CHAPTER THREE: Muddy shoes, missing numbers.
1204 Words
The streets grew busier as she neared the store, people chatting as they sipped their morning coffee, mothers pushing strollers, shop owners flipping their "OPEN" signs. When she reached the storefront, she was met with a small crowd—customers waiting outside, eager to buy baby clothes. Some held their purses tightly, others rocked babies in their arms, their eyes scanning the door impatiently.
Elena exhaled, adjusting the strap of her bag before unlocking the door.
Her mother had built this business from the ground up after her father passed away, pouring her heart into every sale, every stitch, every conversation with expectant mothers. It wasn’t just a*****e—it was a place of warmth, of memories, of survival.
"Good morning, everyone," she greeted, offering a smile as she stepped inside.
The familiar scent of fresh cotton and baby powder filled the air as she flicked on the lights. The shelves were neatly arranged with tiny onesies, colorful blankets, and little shoes too small to believe.
The store had just settled into its usual morning rhythm—cash register clicking, soft murmurs of conversation, the occasional baby’s giggle breaking through the hum of customers—when the unmistakable sound of tires screeching to a halt snapped everyone’s attention to the street outside.
A sleek, jet-black sports car rolled in and parked right in front of the store, its polished surface gleaming under the morning sun. Conversations died down, heads turned, and a few whispers rippled through the crowd.
Elena barely had time to react before the driver’s door swung open. A tall, impeccably dressed woman stepped out with the kind of effortless grace that only came with old money. Even from a distance, her designer coat and oversized sunglasses screamed wealth.
"Mrs. Kensington!!" someone from the crowd called out, their voice laced with excitement.
"Hi there!" Mrs. Kensington responded, flashing a quick, distracted smile as she strode toward the shop, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement.
Elena had seen her before—one of the city’s elite, a woman who never wasted time. She wasn’t just a customer; she was the customer. The kind who made demands, not requests.
The moment she stepped inside, the air changed.
"I need two pairs of shoes, quickly!" she announced, barely waiting for Elena to greet her. "My son just stepped into the mud while playing with his friends, and it was his favorite pair!"
Elena fought the urge to laugh. The dramatic urgency over a pair of muddy shoes was peak rich-mom energy.
Mrs. Kensington removed her sunglasses with a flourish, revealing sharp, ocean-blue eyes that didn’t have the patience for delays. "I need a black canvas pair with white stripes—for a four-year-old. Now."
Elena snapped into action, moving swiftly to the shelves. She scanned the sizes, fingers grazing over tiny shoeboxes until she found the perfect pair.
"Here you go," she said, handing them over.
Mrs. Kensington inspected them with the precision of a diamond appraiser. A pause. Then a satisfied nod. "Perfect." She reached into her purse, pulling out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. "Keep the change."
Elena barely had time to protest before Mrs. Kensington had already pivoted toward the door, her phone pressed to her ear.
"Yes, Carter, I know—but the nanny should have been watching him!" she huffed, stepping back into her car. Within seconds, the engine roared to life, and just as she pulled out, she called out through the open window—
"By the way, Black Tower Co. is hiring cleaning staffs! You told me last week you needed a job—call me if you're interested!"
Elena’s mouth opened in surprise. "But I don’t have your num…”
Too late. The tires screeched, and Mrs. Kensington was already halfway down the street, leaving behind the echo of her words and the faint scent of expensive perfume.
Elena blinked. What just happened?
For a moment, she just stood there, staring at the spot where the car had been, her mind racing. Black Tower Institution. Adrian Blackwood’s company.
Her stomach twisted. She had wanted a better job—but did she really want that job?
"Wow," a customer murmured, breaking the stunned silence.
"She could have just wiped the mud off," another whispered.
Elena barely heard them. Her pulse had kicked up a notch, a strange mix of apprehension and curiosity settling in her chest.
She exhaled slowly, shaking her head as she turned back toward the register.
Elena flipped through the register, her fingers trailing over the familiar pages of names and numbers. She wasn’t even paying attention—just going through the motions—until something made her pause.
Mrs. Kensington.
Her name was neatly written, followed by a phone number.
Elena blinked. When did she write this?
She didn’t remember handing her a pen. Didn’t recall seeing her jot anything down. Mrs. Kensington had been in such a rush, barely stopping for pleasantries before speeding off. And yet, somehow, her name and number were there, as if placed deliberately, waiting to be found.
Her stomach tightened.
Black Tower Co.
It wasn’t just any company. It was his company.
The thought alone sent a strange chill through her.
She stared at the name, her fingers lightly tapping the counter. A job. A real one. Something more than standing behind a register day after day, struggling to make ends meet.
The store had been their survival, their only source of income since her father passed. It wasn’t much, but it kept food on the table. Kept Maya in school. Kept the landlord from knocking on their door with eviction notices. But lately, it felt like just barely enough. The cost of living was rising every day, squeezing them tighter and tighter.
And now, a way out.
Her fingers traced the edge of the register. It should’ve been an easy decision. A steady paycheck. A chance to breathe a little easier.
But her mind wouldn’t stop racing.
If she worked there, there was a chance—just a chance—she might see him again.
Adrian Blackwood.
She thought about the way he had looked that night—pale, weak, his breathing shallow.She had stayed until the ambulance came, hidden in the shadows as they rushed him away.
And now, not up to 24 hrs, he was on every headline. Adrian Blackwood, the billionaire who had survived an impossible escape. The press wanted his story. The world wanted his words.
But he had refused.
Turned down every interview. Rejected every media request.
She had seen him on the news earlier—walking out of the hospital, ignoring reporters, his movements steady despite the injury. There had been something about the way he carried himself, something almost… untouchable.
As if nothing could shake him.
But what if he saw her?
Her stomach twisted.
Would he remember her? Would he care? Or worse—would he see her as a problem? A loose end in a situation he wanted to forget?
All these thoughts and questions flashed through her mind as she sat down.
Her pulse quickened. Men like Adrian Blackwood didn’t believe in debts. They believed in control.
And if she walked into his company, his world…
- Writer
