Chapter 3 - The Aftermath & The Sleek Black CarThe next two days were a blur of desperation. I spent every waking hour pounding the pavement, walking into every diner, cafe, and greasy spoon within a five-mile radius, begging for a shift. But the word had traveled fast. The service industry in this city was tight-knit, and apparently, Christopher Hale’s reach was long.
“Sorry, we’re not hiring,” one manager told me, not even looking at my resume. “Aren't you the girl from the Golden Oak?” another asked, eyes widening before quickly showing me the door.
By the third morning, my feet were blistered, my spirit was broken, and the eviction deadline was only twenty-four hours away. I sat at my small kitchen table, staring at a lukewarm cup of instant coffee. The silence of my tiny, drafty apartment was suffocating. I thought of my little brother, Leo. He was currently living with our aunt in a quiet town three hours away, attending a specialized school for speech and rehabilitation. Every dollar I made went to helping pay for his tuition and therapy. Now, I couldn't even pay my own rent.
Suddenly, a heavy, rhythmic knocking echoed through my front door.
My heart jumped. Was it the landlord, Mr. Gracin, coming to kick me out early?
I walked over, unlocked the deadbolt, and pulled the door open.
Standing in the dim hallway was not my grumpy landlord. It was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a perfectly tailored black suit and an earpiece. A bodyguard.
“Mary Lin?” he asked, his voice deep and emotionless.
“Yes?” I whispered, instinctively stepping back.
“Please come with me. Someone wishes to speak with you.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said, preparing to slam the door. “Who sent you? Christopher Hale? Tell him I have nothing left for him to take.”
The bodyguard didn't flinch. Instead, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sleek, matte-black smartphone. He tapped the screen and held it out to me.
On the screen was a notepad app. A message was written in large, clear letters:
Please, Mary. It’s Ethan. I need your help. I am waiting in the car downstairs. No father. Just me.
I stared at the screen, my breath catching in my throat. Ethan. The boy from the restaurant.
I looked past the bodyguard, toward the dirty window at the end of the hallway. Down on the street, parked right in front of my crumbling apartment building, was a massive, pristine black SUV with heavily tinted windows.
I looked down at my worn-out jeans and oversized sweater, then back at the phone.
“Give me two minutes,” I told the bodyguard.
I grabbed my purse, locked my door, and followed him down the creaking stairs. The morning air was biting, but as the bodyguard opened the heavy back door of the SUV, a wave of warmth and the scent of expensive leather washed over me.
I climbed inside. The door shut with a heavy, solid thud, sealing out the noise of the city.
Sitting across from me on the spacious leather bench was Ethan Hale. He had swapped the red hoodie for a dark green sweater, but his dark hair still fell over his eyes, and he still looked incredibly nervous.
When he saw me, a genuine, relieved smile broke across his face. He immediately raised his hands, his fingers moving with a swift, fluid grace that made my heart ache with familiarity.
Thank you for coming, he signed. And I am so, so sorry for what happened to your job.
I smiled, my hands rising instinctively to respond. It’s not your fault. Your father is a bully. I couldn't sit there and watch him do that to you.
Ethan’s eyes shone with a sudden warmth. No one has ever stood up to him for me. Not once in my life.
He reached beside him, picked up a thick, manila envelope, and held it out to me.
“What is this?” I asked aloud, before signing: What is this?
Ethan pointed at the envelope and signed: Open it.
I unclasped the metal prong and pulled out the contents. Inside was a thick stack of crisp, bound hundred-dollar bills. My jaw dropped. There had to be at least ten thousand dollars in my hands.
“I can’t take this,” I said quickly, trying to push the envelope back toward him. “Ethan, no. I didn't help you for money.”
May you like
Ethan grabbed my hands gently, stopping me. He looked into my eyes, his expression turning incredibly serious. He let go and began to sign, his movements sharp and determined.
It’s not charity. It’s an advance. I want to hire you, Mary. I need a personal assistant. Someone who can speak for me when I want to be heard, and someone I can trust completely. My father is trying to ruin my life, and I need an ally.
