For one bitter second, she hated him for owning a watch worth more than the debt she still carried from their mother’s illness.That watch wouldn’t even begin to cover the medical bills, much less the funeral costs, or the medication, or the food, or the rent.Her life had become a spreadsheet of survival.Every cell filled with sacrifices.
“Why?”she asked, already calculating how much it would cost to get across the city.An extra train transfer.Maybe a bus.At least three dollars she hadn’t budgeted for.
His voice didn’t waver.“I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.If you’re not here by then, I’ll call the police.”
She stiffened, eyes darting over the crowd.“No,” she said quickly, panic lacing her words.“Don’t do that.”
Because she knew Saif.He didn’t bluff.He didn’t threaten.Heacted.
And he had the power to make things happen—fast.
“Jemma,” he said again, quieter now.Sharper.“Fifteen minutes.”
Then the line went dead.
She stood there for a long second, holding the phone against her ear, listening to the silence.
He wasn’t bluffing.
Heneverbluffed.
The first raindrop hit her shoulder and she glanced skyward.
Of course.
“Perfect,” Jemma muttered, shifting her tote bag and calculating the financial fallout of catching a cab because there was zero chance of her getting across town in fifteen minutes via public transportation.Bank balance: low.Credit card: nearly maxed.Grocery money: already spoken for.Bail?No idea yet.That was just another looming crisis on the list.
She lifted her hand and hailed a cab, knowing it would wreck her budget.But she could skip dinner.She’d had half a peanut butter sandwich at lunch—that counted as protein.And calories.Enough to function.
As her stomach growled in protest, she slid into the back seat, gave the driver Saif’s office address, and leaned back.Rain blurred the windows almost instantly.She chewed on her thumbnail, eyes locked on the wet cityscape while silently praying her credit card wouldn’t decline the charge.
Thirteen minutes later, the cab rolled to a stop—four blocks from her destination.
Gridlock.
Every lane was frozen in place.Horns blared in frustration.Lights changed, but no one moved.No shortcuts.No miracles.Just a river of metal and misery.
She glanced at her phone.Two minutes.
Of course she wasn’t going to make it.
Jemma sent a quick text:I’m still coming – traffic.
No time to wait for a reply.She grabbed her bag.
“I’ll get out here,” she told the driver, swiping her card and holding her breath.
It processed.
Approved.
She exhaled, dug out two damp dollars, and handed them through the window.“Sorry for the small tip,” she said, already shoving the door open.
“Lady, it’s pouring rain!”
“I noticed,” she called back, then slammed the door shut, sprinting into the downpour.
Within seconds, she was drenched.This kind of autumn rain didn’t patter or sprinkle—itpounded.It soaked her hair, her shoes, her spirit.There was no mercy in this storm.
