bloodlines vs deadlines

Emma Grey balanced a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, her phone in the other, and a juice bottle between her knees. “Mommy, I’ll be back in like twenty, maybe forty minutes, okay?” she said through a mouthful of sandwich. “I’m almost there.” “What? Emma! Are you eating junk again? Can’t you talk first and chew later? And why are you eating in the middle of a delivery? Have you seen the time? It’s almost—” “Yeah, 12 a.m., I know, Mom. I have a watch,” she replied, taking a final sip of juice. “If I stop to answer all your questions, it’ll be 1 a.m.” “Emma darling, come home, my child. You clearly need a class. Now move your ass and text me when you—” “Okay, bye Mommy, love you!” she cut her off and ended the call with a grin, shoving the last bite of sandwich into her mouth. She tied her scarf like a cape, started her scooter, and zipped off into the night. The dash-cam on her handlebar blinked red — recording like always. She liked to pretend it made her look professional, even though the only thing it had caught recently was a cat peeing on her front tire. She was headed toward Silversky Residency the kind of place where even the streetlights looked expensive. ......... Ten minutes and two wrong turns later… “I’m lost,” she muttered. “Why would anyone want fried chicken at midnight? Don’t rich people only eat raw veggies and overpriced salmon?” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Hmm. What if it’s a psycho killer pretending to want chicken but actually wants to fry me instead?” She was so lost in thought she didn’t notice the statue in the middle of the road. With a sudden gasp, she yanked the brakes too late. Her scooter skidded, and she fell with a loud thud. “Stupid Emma, stupid Emma,” she hissed, holding her bleeding knee. “Perfect. Just perfect.” It stung like crazy, but she stood up quickly, reset the scooter, and pulled out her phone for directions. Five minutes later, she finally arrived and parked in the guest lot. “Ugh. Now I have to walk another five minutes to the main gate? Rich people really said, ‘Let’s make poor girls suffer." As she limped toward the black iron gate, she noticed something odd there was no buzzer. No intercom. Just silence. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the gate creaked open… on its own. She froze. “Creepy.” Hugging the warm food bag to her chest like a shield, she stepped carefully onto the stone path. The mansion ahead looked like it belonged in a horror movie, shadowed windows, no lights, and no sound. “Please God, don’t let there be a psycho killer. Or a killer dog,” she whispered. Something rustled in the bushes behind her. She turned around. Nothing. Then the sound came again — louder this time. Her eyes darted between the bush… the mansion door… and the main gate behind her. Her knee throbbed. Her heart raced. Fight, flight, or scream? She chose scream. Emma started knocking on the door like her life depended on it. “Delivery! Delivery! Delivery, please open the door!” Suddenly, the door swung open. A tall man stood in the doorway, wrapped in shadows and dressed in black. He had tan skin, broad shoulders, long black hair, and two rough scars slashing across his right cheek, one just near his lips, the other higher up, both cutting down toward his jawline. His brown eyes locked onto hers unreadable, cold. Emma’s throat dried instantly. She plastered on an awkward smile to cover her embarrassment. “Uh… delivery?” she said, holding out the bag like a peace offering. The man’s gaze flicked to her… then to her bleeding knee. His nostrils flared slightly, and for a moment, his jaw clenched like he was holding his breath. The silence was deafening. Emma, still smiling like an i***t, shook the bag slightly. “Your order, sir?” Without warning, he slapped the bag away, sending it flying onto the steps. His voice was cold, hard. “We don’t eat this garbage.” Then he slammed the door in her face. Emma stood there in stunned silence, blinking slowly. “…Garbage?” She looked down at the spilled bag. Then up at the door. Then back at the bag. “Yep… why would rich people eat junk food? Got my answer. Thank you, Mr. Garbage.” She rolled her eyes and limped back toward her scooter. “Next time, I’m charging double for attitude.” All this time, the scooter’s dash-cam had been blinking red. Silently recording something Emma didn’t even know she’d witnessed. ......