school that had long lost its print (although she didn't like some of the memories from high school)-she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her dark curls were matted on one side of her head like a bird's nest, and her eyes, deep brown and wide with anxiety, were shadowed by exhaustion.

"Ava," she growled under her breath. "You were supposed to wake me up, traitor."

Her roommate had vanished sometime before dawn, no doubt already halfway through her schedule for the day, leaving Isabella to face the chaos alone. The two girls usually looked out for each other, but Ava's morning silence felt like betrayal today. Isabella mentally marked a note to give her hell when she returned. Friendly hell, of course.

She jumped into the shower, letting the lukewarm water blast away the last remnants of sleep. Soap, rinse, scrub, repeat-her motions were fast and frantic. After ten rushed minutes, she was out, toweling herself dry with a towel that smelled faintly of lavender and last week's laundry detergent. She grabbed the cleanest outfit she could find from the small pile on her desk chair-a pair of black high-waisted jeans and a pale blue blouse with a tiny coffee stain near the hem-and threw them on. A bit wrinkled, sure, but passable.

She tugged on her sneakers, shoved her damp curls into a loose bun, and snatched her backpack from the floor. Just before she rushed out the door, she caught sight of the battered notebook she used as a planner. Her heart stilled for a beat.

The to-do list.

Of course.

She flipped it open quickly, eyes scanning the carefully divided sections-More Important, and Less Important-the way a soldier checks battle plans before heading into the field. In neat, slightly faded ink, today's schedule read:

Test by 11:00 AM

Resume at Frisher's Lounge and Bar by 2:00 PM

Meet with thesis lecturer by 3:30 PM

Interview at Anne's Restaurant by 5:00 PM

She sighed. It was going to be a long day.

Her finger paused on the second item: "Frisher's Lounge and Bar". A tiny flicker of warmth danced in her chest. The job wasn't just a job-it was the job. The one she needed. The one she'd been praying for. Frisher's wasn't like the usual cheap diners or rundown cafes she'd waitressed in before. It was sleek, upscale, alive with the hum of jazz music and glittering lights. The interior was a blend of moody sophistication and modern luxury-polished mahogany bar tops, velvet lounge chairs, and hanging Edison bulbs that cast a golden glow over everything. It wasn't just a bar; it was a mood.

And tonight at 7:00 PM, she'd be officially starting there.

Her first proper shift.

She would resumed there first though by 2PM, just to get everything settled and get familiar with everything before her official resumption by 7pm, although she'd suggested she'd do everything when she resumed by 7pm. She'd resume earlier just to get familiar with things before she resume at the official time.

But she was told it was the time the manager would be around and it would be a good thing if she'd do all she needed to do first when the manager is around. She's free to do all other things and even starts her official resumption. Let's say it's just the routine at Frisher's. And she readied herself. It wasn't what she can't handle.

She smiled faintly despite the panic rushing through her veins.

Working as a waitress wasn't glamorous, but it was familiar. Comforting, even. Ever since she got into university, she'd juggled multiple jobs to keep herself afloat. Orphaned at twelve, she'd been taken in by a kind but modest family who did their best to provide for her after adopting her. They couldn't afford luxuries, but they gave her love-and she learned to survive on gratitude and hard work.

Thanks to her full scholarship, she didn't need to worry about tuition. But life came with other bills-textbooks, groceries, rent-and Isabella had learned early on that independence meant sacrifice. She didn't mind the late nights or early shifts. She was built for this.

Her last job, a quiet gig at a 24-hour library café near campus, had served her well for the past year. She worked evening shifts-6:00 PM to 10:00 PM, Monday to Friday-pouring coffee for students and occasionally sneaking in a few pages of her own thesis work when traffic slowed. It was peaceful and manageable.

But all that changed when Cindy got sick.

Cindy Monroe-Isabella's 27-year-old stepsister-had always been more like a best friend. They'd shared bunk beds, secrets, and leftover Halloween candy as kids. A few months ago, Cindy had been diagnosed with gallstones. Not fatal, thank God, but painful. And surgery was the only solution. Unfortunately, it wasn't cheap.

The cost sent a ripple through Isabella's life. Her savings were already thin, and with her finals looming, the pressure mounted. She'd given notice at the library café and started hunting for something more rewarding.

That was when fate-kind, fleeting fate-led her to Frisher's.

The interview had been unexpectedly smooth. Although she had met the owner of the lounge itself when she'd gone to inquire of a vacancy, she met the manager when she was to take the interview.

The manager, a woman in her forties with sharp eyeliner and a velvet voice, liked her immediately. Isabella's resume might've lacked shine, but her experience and charm made up for it. "You've got a presence," the manager had said. "That's what we need."

And just like that, Isabella had landed the job.

Still, she wasn't taking any chances.

Anne's Restaurant had popped up on her radar during her job hunt. Though less glamorous than Frisher's, Anne's had a rustic charm to it-light oak tables, warm yellow lighting, and a menu specializing in elegantly plated home-style meals.

