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Chapter 4 - chapter 4

It had been two weeks since that dreadful night when the world shifted beneath Sarah's feet. The funeral was rushed—held just three days after the hospital confirmed Mr. Smith's death due to an unexpected aneurysm. The church had arranged it all, quiet hymns filling the modest sanctuary. A few aunties and uncles came, mostly out of obligation. They didn't linger. As soon as the last shovel of earth was packed over his coffin, they left as quickly as they'd arrived.

Life had slowly stumbled back into motion, but grief lingered like heavy fog inside the Smith household. Their mother, Gloria, once stoic and hardworking, was now a shadow of herself—her eyes permanently puffy, hair tied in a tired scarf, unable to step outside, let alone return to her cleaning jobs. The burden of the home fell on Sarah and Peter. Sarah took extra shifts while Peter picked up after-school gigs just to keep coins coming in.

One evening, their aunt—Mrs. Anita Johnson—visited, clad in her usual expensive perfume and polished nails. She brought a basket of fruits and the idea of taking Sarah to London for support.'

"You'll have better opportunities, and I can help you settle in," Anita had said, eyes glinting with something unspoken.

Gloria sat stiff, arms crossed. "God forbid. You think I don't know the kind of job you did before you found one rich man to marry you?"

Anita hissed. "Gloria, that was years ago. Things have changed."

"God doesn't change," Gloria snapped. "And neither does His standards. Sarah is not going anywhere."

Sarah had sat quietly during the exchange, her eyes on the floor.

---

Mid-October came, and the chill in Birmingham settled in. Sarah pulled her coat tighter as she made her way to The Copper Spoon, a modest restaurant tucked off Soho Road. The place always buzzed with quiet chatter, clinking cutlery, and the occasional radio hum. It wasn't fancy, but it paid.

Sarah wiped down a table near the window when she noticed a sharply dressed man watching her—tall, dark-skinned, with a Rolex flashing on his wrist. His eyes lingered too long. He raised a finger.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said as she approached. "You work here every day?"

"Yes, sir. Can I take your order?"

He grinned. "Call me Samson."

She blinked. "Alright... Samson."

"You have a lovely face, you know that?" His eyes ran over her body. "You look innocent. I like that."

Sarah tensed. "Do you want to order something?"

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "I'll have whatever you're serving... and maybe you, later. I've got a thing for shy girls."

Her stomach churned. She hated this type—smooth talkers who thought money bought anything.

"I'm here to work," she said flatly.

Samson chuckled and placed a £100 note in her palm. "You just made in one minute what you'd make in a week here. Imagine what you'd get if you spent one night with me."

She froze. "I don't want your money."

He raised a brow. "Oh, come on. You're too fine to be scrubbing plates for minimum wage. I could change your life, girl. New clothes, a phone that works, maybe even help your family. That's what you want, isn't it?"

She placed the note back on the table. "No, thanks."

Samson smirked, scribbled his number on a napkin, and slid it across. "Think about it. I'm a generous man."

She walked away.

---

In the staff room later, her friend Vanessa cornered her.

"Girl, are you mad?" Vanessa's voice was sharp. "Did you just say no to Samson? That guy literally drives a Benz and owns a flat in Edgbaston."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "He's married."

"So? All of them are. Do you think you're better than me? Wake up. This poverty won't pity you. Do you think Jesus gonna come down and drop pounds in your account?"

"I'm not interested in being someone's side chick, Vanessa."

"Forget chick. Be his whore. Let him fuck you. He'll pay you well, feed you, fix your hair, get your nails done. Or do you want to keep wearing these same two ugly skirts every day?"

Sarah stood up. "I'm not for sale."

Vanessa scoffed. "Then keep suffering. Starve for holiness."

---

That night, Sarah walked home in silence. She passed familiar roads—the corner shop with the broken sign, the church where her father's funeral was held. The city lights felt distant, cold.

When she got home, her mum sat on the sofa staring at an open Bible, lips moving in silent prayer.

Sarah hesitated, then said, "Mum... a man offered me money today. Lots. Just for..." She trailed off.

Gloria's eyes sharpened. "For what?"

"He said he could take care of us. All I'd have to do is... be with him."

Gloria stood abruptly, her voice rising. "God forbid! Sarah, don't let the devil use hunger to steal your salvation!"

"Mum, I said no"

"I don't care! Even letting him speak those words to you invites demons into your spirit. You are a vessel of honour, not some Jezebel on the street!"

Sarah bit her lip. "We're struggling."

"And God is watching. He will provide. But not through sin. Not through sleeping with married men!"

Sarah lowered her eyes. She was tired. Of sermons. Of the weight. Of always having to choose between morals and survival.

"Go and pray," her mother said. "Fasting starts tomorrow. We need a breakthrough."

Sarah didn't argue. She just nodded, though her soul felt like it was breaking in two.

She went to the bathroom, shut the door, and collapsed on the ground. Outside, the wind howled down the Birmingham streets like a mourning ghost. And she wondered—for the first time—if staying righteous was worth starving for.

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