The Last Donation

Chapter 2 The Taste of Freedom

The Foster house was silent when I returned. Eleanor waited in the foyer with her arms crossed.

“The little stray came back.” Her painted lips curled. “Finally remembered which side your bread is buttered on?”

I walked past her and climbed the marble stairs. The bedroom they had assigned me looked untouched, right down to the silk sheets and rows of designer clothes I had never chosen.

My old duffel bag was still at the back of the walk-in closet. I left the rows of Chanel clothes untouched. The velvet Cartier and Tiffany boxes stayed on their shelves too.

My sketchbook, charcoal pencils, faded T-shirts, and jeans went into the bag. They were the few things in the room that felt like mine.

Eleanor was still in the foyer when I came down. I placed the ornate house key on the mahogany table. The small click made her stare at it.

I walked out without saying goodbye.

Rain soaked through my thin clothes before I reached the corner. I took shelter under the narrow awning of a closed bakery and watched headlights smear across the wet street.

I was free, homeless, and alone, with only what remained in my account after the transfer. A laugh escaped me, brief and bitter.

A pair of headlights slowed in the rain. A black Rolls-Royce stopped at the curb, and its tinted rear window lowered. Alexander sat inside.

He took in my wet clothes and the duffel bag at my feet.

“Get in.”

The car was warm and smelled of leather. Rain drummed on the roof while Alexander took a thick towel from a compartment. He leaned over and pressed it to my dripping hair, brisk and businesslike.

His knuckles brushed my temple. I sat very still and tried to blame the heat in my face on the car.

Then he saw the bluish marks near my elbow. He stopped toweling my hair and looked at them for a few seconds too long.

He made no promises and offered no spare room. When the car reached a quiet, well-lit neighborhood, he handed me a tablet.

It showed several vetted short-term rentals nearby, with the first month’s rent highlighted for each one. He left the screen in my hands and waited.

“The choice is yours,” he said, his voice a low, neutral rumble. “Accept the assistance, or don’t. I will not interfere with your decision.”

No one in the Foster house had ever put a choice in my hands and waited for my answer.

The next morning, sunlight came through the window of the tiny, clean studio I had chosen and paid for myself. Nothing in the room belonged to the Foster family.

I lay there listening to the building’s pipes knock until my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Two messages waited.

The first was from Julian: *Stop this nonsense and come home. Mia needs you to cheer her up.*

The second was from an unknown number: *Your full diagnostic health screening is scheduled for 10 a.m. at my private clinic. Don’t be late. - A. Vance.*