Chapter 1

The Last Wake-Up Call

Latifa woke up lying half-naked on a worn couch in a strange house. The rough fabric scratched her skin, and somewhere nearby, floorboards creaked softly. Her head throbbed. She tried to piece together how she'd gotten here, but her mind stubbornly refused to cooperate. Bits and fragments floated up—dancing on stage, bright lights blurring into a haze, agreeing to drinks with one of the regulars. After that, everything went black.

A heavy, sour scent clung to her skin and clothes—old beer, stale smoke, sweat. It coated her like a second skin, making her shiver despite the warmth of the room. Shame hit first—thick, sticky, and silent. She curled in on herself slightly, arms wrapped around her ribs as if that could keep everything inside. How many times had she sworn she wouldn't end up like this again? How many mornings had started with panic and ended with a silent vow to change? And yet here she was. Again. Her fingers brushed the couch fabric like it could ground her, but it didn't. It just made her feel more lost.

Slowly, she sat up, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. Three others lay sprawled on the floor, half-dressed, passed out, breathing heavily. A sinking feeling twisted in her gut. Had she put on a private show? She fumbled for her shorts and went through her pockets. Nothing. No money. If she'd performed, it hadn't been for pay.

Her bra was missing. One shoe was gone. Her body ached as if she'd been jumped in a back alley—sore in places that made her wince. But when she scanned herself, there were no marks. No bruises, no cuts, no blood. Just a heavy, throbbing pain running through her muscles.

This was the part of her life she hated most. Yet somehow, she knew the pattern all too well: clawing her way up for a few weeks, only to crash back down to rock bottom—like a yo-yo caught in a relentless, cruel cycle.

Careful not to wake the strangers, she tiptoed toward the door, holding her breath as she twisted the handle. She often wondered how she'd survived this long. If she ever disappeared—really disappeared—no one would know where to look. Half the time, she didn't even know where she was.

She dressed with what she could find, shorts too tight and too short, a loose tank top she found, nothing else, not even her other shoe.

Outside, crooked cement steps led to a yard that looked like a junkyard had been abandoned, with no one caring to clean it. Overgrown grass tangled with weeds as tall as her knees. Rusted-out cars sat scattered like grotesque lawn ornaments—windows busted, tires flattened, doors hanging open like gaping mouths. Broken lawn chairs, beer cans, and busted appliances littered the place. The place looked like it had once tried to be a home, but had given up—a forgotten skeleton of someone's better days. The cars were husks. The weeds seemed to be winning a war. One lawn chair still faced the road like someone had waited there for something better and never got it. This place wasn't just trash. It was a graveyard of choices—wrong turns piled up and rusted. She felt like she belonged here. Like if she stood still too long, someone might prop her up next to the broken fridge and forget her, too. Somewhere, something smelled like mould and dead things.

She glanced back at the old green-and-white mobile home listing slightly to one side. Its siding was faded and streaked with grime, one cracked window hanging loose like a tired flag. "Where the hell am I?" she muttered.

The dirt road stretched both ways—just trees, gravel, and emptiness. The sharp, sour scent of cow manure drifted on the wind, sticking to Latifa's already foul skin. "Damn it... I'm gonna smell like sour beer and cow shit," she grumbled.

She hadn't noticed how long she'd been walking—twenty, maybe thirty minutes—and hadn't seen a single car. A few run-down houses dotted the distance, but otherwise, just the buzz of flies and the slap of her bare foot against gravel.

"Am I even still in Ontario?" she snapped aloud, half expecting an answer.

Wouldn't be the first time she'd started somewhere and woke up God knows where. Once, she'd begun partying in Toronto and woke up naked on a fire escape in Montreal. She swore it wouldn't happen again. And yet, here she was.

But this morning felt different. Despite the ache, the stink, the missing pieces—something flickered inside her chest. A spark. A whisper. Maybe… maybe this time she could get out.

She staggered down the road until she saw it—a plain country church sitting at the crossroads like a bad joke. Peeling white paint, a crooked sign read, 'United in Faith.'

She squinted. "Crossroads. Of course. Heard plenty about the devil meeting folks at crossroads to cut deals... but never God." She snorted bitterly. "Hell, maybe I'm in the Bible Belt or somethin'."

The thought of stepping inside made her laugh dryly. If she did, lightning would probably strike her dead. But her feet moved anyway, dragging her up chipped cement steps until her hand rested on the cold brass handle. It was silent except for the faint cough or rustle coming from inside.

She pushed the door open.

Inside smelled of old wood, hymn books, and something faintly sweet—candles or cheap perfume. The church wasn't big. Maybe twenty pews. A plain wooden cross hung behind the pulpit.

She slid into the back row, hoping to go unnoticed. No luck. Every head turned.

The looks hit her like slaps—curious, cold, hungry. She knew them well—the kind where men undress you with their eyes, and wives elbow their husbands, shooting daggers and whispering behind stiff hands.

Tramp. Harlot. Whore.

No need to hear it. She'd heard it a thousand times.

At the front, a tall, thin preacher stood, a scar tugging one corner of his mouth sideways when he talked. His voice was worn, frayed at the edges like threadbare jeans.

"Now... I ain't gonna stand up here and blow smoke. Forgiveness ain't easy. Not for the folks you hurt. And sure as hell not for yourself."

His words hit harder than they should.

Latifa folded her arms, sinking lower into the pew. Yeah. No shit.

"I spent years trying to drown the guilt. Bottom of a bottle. Back alley deals. Runnin' wild thinkin' the law couldn't catch me... and God wouldn't bother. But lemme tell ya—can't outrun either one."

