Ambition never settles
1043 Words
Years before Elira was dressed in silk and trapped in tailored corsets, Erica had been trapped in a different kind of cage—one made of poverty, rot, and endless debt.
“I can’t do this anymore, Mark,” Erica had said back then, her hands twisting together in her lap as she stared around their cramped apartment. “I’m tired of scraping by, tired of living a life of lack.”
Mark’s head snapped toward her, his eyes dark with frustration. “And what’s the alternative, Erica? You want me stuck in some nine-to-five that doesn’t even pay the bills? Or should I sign back up with the drug lord and wait for the day I end up in a cell—or a grave?”
“You make it sound like there are only those two choices.”
“Because there are!” His voice rose sharply. “I thought you wanted simple. A roof over our heads. A little peace. I thought that’s what mattered.”
Her laugh was bitter, echoing off the thin walls. “Peace? What kind of peace is it when every day is the same fight over money? You break your back, and for what? So we can just barely keep from drowning?”
Mark dragged a hand through his hair, pacing the narrow bedroom. “I’m out there killing myself to give us something, Erica. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
She met his gaze, her ambition flaring raw and unapologetic. “It’s not enough. Not for me. I don’t want to just survive, Mark. I want more. I want a life that means something. A name people remember. Security so deep my children’s children never worry about scraping by like we do.”
Mark got off the bed and reached for his shirt. Moving towards the closet, he muttered, “I’ve got work."
Erica sat upright, chasing him with her voice, refusing to let him retreat. “Work. Always work. I married you because I thought you had guts, Mark. That you had what it takes to play with the vieux riche, to give me a life worth living. Five years, and what do I have? Nothing but struggle. Not one day of joy.”
“Joy?” he echoed as he buttoned his shirt. “I don’t remember ever promising you joy, Erica. You must’ve left it somewhere along the way. Maybe check the back of the closet, it might be hiding with all those shoes you swore you needed.”
Her gasp was sharp, indignant. “You think this is funny, Mark?”
Mark reached for his jacket as he replied. “A little. Better than crying about it, don’t you think?”
And with that, he left her fuming on the bed.
Alone, Erica turned to her favorite distraction: watching their wealthy neighbors, the Ashridges.
Their lives played out like clockwork from across the fence, a polished routine she tracked through her sheer curtains. The familiar honk drifted through as Jim, the Ashridges' private driver, pulled the car down the drive. Becky Ashridge, all grace and high-society charm, stood waving until the taillights disappeared.
To Erica, the Ashridge life wasn't just wealthy—it was the ultimate prize.
By the time Becky turned back toward her manor that afternoon, Erica was already at the boundary fence, leaning lightly against the rail, her tone warm and deliberate.
“Your flowers are lovely, Becky.”
Becky startled just a little, then offered a polite smile before walking inside.
However, Erica's real interest lay elsewhere. When the car rolled back into the drive that afternoon, Erica stood at her window, fingers grazing the curtain. Her gaze was fixed on Jim, the driver.
He felt it. And so he looked up and found her looking at him. As he killed the engine, he nodded at her before he looked away.
Later, when the Ashridges were safely inside, Jim lingered by the car. Keys in hand, he strolled toward the fence where Erica was pretending she’d simply stepped out for air.
“Long day?” she asked, her voice low and playful.
His mouth curved. “Every day’s long when you’re driving someone else’s life around.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “You don’t strike me as the type who minds.”
He chuckled. “Depends who’s watching.” His eyes held hers, deliberate this time.
Her smile sharpened, daring. “And what if I keep watching?”
“Then I might just give you something to look at.”
She laughed. He offered his phone, and as their fingers brushed, the spark between them wasn't deniable. She punched in her number without a single thought for Mark.
By the weekend, that spark had found its fire. Erica was in Jim's bed, telling herself she deserved this—and so much more. She refused to think about the cost.
As she lay in the tangled sheets, Jim whispered a secret about the Ashridge family that would set off a dangerous chain reaction.
“You know what Victor Ashridge wants more than anything?” Jim murmured against her skin. “A child. He’s desperate for an heir.”
Erica stilled, the words sinking into her like a spark flaring in dry grass. An heir to the Ashridge empire...
A child. Victor Ashridge’s child.
The thought unfolded in Erica’s mind. She saw herself carrying the heir that could secure everything she had ever dreamed of; wealth and power.
But reality clawed her back with a cruel, unyielding hand. She wasn’t Becky Ashridge. She was Erica—the wife of Mark, a dangerous man who could read trouble in her eyes before she even spoke it aloud. Mark loved her in his hard, stubborn way, and if he ever discovered a betrayal of this scale, he would kill her without hesitation. And if he didn't? The law, or the dangerous men Mark ran with, would finish the job. There was no happily ever after in that fantasy.
Her breath caught, her pulse racing as she forced a subtle smile for Jim, burying the fever of her scheming mind. “That’s… quite a secret,” she whispered.
And then fate, cruel and cunning, handed her an impossible opening.
- Writer
