And now here I was: twenty-five, deaf, scarred, working sixteen-hour days scrubbing plates to pay the rent on a one-bedroom apartment that smelled faintly of mildew and old coffee.
My multimillion-dollar inheritance sat locked behind a legal technicality, a cage I hadn’t the key to, and the man I was supposed to marry tomorrow—Harris Thompson—had never once offered a gift, a gesture, a hand in assistance. Nothing. Not a loan, not a kindness, not even pity.
I blinked hard, swallowing back the tears, and forced myself to stand. Then, step by step, I started walking.
My boots echoed softly against the alley’s wet concrete.
The city seemed indifferent to my life, my pain, my choices.
I was alone now.
Friends existed, yes—but none were on shift today. None to witness my silent fury, my exhaustion, my defeat.
I stepped out of the company building and hailed a taxi without thinking, my hand lifting automatically, my body moving on instinct alone.
I didn’t tell myself where I was going until the door shut behind me and the city swallowed the sound. I just knew one thing with aching certainty—I couldn’t be alone tonight.
I wasn’t used to it. Not really. Silence had a way of pressing in on me, tightening around my chest until breathing felt optional. The quiet of my apartment would be unbearable right now, too full of ghosts and unanswered questions. I needed... something. Someone. Even if that someone was Harris.
Especially if it was Harris—safe, familiar, distant.
The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, took in my red eyes, the stiffness in my posture, and wisely said nothing.
I gave him the address in Seal Beach. Harris’s place. A sleek, modern townhouse bought years ago with family money and old favors, its clean lines and glass walls always feeling more like a showroom than a home.
I’d only been inside once before. A formal dinner.
His mother smiling too brightly, speaking in careful euphemisms about family alliances and legacy, as if we were still living in a world where daughters were bargaining chips and sons were heirs to empires they didn’t question.
The taxi moved steadily, as if the driver knew I couldn’t handle any sudden speed.
I leaned my head against the window and watched the city lights smear into long, blurred streak. Cars passed. People laughed on sidewalks. Life went on with cruel efficiency.
The taxi finally came to a stop in front of the Seal Beach estate, the quiet hum of the engine fading into the air.
“I paid the driver, climbed the steps, and made my way straight to Harris’s building. I knocked once.
Nothing.
I knocked again, harder this time, the sound echoing down the quiet street.
Footsteps approached.
The door swung open.
Harris stood there, shirt half-unbuttoned, collar loose, hair damp with sweat. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, pupils blown wide.
The sharp bite of tequila rolled off him in waves, thick enough to sting the back of my throat.
“Hey,” I said, lifting my hand in a small, uncertain wave.
He blinked slowly, processing, then stepped aside. “Come in.”
I walked past him, the air inside immediately turning heavy—alcohol, cigarette smoke, something burnt.
The living room looked like the aftermath of a private collapse. Empty bottles of Don Julio and Patrón littered the glass coffee table. An ashtray overflowed, cigarette butts crushed down to filters. Low music pulsed from hidden speakers, bass vibrating faintly through the floor.
He shut the door behind me and followed, dropping onto the couch with a grunt, legs sprawled. I sat at the far end, careful to keep space between us.