She scowled. Preach to someone else, old man. But she tightened her arms around herself anyway.

"You wake up one day wonderin' when the hell it all went sideways. You start believin' the lie. That you're too far gone. That you're not worth savin'. That's the devil talkin', right there."

Her throat tightened. Fingers dug into her arms. She remembered being ten, sitting in the back pew of another church just like this. Her mother had been high, makeup smeared, whispering not to make noise. Latifa had wanted to believe what the preacher said then, too—that love could fix things. But nobody loved a kid who smelled like pee and desperation. She shoved the memory down, but the lump in her throat stayed. Maybe it always would. Maybe believing this man would be another cruel joke life played on her. But for the first time, her feet didn't move. She didn't run.

"Some of y'all sittin' here figurin' church ain't for you. Maybe you still smell like the bar from last night..."

Her breath hitched. For a moment, her wall cracked. Hands flew to her sticky hair, the stale stink of beer clinging like proof. That ain't aimed at me... is it?

"...Maybe the folks around you already decided who you are. Trash. Drunk. Junkie. Harlot..."

The words stabbed. Yeah... yeah, they did. Maybe she did too.

She wanted to run. Wanted to bolt. But her legs wouldn't move. She sat frozen, shaking her head, whispering, "This ain't for me. This ain't for me..."

But that damn voice kept drilling in.

"But lemme tell ya... the minute you hand it over to the Lord, He don't call you that no more. He calls you somethin' else. Forgiven. Redeemed. Loved."

Loved.

Her throat clenched. That word hurt worse than anything. Ain't nobody ever called her that. Not for real.

"Ain't nobody too lost. Ain't nobody too broken. And if you don't believe it... Look at me. I'm standing proof. God ain't done with you yet."

Latifa pressed a fist to her mouth, biting her knuckle to stop the rising lump in her throat.

God ain't done with me...

She didn't believe it. Not yet. But for the first time in a long time... she wanted to.

As the sermon ended, she sat frozen, watching the congregation file out like soldiers marching back into the world, armed with righteousness and a sense of purpose. Some left heads held high. Others glanced back sideways, tight-lipped, pretending not to stare but failing miserably.

She felt every look. Heavy. Sharp. A silent verdict without words. Their eyes said it all: Not welcome. Not one of us. Not clean enough.

She sank lower into the hard wooden pew, wishing she could melt into it and disappear.

Then a gruff voice broke the silence after the preacher's final Amen.

"Hey... miss. Stay a minute."

Her head snapped up. This voice wasn't judgmental. It didn't carry shame.

It sounded... real.

She straightened, jaw tightening. "Look, I'm not tryin' to cause trouble. I just needed somewhere to sit, so I came in. I know my kind ain't welcome here."

The man chuckled—low and rough, like gravel under boots.

"If your kind ain't welcome here... then why the hell did we build it?"

She froze, mouth opening but no words coming out.

This wasn't the preacher she expected. The last time she tried finding God, they shoved her out—told her her clothes weren't right for a house of the Lord. Black lace panties under a mini skirt broke some unwritten dress code somewhere between Leviticus and the church bulletin.

She folded her arms tight across her chest. "Could've fooled me. The way folks were staring... feels like this place was built for respectable people."

The preacher leaned on the pulpit edge, arms crossed, one boot hooked over the other. The scar on his cheek twisted when he smiled.

"Yeah... they do that. Folks forget Jesus did some of His best work with drunkards, thieves, hookers... and stubborn women who don't take crap from nobody."

Latifa blinked, unsure if she should be insulted or something else.

She snapped, "I ain't a hooker."

That word hit harder than she meant. Lately, it scared her more than anything. No matter the label—exotic dancer, entertainer, performer—a woman's looks had a shelf life. Hers was expiring faster than she wanted to admit. No skills. No education. No backup plan. She knew how that story ended. She'd seen it a hundred times—girls going from a stage to a street corner like it was the next rung down a broken ladder.

The preacher's gaze softened but he didn't flinch.

"Didn't say you were." His voice gentled, firm still. "But even if you were... you'd still be welcome here."

He nodded toward her.

"Sit tight. Ain't nobody chasin' you outta here."

Anthony smiled warmly and said, "Come with me. We've got a basement full of clothes. We collect used stuff to send to thrift shops and help folks in the area. You look like you could be more comfortable in somethin else."

Latifa followed him down a narrow stairwell into a dimly lit basement. Racks of clothes lined the walls, some worn but clean. She picked up a floral dress and a pair of shoes that fit her. Without thinking, she began stripping off her mismatched clothes to change.

"Oh—sorry," she chirped, cheeks flushing. "When you take off your clothes for a living, you don't think twice about getting naked."

Anthony had his back turned, but said quietly, "We all got our crosses to bear."

Latifa laughed softly. "Being bare isn't a cross anymore. It's just how I live."

Dressed more modestly, they climbed back up the stairs. As they reached the top, a rough voice barked from the shadows.

"What are you doing here?"

Latifa froze and glanced at Anthony, then at the man emerging into the light.

"Who are you?" she asked, wary.

The man's eyes landed on her hand, then he jabbed a finger at the ring on her finger.

"I'm your fiancé."

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She took a step back, mind scrambling through fuzzy memories—nothing surfaced. "No... I didn't... I wouldn't..." she muttered. The man didn't look cruel, but he looked certain. That scared her more. Had she said yes to someone in a blackout? Was he lying? Was this payback for something she couldn't remember?

She turned to Anthony, voice shaky. "Is this a joke?"

The man's eyes narrowed. "You promised me, Latifa. You said you were ready to start over."

Her stomach dropped. "God," she whispered. "What did I do?"