Chapter 1My cousin owned a lottery shop. During the World Cup, she had me working weekends.
Ten AM to eleven PM. I was exhausted every single day.
Then I messed up. Entered the wrong numbers on a customer's ticket.
He lost two million.
My cousin looked at me and said,
"You fix this. But we're family. So half's on me. The rest is yours."
Like an idiot, I agreed.
Wiped out everything I had. Still short three hundred grand.
Worked myself sick trying to make it back. Couldn't afford a doctor.
Died young and broke.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day I made that mistake.
...
The shop printer beeped.
My phone lit up—text with a photo attached. Then a Venmo request for a hundred bucks.
I stared at that photo.
Last time, this ticket destroyed me.
Wrong numbers, they said. Customer lost two million. I paid the price.
But now, looking at it again—something didn't add up.
Date. Match. Score. I went through every number. Twice. Three times.
I hadn't messed it up.
"Yo, you printing that or what?"
Customer was getting impatient.
"Yeah, one sec."
Hands shaking, I punched in the numbers. Same ones as before.
Checked. Double-checked. Hit print.
I snapped a photo. Sent it back. "Here. Check it yourself."
Then I changed my mind. Typed in different numbers. Printed a second ticket.
Rang it up on my own card—charged myself a hundred.
Three PM. I'd been at this for five hours. Eight more to go until closing.
Usually I'd grab takeout, wolf it down between customers.
Print tickets, cash winners, keep the line moving.
Not this time.
I pulled out my phone. Texted my cousin Maeve: [Need you here. Emergency.]
Chapter 2
I waited. And waited.
Finally, Maeve texted back.
[I'm swamped right now. Just hold down the fort a little longer.]
[Besides, it's the weekend. What's so urgent for a single girl like you?]
I texted back: [Work. My boss needs me.]
She didn't buy it.
[Your boss is insane. Bothering you on a Saturday? Is he even paying overtime?]
[Tell him you've got a family emergency. Done.]
Same shit as last time.
I'd ditched work for her so many times, my boss started icing me out.
When promotions rolled around, I got fired instead.
Had to die to see it.
Not this time.
I grabbed my phone.
[Can't wait. Leaving in thirty. If you're not back, I'm locking up.]
[Oh—district manager just said they're doing a surprise inspection. Half an hour. Your problem now.]
Dropped the phone. Didn't read whatever she sent back.
Four o'clock. That was my deadline.
Thirty minutes passed. No Maeve. I grabbed my bag and keys, headed for the door.
Right as I turned the lock, I heard her.
"Wait! Don't lock it!"
A white sedan screeched up. Maeve jumped out, passenger side.
Full makeup. Roses in her arms.
She frowned at me, but someone was watching from the car, so she plastered on a smile. Voice dripping honey:
"Seriously? I ask you to cover for one day, and you bail? I had to drop everything and race back here."
I tossed her the keys. Looked past her at the car. Kept it casual.
"No choice. Anyway, weren't you at the hospital? Your kid okay? Fever gone?"
I looked her over, head to toe. Louder now:
"Wow, Maeve. All dressed up like that? Anyone would think you were on a date."
She shot a nervous glance at the car. Hissed at me: "You said you had to go. So GO."
I pointed at the sedan. Played innocent.
"Actually, I didn't bring my car. Is that your Uber? Hey, you heading toward Tech Boulevard? I'll throw in cash."
Maeve's eyes went wide. She shoved me toward the sidewalk.
"Stop—he's just a friend—go call your own damn ride."
I smiled.
Maeve. Thirty-three. Married ten years. Two kids.
Last time, every weekend she'd play the martyr. "Kids are sick. Gotta take them to the doctor."
I'd cover the shop, thinking she was drowning.
Her husband was always out of town. I figured she needed help.
Turns out I was funding her side life.
Her kids barely talked to her—always stuck to Grandma and Grandpa.
And once, while I was stuck at the shop, I saw her Instagram story.
Fancy brunch spot. Sunset view.
Some filtered-to-hell selfie where she looked like she didn't have a care in the world.
I liked it. Started to comment. Then it disappeared.
Guess my weekends paid for hers.
As I walked past the car, I glanced in.
Middle-aged guy behind the wheel. Sunglasses hiding his face.
Something about him looked familiar.
I left the shop. Went straight downtown.
Called my best friend. We hit this Korean BBQ place—stuffed ourselves stupid.
Then shopping. New clothes. Full spa treatment.
By Sunday night, I finally felt human again.
Chapter 3
Next morning, soon as I got to work, my phone buzzed.
Venmo notification. Two hundred dollars. Note said: [Weekend pay.]
Message from Maeve: [Thanks for covering. Accept the payment.]
And just like that, I knew. She'd played me last time too.
Last time, my mom got sick. I quit my job to take care of her, moved back home.
First thing Mom said? [Maeve's been so sweet to me. You should help her out.]
So when Maeve asked me to watch her shop, I jumped at it.
"Super easy," she'd said. "Customers come in, you print their tickets. That's all."
Yeah, right.
Open at ten. Sweep. Count the cash. Process the winners.
Already past noon by the time I caught my breath.
Shop was right on a main street, apartments everywhere.
Constant flow of walk-ins. Regulars texting orders all day long.
Trapped there open to close. Lived on delivery—eighty, ninety bucks a day just feeding myself.
I wasn't making money. I was bleeding it.
Maeve paid me once. Saw I didn't push for more. Never paid again.
Now here she was, suddenly sending two hundred with "weekend pay" spelled out.
Exact same play as before.
Creating a record. Making it look like I worked for her.
So when that "wrong ticket" went down, she could pin it on me.
I declined.
[Don't worry about it, Maeve. I was helping you out. Can't take money for that.]
She sent it again. Added a voice note this time.
"You have to take it! I can't let you work for free. I told you I'd pay you. If you don't accept, I'll feel too guilty to ask you again."
"Come on. Take it. Or I'm calling your mom."
Same exact script as last time. Back then, I caved. Took the money.
This time, I declined again.
[Maeve, seriously, I can't. I wanted to help. Wasn't looking to get paid.]
[But if we're keeping score now—I worked sixty-one weekends. That's 122 days. Nine holidays. Thirteen-hour shifts each time. Twenty an hour bare minimum. You owe me thirty-eight thousand, seven hundred forty.]
[Just saying lol ]
I hit send and waited for her response.
Nothing.
I figured she'd drop it, but ten minutes later, my phone lit up with a Venmo request for $38,740.
The memo said: [Full back pay.]
[Okay. NOW you have to take it.]
I accepted. Held my phone up, recorded a voice note.
"Oh wow, I was totally joking! But hey, if you insist… thanks!"
"Mm-hmm."
Her response came through flat and cold. I could practically see her face twisting on the other end.
Whatever. I'd gotten every dollar I earned.
Even if I knew the real fight was still coming.
