Chapter 8
I washed Quinn’s silk dress.
But I ruined it.
On purpose.
Dad hit me again, and at Quinn’s instigation, he imposed “economic sanctions” on me.
The most direct impact was that Dad stopped giving me spending money.
Fortunately, Mom’s breakfast stand got up and running, and just as I’d imagined, Mom’s cooking skills meant good business.
Mom never asked if I’d eaten breakfast-every day when I passed by, she’d stuff a taco into my hands, along with milk.
She barely had time to say two words to me before she had to rush back to her stall.
The so-called “stall” was just a table and a stool. I had no idea how she managed to haul all that stuff there by herself.
I had no money for food, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask Mom for money.
I knew that once I asked, she’d fight tooth and nail to get me back.
But I never wanted to be her burden again.
I didn’t want her to have to grovel to others just to support me, only to die young again.
Now, without the pressure of supporting me, she didn’t need to work three jobs a day like in my past life.
But I was really hungry.
Maybe it was because this body was still growing-I had zero tolerance for hunger.
At lunchtime, while other students ate their delicious meals, I could only keep filling my stomach with water.
“Sienna, aren’t you eating lunch?” my desk partner Charlotte asked curiously.
I kept my eyes on my book. “I’m not hungry yet.”
“I bought an extra potato pancake tonight and I’m too full to finish it. Want it?”
My eyes lit up with hunger, and I grabbed the potato pancake from Charlotte’s hand, wolfing it down in two or three bites.
My fierce speed stunned Charlotte. She hesitantly held out the half-eaten potato pancake in her other hand: “If you don’t mind…”
I took it directly and ate it, showing through my actions that I didn’t mind.
Charlotte pouted-she’d only been being polite.
One and a half potato pancakes only filled me about ten percent, and I realized starving like this wasn’t sustainable. I grinned at Charlotte somewhat lecherously: “Charlotte, I need a favor.”
My earlier ravenous display had genuinely scared Charlotte.
She shuddered and refused bluntly: “I don’t have money…”
Two voices spoke simultaneously.
Me: “It’s not about money.”
Dante: “I have money.”
I squinted at Dante and said reluctantly: “It’s not about money. If Charlotte won’t help, I guess you could.”
Borrowing money could only solve the immediate problem. I could still tell the difference between one full meal and regular full meals.
Charlotte raised her hand then: “Sienna, I can help!”
Fine, the more help the better.
A
