Chapter 2: Unlocking Life
1043 Words
My apartment is on the third floor of a building that once had character but now just has mold problems. The elevator has been "temporarily out of service" for the six months I've lived here, so I climb the stairs, my tired legs protesting each step.
I unlock my door—two deadbolts because the neighborhood isn't great—and step into the studio apartment that costs too much for what it is. But it's mine, paid for with sweat and aching feet and fake smiles for customers who think the appropriate tip for a $300 meal is $20.
I kick off my shoes and collapse onto my futon, finally letting the strangeness of the night wash over me.
"What were you thinking?" I mutter to myself. "He could have been a murderer."
But somehow, I knew he wasn't. The same instinct that told me which herb to use told me he wasn't a threat. To me, at least.
I pull out the business card, running my thumb over the embossed number. No name. Just ten digits that connect to... who?
My phone rings, startling me so badly I nearly drop it. The screen shows Grandma Rose's face, and I answer immediately, fear spiking through me.
"Grandma? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, dear," her familiar voice soothes. "Just checking that you got home safe."
Relief floods me. At eighty-two, with a heart condition that requires expensive medication, Grandma Rose still worries more about me than herself.
"I'm home," I assure her. "Just got in."
"Any trouble tonight?" she asks, and something in her tone makes me hesitate.
Should I tell her about the strange man in the alley? About using her moon blooms to save him? About the card with no name?
"Nothing unusual," I lie, not wanting her to worry. "Just tired."
"You work too hard," she sighs. "You should be living your life, not supporting an old woman."
We have this conversation at least once a week. "You raised me when no one else would," I remind her. "This is what family does."
"Still," she says softly. "I've been thinking about what I told you—about your parents."
My grip on the phone tightens. "Grandma, we don't need to talk about this now."
"Soon, Emma. There are things you need to know. Things I should have told you long ago."
A chill runs down my spine. Grandma Rose has always been vague about my parents—saying only that my mother died in childbirth and my father abandoned us afterward. Every time I've pressed for details, she's changed the subject.
"What kind of things?" I ask cautiously.
A long pause. "About who you really are. Where you come from."
My heart pounds harder. "Grandma, you're scaring me."
"I don't mean to, darling. Just... be careful, yes? Trust your instincts."
Like I did tonight, with the mysterious man? I almost ask, but don't.
"I always do," I say instead. "Get some rest, okay? I'll visit tomorrow after my shift."
We say our goodbyes, and I'm left staring at my phone, more unsettled than before. First the strange man, now Grandma's cryptic words.
I get ready for bed mechanically, brushing my teeth, washing the restaurant smell from my skin, changing into the oversized t-shirt I sleep in. As I turn off the lights, I place the business card on my nightstand, telling myself I'll throw it away in the morning.
Sleep comes fitfully, filled with dreams of amber eyes that flash gold in the darkness, of running through forests I've never seen, of a voice calling my name like it owns it.
*
Morning comes with the blare of my alarm and the realization that I have exactly forty minutes to get to my opening shift at The Crimson Room. I rush through my routine, throwing on my black uniform and tying my hair back without bothering to properly style it.
As I grab my keys, my eyes fall on the business card. In the light of day, it seems even more elegant—the cream color rich against the cheap laminate of my nightstand. Against my better judgment, I slip it into my pocket before heading out.
The restaurant is already buzzing when I arrive, which is unusual for 7 AM. Staff huddle in whispered conversations that stop when I approach.
"What's going on?" I ask Diane, who looks both excited and nervous.
"You haven't heard?" Her eyes widen. "The Crimson Room was bought last night. New owner."
My stomach drops. New ownership often means staff changes. "Are we losing our jobs?"
"No one knows yet," she says. "But there's a meeting at nine. The new owner is coming in personally."
"Who is it?"
Before Diane can answer, the restaurant's doors open and a hush falls over the staff. A group of men in suits enters, led by a familiar figure that makes my blood freeze in my veins.
It's him. The man from the alley. Except now, instead of blood-soaked and dying, he's immaculate in a tailored black suit that probably costs more than my annual rent. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his posture radiating power and authority.
Every eye turns to him, but his gaze sweeps the room until it lands directly on me. His lips curve into that same devastating smile from last night.
"Good morning," he addresses the room, but his eyes never leave mine. "I'm Damian Wolfe, your new employer."
Around me, people gasp and whisper. Even I know the name Wolfe—the billionaire CEO of Wolfe Industries, one of the largest conglomerates in the country. What I don't understand is why he's looking at me like I'm the only person in the room.
And why, despite every logical warning bell in my mind, my body seems to hum in response to his attention.
"Ms. Carter," he says, and another wave of whispers follows—how does he know my name? "I believe you and I have some business to discuss."
As he walks toward me, I feel something shift in the air between us, a recognition of something fundamental changing. Last night, I saved his life. Today, he holds my future in his hands.
And somehow, I know this is only the beginning.
- Writer