Their baked rosemary chicken was apparently the stuff of legend, and they catered to a clientele that appreciated comfort over flash. The pay obviously wouldn't be as high as Frisher's but it was closer to where she stays and since it would be steady, she'd make do with that. It was just a plan B though: if Frisher's didn't work out, Anne's was her backup.

Which brought her back to her chaotic day.

Test. Shift. Lecturer. Interview.

She exhaled sharply and checked the time. 10:18 AM.

She had to move.

---

She bolted out of the apartment, backpack slung over one shoulder, phone clutched tightly in hand. Her heart pounded like a war drum as she raced down the narrow flight of stairs, taking them two at a time. Outside, the city had already come alive-cars honked impatiently, the scent of street food wafted from nearby stalls, and people bustled past, glued to their own timelines. But Isabella barely noticed. All she could think of was getting to campus before the test began.

She caught the next bus by the skin of her teeth, hopping on just as the doors began to close. The driver gave her a half-annoyed glance, but said nothing. She took the nearest seat and pulled out her notes, scanning bullet points she hoped would magically etch themselves into her memory in the next few minutes.

"Photosynthesis... Calvin cycle... Mitochondrial DNA..." she mumbled to herself.

Her mind raced, barely able to focus. But she tried. She had no choice.

Twenty minutes later, she was on campus, breathless and sweating. She sprinted across the courtyard, dodging students and benches with a determination that could rival Olympic athletes. She burst into the lecture hall with two minutes to spare. Her professor gave her a look that hovered between disapproval and amusement, but said nothing. Isabella took a seat, yanked a pen from her bag, and tried to steady her trembling hands.

The test was hard. Harder than she anticipated. But she didn't let herself panic, she was hard herself, and the paper's hardness isn't what she cannot handle. One question at a time. She attacked the paper with controlled urgency, her brows furrowed and jaw clenched. There wasn't time to second-guess herself. She just had to finish.

By the time she turned in her sheet, her legs were shaking. But she didn't stop. There was no time to savor the small victory. Her next stop was to make herself available at Frisher's Lounge.

She left the hall with a strange mix of anxiety and relief swimming in her stomach. On the way out, she pulled her phone from her bag and checked the time. 1:14 PM. That gave her just under an hour to get to the lounge, change into the uniform they provided, and officially begin the job that could potentially change everything for her.

She rushed home, barely stopping to breathe. Ava still wasn't back. Isabella changed into a pair of sleek black pants and a fitted white blouse-Frisher's signature uniform. She tied her hair up into a neat ponytail, smoothed down the collar of her shirt, and gave herself a final glance in the mirror.

"You've got this," she whispered.

Frisher's Lounge and Bar was everything she had imagined it to be-and more. Nestled between a high-rise apartment complex and a luxury boutique, the lounge exuded elegance. Inside, warm golden lighting bathed the room in a soft glow. Crystal glasses clinked in rhythm with mellow jazz music that flowed from a live band in the corner. The bar gleamed under the ambient light, lined with liquor bottles arranged like artwork. The lounge chairs were deep and plush, in a rich velvet burgundy, and the clientele was exactly the type she'd expected-wealthy professionals, quiet romantics, and well-dressed elites sipping handcrafted cocktails and whispering over candlelit tables.

The manager greeted her at the employee entrance with a brief nod. "You're early. Good."

Isabella's first hour passed in a blur of polite greetings, balancing trays of drinks, memorizing table placements, and absorbing the quiet rhythm of the place. Her movements were precise. Calculated. She smiled through the ache in her feet and the knot forming in her back. She knew better than to show discomfort. Appearance mattered here.

By 2:45 PM, she'd completed the brief orientation and was dismissed until her evening shift at 7:00 PM.

She barely made it to the university by 3:30 PM for her meeting with her thesis lecturer, a notoriously strict woman named Dr. Henderson who believed in punctuality the way most believed in gravity. The meeting was tense but productive. Isabella took notes furiously, nodding, listening, asking questions. She left the office at 4:35 PM, exhausted but satisfied. Then, she checked her phone again.

Time for Anne's Restaurant.

She hailed a cab using a ride-share app and slid into the backseat, giving the driver the address with a voice tinged in urgency. As the car sped through the city, she stared out the window, watching the blur of trees, pedestrians, and traffic lights.

Anne's Restaurant was located in a quieter part of the city. More suburban than metropolitan. It wasn't flashy, but there was something inviting about it. The exterior was painted a creamy beige with green shutters, and hanging plants trailed down from flower boxes by the windows. Inside, the place smelled like rosemary and fresh bread. The floors were wooden and worn, the lighting soft and inviting. There were framed photos on the walls-black-and-white shots of the city from decades past-and gentle music played in the background.

The menu was small, curated. They specialized in rich, home-style meals with a twist. Herb-encrusted lamb chops. Truffle mac and cheese. Grilled sea bass with a citrus glaze. Nothing extravagant, but every dish sounded like something out of a food critic's blog.