Chapter Two: Bills and Bad Decisions
1314 Words
I spent the next morning pretending my life wasn’t actively collapsing.
Which, honestly, deserved an award.
By eight a.m., I was already standing in front of the bathroom mirror trying to make myself look employable with five-dollar concealer and pure delusion.
“You look stressed,” my mother said from the hallway.
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
I sighed dramatically and continued fixing my eyeliner.
The bathroom in our apartment was tiny enough to destroy emotional stability. The sink leaked, the light flickered every few minutes, and the mirror only showed disappointment from certain angles.
Still, I tried.
Because today mattered.
Rich family.
Manhattan.
Extremely well-paying.
Those words had replayed in my head all night long.
I needed this job.
Not wanted.
Needed.
Dad’s medication sat on the kitchen counter beside overdue bills like a threat.
Marcus had left early for work before sunrise.
And my mother looked more tired every single day.
So yeah.
I needed this job badly enough to ignore every red flag attached to it.
Even the extremely handsome unfortunately part.
My phone buzzed.
Ava.
TELL ME YOU’RE WEARING SOMETHING HOT.
I typed back immediately.
It’s a caregiver interview, not a dating show.
Her reply came instantly.
You never know. Billionaires love mentally unstable brunettes.
I snorted loudly.
“What’s funny?” Mom asked.
“Nothing.”
“Was it Ava?”
“Yes.”
“She’s a bad influence.”
“She’s my only influence.”
Mom muttered something in disapproval while stirring a pot on the stove.
The apartment smelled like coffee and fried onions.
Comforting.
Familiar.
Heavy.
I looked down at my outfit again.
Black turtleneck.
Dark jeans.
Boots that looked expensive if people didn’t stare too hard.
My curls were behaving for once, falling over my shoulders in soft dark waves.
Not terrible.
Not amazing either.
Just… trying.
“You’re nervous,” Mom said quietly.
I paused.
“A little.”
She softened slightly. “You’ll do fine.”
That almost made me emotional.
Which was rude of her, honestly.
Before I could respond, Dad coughed weakly from the bedroom.
The sound immediately changed the atmosphere.
Reality crashing back in.
I grabbed my coat quickly before anybody could see the panic rising in my chest.
“I should go.”
Mom nodded.
Then, just before I reached the door, she said softly:
“Don’t let rich people make you feel small.”
The words followed me all the way downstairs.
Outside, New York breathed cold air directly into my soul.
Snow still covered parts of the sidewalk, though the streets were crowded as usual.
People rushed past in expensive coats and exhausted expressions.
The city smelled like coffee, smoke, ambition, and stress.
I caught the subway into Manhattan while trying not to overthink everything.
Huge mistake.
Because overthinking was basically my entire personality.
What if the interview went badly?
What if the rich guy hated me?
What if I accidentally insulted him within five minutes?
Honestly, that one felt likely.
The subway screeched loudly as it stopped near Lexington Avenue.
I stepped out into Manhattan and immediately felt poor.
It was honestly impressive.
Tall buildings stretched endlessly into the grey winter sky while luxury stores glowed behind spotless windows.
Everyone looked expensive.
Even the dogs looked wealthy.
I checked the address on my phone again.
Then again.
And one more time because anxiety loved routines.
The building in front of me looked less like an apartment complex and more like a location where billionaires hid their secrets.
Glass walls.
Doorman.
Black SUVs parked outside.
The kind of place where nobody accidentally spilled ramen on their shirt.
I stared upward.
“Absolutely not,” I whispered.
A sharply dressed doorman opened the entrance before I could panic myself into leaving.
“You here for Mr. Blackwood?”
Even his voice sounded rich.
I swallowed quickly. “Uh… yes.”
He nodded politely and motioned me inside.
Warm air wrapped around me immediately.
The lobby looked insane.
White marble floors.
Gold lighting.
Fresh flowers bigger than my future.
I tried not to stare too obviously while following the receptionist’s directions toward the private elevator.
This entire building smelled expensive.
Like money and emotional repression.
The elevator ride felt terrifyingly silent.
I checked my reflection in the mirrored walls approximately six hundred times.
“You’re fine,” I whispered to myself.
A pause.
“Probably.”
The elevator doors finally opened directly into a penthouse.
Not a penthouse.
The penthouse.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire city.
The skyline glittered beneath cloudy winter light.
Everything looked sleek, modern, painfully beautiful.
And cold.
Very cold.
Like nobody actually laughed here.
A woman stood waiting near the entrance.
Tall.
Elegant.
Sharp cheekbones capable of emotional damage.
“You must be Lily,” she said smoothly.
“Hi.”
“I’m Zara Blackwood.”
Ah.
The sister.
She looked exactly like someone who judged people recreationally.
But surprisingly, her smile seemed genuine.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“Thank you for inviting me into what appears to be Batman’s apartment.”
To my shock, she laughed.
Okay.
Good start.
“I like you already,” Zara admitted.
“That makes one of us.”
Her eyes flickered with amusement.
Then her expression shifted slightly.
“He’s difficult,” she warned gently.
There it was again.
Difficult.
Everybody kept saying it like a threat.
“I can handle difficult.”
Zara looked at me carefully for a second too long.
“No,” she said quietly. “You really can’t.”
Something about the way she said it made my stomach tighten.
Before I could ask questions, she motioned for me to follow her deeper into the penthouse.
The place was ridiculously huge.
Art lined the walls.
Soft music played somewhere in the background.
The entire apartment overlooked Manhattan like the city belonged to them.
Meanwhile I was trying not to trip over my own boots.
“So what exactly would I be doing?” I asked carefully.
“Companionship mostly,” Zara replied.
“Companionship?”
“He’s had medical professionals already. What he needs now is someone who treats him normally.”
“That sounds manageable.”
Zara gave me a look.
“You say that now.”
We stopped outside large double doors.
For some reason, my heartbeat suddenly sped up.
Nerves.
Definitely nerves.
Zara turned toward me.
“One warning.”
“Okay…”
“He enjoys making people uncomfortable.”
I blinked.
“That’s… concerning.”
“He thinks if people hate him first, they can’t hurt him later.”
The sentence hit unexpectedly hard.
Before I could respond, Zara opened the doors.
And suddenly—
There he was.
Ethan Blackwood.
The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not actual silence.
Something heavier.
The kind that filled rooms before people spoke.
He sat near the massive windows overlooking Manhattan, one hand resting against the arm of his wheelchair while snow drifted quietly outside behind him.
For one stupid second, my brain completely stopped functioning.
Because wow.
That man was unfairly attractive.
Dark hair slightly messy.
Sharp jawline.
Grey sweater stretched across broad shoulders.
Beautiful hands.
The kind of face people probably wrote poetry about while ruining their own emotional stability.
And his eyes—
God.
Cold blue.
Sharp enough to cut through people.
Those eyes landed on me slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was already unimpressed.
“Well,” he said finally, voice low and smooth. “You look terrified.”
My mouth moved before my brain could stop it.
“You look expensive.”
Zara choked on a laugh behind me.
Ethan blinked once.
Then slowly—
Very slowly—
One corner of his mouth lifted.
Not a smile.
More dangerous than that.
Interest.
“Well,” he murmured, still staring directly at me, “this should be entertaining.”
- Writer
