World's Apart
1068 Words
Aria Blake leaned next to a potted succulent in a little shop nestled into a quiet Silver Lake corner, her camera ready and her long hair cascading over her face as she focused the lens to grab the ideal arc of afternoon sunlight.
Click.
She tilted a little, lowering across a hand-painted sign just within the exhibit.
Click. Click.
“Got it,” she murmured, standing with a wince and brushing her knees. From the heat, her black tee clung to her while her faded jeans were covered in dust. She didn’t care, though. These were the situations that still felt like magic.
The money just barely covered rent and basic groceries; it wasn’t fancy. It belonged to her. Her job. Her name is on every snapshot, every invoice. Her future is becoming stable day by day.
At twenty-seven, Aria Blake was worlds apart from the terrified nineteen-year-old who fled her past under the cover of night. Long ago, she exchanged neon lights and murmured guilt for sun-drenched streets and borrowed hope. Re-beginning had not been simple. But it had been required.
Pausing to look at her phone, she crammed her camera into the torn canvas bag she carried over her shoulder. She received a message from Mia:
Meet me at the coffee shop. I have something for you to hear.
Aria grinned.
Mia her lifeline.
The one person who had welcomed her to LA without a single question, who had offered her a place to sleep and a job to keep her afloat - back when she had nothing but a fake name and a duffel bag full of dread.
Aria mumbled aloud, “Still owe you for that, Mia.”
---
Lottie’s Cafe had the scents of cinnamon, espresso, and worn-out volumes. The hand-doodled chalkboards and mismatched chairs made it feel like home. Already waiting, Mia waved Aria over with one hand while furiously texting with the other, two iced coffees in front of her.
Aria said as she sat down and gratefully drank, “You’re a literal angel.”
“You’ll think so in a second,” Mia said with a smile. “There is a fundraiser this weekend - large charity event downtown. I heard they’re searching for a photographer.”
Aria’s brow rose. “And you thought of me?”
Mia said, unashamed, “I pushed you. They’re not locked in yet, but I got your portfolio into the right hands. You will be in the room even if you are backup.”
Aria’s lips split in tentative hope. “Wait - what kind of room?”
“The kind with money,” Mia remarked, hitting the cover of her coffee, the kind with people who can pay you what you are actually worth. Not cactus stores wedding parties.”
Aria laughed but leaned in. “And I wouldn’t have to pretend to know about wine, or hedge funds?”
“Nah. You do what comes natural to you. Camera, charm, and quiet confidence. You will sparkle.”
The idea of a genuine gig, one that might at last - give possible enough money to get the leaky pipe in her studio repaired at last. Perhaps even treat herself to that new lens she’d been coveting.
“Alright,” she said, straightening, “I want in, even if I’m just the backup’s backup.”
Mia smiled. “That is the spirit. You will kill it.”
The sky was colored in lavender and flame when Aria got back to her small studio. Her flat was above a closed-down bookshop, creaky floors, one obstinate window, and pipes groaning throughout the night. Her paintings - sunlit portraits, candid street photos, and framed memories of achievement - covered the walls.
She let the camera slip from her shoulder and slammed the door behind herself. The bag hit the couch. Her body trailed. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and collapsed onto the futon.
A credible show. A genuine shot.
Aria lay there, her eyes searching the crevices in the ceiling. Eight years had seen so many changes.
She no longer ran from her past. She would outrun it.
Mia’s fundraiser concept remained in her mind like a burning ember.
Perhaps this was the start of something greater.
She didn’t need miracles.
She required just a single decent shot.
****
“Fire him.”
His voice was crisp, calm, merciless.
“But sir, he’s been with us since-”
“I don’t care if he laid the foundation with his bare hands.” Killian said coldly, adjusting the cuff of his suit jacket with the same detached precision as if he were brushing lint from silk. “The Zurich projections were off by nearly sixty percent. That’s not an error. That’s incompetence.”
The room fell quiet. The executive in question - a regional VP with twenty years of loyalty - sat red-faced and trembling. No one spoke in his defense.
Killian walked to the head of the table, every step measured, his presence perfected by the impeccable pairing of tailored Italian silk and merciless focus.
“We’re not in the business of generosity,” he said abruptly. “We’re in the business of legacy. You want emotion? Start a non-profit.”
The room was silent, the senior staff not looking at him.
Stone Global wasn’t just his inheritance. It was his domain. A towering empire of numbers and steel, built not just on profit, but precision. The world respected that. Or feared it. He didn’t care which.
Killian Stone wasn’t just Mark Stone’s heir. He was the one holding the reins now, even if his father’s name still lingered on the CEO plaque.
And he made it clear every day that sentiment was a liability.
Back in his private office - floor-to-ceiling glass, dark wood, and zero warmth - he poured himself a glass of single malt and stared out at the city.
His assistant’s voice buzzed from the intercom.
“Mr. Stone?” The final schedule for the week is ready. Would you like me to add any downtime on Sunday?”
Killian considered for a moment, then downed a sip of scotch.
“Put me down for the fundraiser on Saturday. The charity event Stone company is sponsoring.”
There was a pause. “Understood. Anything else?”
“Yes,” Killian said, voice steely.
“No more distractions. Not this week.”
- Writer
