Chapter One
865 Words
Nahla
They say money can't buy happiness.
But it can decide whether someone you love lives or dies.
And right now, my mother is losing that argument.
The hospital room smells like disinfectant and a hint of tired hope. Machines beep softly beside her bed, counting time like it's something we can afford.
I sit there, holding her hand.
My mother, Clara Givenshi, looks smaller than I remember, as if the world is slowly erasing her while I'm busy trying to stop it. Her hair is gone. Her strength comes in short, borrowed moments. But her eyes are still the same.
Still watching me too closely.
"You didn't eat again, did you?" she whispers.
"I did," I lie instantly.
A weak smile tugs at her lips. "You've always been a terrible liar, Nahla."
That almost breaks me.
Because she's right. I'm not okay. I haven't been okay in a long time. But I can't afford to fall apart, not when Chloe still needs school fees, not when rent is due, not when every hospital bill looks like a countdown I can't stop.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don't need to check it to know what it is.
Another bill reminder.
I swallow it down and force my voice steady. "We're handling it. You just focus on getting better."
Her fingers tighten weakly around mine.
"That's what you've been saying for three years."
Silence fills the room after that.
I stay until the nurses come in with her medication. I watch her eyes drift shut like the world is gently stealing her away for a while.
When she finally sleeps, I kiss her forehead and leave before I can change my mind.
Outside, the city is angry.
Rain comes down like it has something to prove.
My umbrella barely holds up as I rush through wet streets, exhaustion pulling at my bones. It's already past visiting hours. I should've gone home hours ago.
Then I remember.
My keys.
I stop walking.
"No. No, no, no…"
I dig through my bag on the sidewalk like it might magically fix itself. Receipts, Lip balm, Old wrappers.
Nothing useful. My stomach drops.
Vendel Holdings.
My desk.
I left them there.
Of course I did.
Because my life can't just be simple for one day.
I stare at the rain, then laugh once, short and humorless.
"Yeah… of course."
Thirty minutes later, I'm back at the only place in this city that never feels human.
Vendel Holdings Tower.
Even at night, it looks like it owns the sky.
The security guard recognizes me, probably out of pity more than memory, and lets me up without asking questions. My footsteps echo through empty hallways that are usually full of people who make more in a day than I make in a year.
I grab my keys from my desk.
Relief hits so fast it almost hurts.
"Okay," I mutter. "Go home, sleep, forget today ever happened." That's the plan.
Until I walk out.
The rain has gotten worse.
The entrance lights blur through it like a broken dream.
And then..a car stops.
Sleek, Black, Too expensive to feel real.
I slow down without meaning to. The back door opens and he steps out.
Evan Vendel.
Everything about him changes the air.
Tall, controlled and Sharp in a way that doesn't belong to normal people. The kind of presence that makes instinct scream before logic can speak.
I've seen him on screens. Internal announcements. Corporate emails signed with his name like it means something sacred.
But seeing him in real life is different.
It feels wrong. Too real.
He looks up at the building like it personally insulted him. Not impressed. Not intimidated. Just… irritated to exist inside it.
No umbrella.
Of course.
The rain doesn't seem to touch him the way it touches everyone else. Or maybe he just doesn't care.
He starts walking.
And something in me snaps.
"Hey, wait!"
I don't think.
I run.
Straight into the rain.
Straight into him.
"Mr. Vendel!" I call, barely louder than the storm. He stops, not because he has to.
Because I interrupt him.
I shove my small umbrella up between us like it means something. My arms stretch too high, my coat already soaked through, standing way too close to someone who clearly doesn't want anyone close.
There's a pause.
Just rain, then he slowly looks down at me.
And the world changes temperature.
His eyes aren't just cold.
They're controlled. Calculated. Like he's deciding what category I belong to and whether I'm worth the effort of acknowledging.
"Do you always throw yourself into traffic for your superiors?" he asks. His voice is calm and that somehow makes it worse.
My throat tightens.
"I-no. I just… you don't have an umbrella."
A beat.
Something flickers across his face. Not warmth.
Recognition? Confusion? Annoyance?
I can't tell, but I can tell I've made a mistake.
Because He doesn't move.
He just stares at me like I've interrupted something I'm not supposed to see.
And for the first time tonight
I'm not sure if I just helped him…
Or stepped directly into something I won't be able to walk away from.
- Writer
