Twenty-two years ago
She fell, her silk sleeved hands trying to catch on to the railing.
The boy watched in horror as he watched her fall off the balcony, ten floors above the ground.
Her long hair whipped across her face, eyes wide with panic, lips shaping into a scream.
The impact sent her twisting through the air, crashing against the marble floor.
THUD! CRACK!
Blood flowed across her chest, spilling over the floor, over the sapphire necklace that gleamed cold against her pale skin, staining lace and silk.
He watched as she lay there, a mangled mess, breath shaking as his heart pounded.
The room smelled of blood and fear.
The sapphire necklace slid free, spinning in crimson, untouchable and gleaming.
He stumbled backward, chest heaving, terrified, staring at the woman who had always held him……his mother……lying broken, bleeding, lifeless.
He could not move.
Could not speak.
Could not understand.
And across the room he could hear his mother’s whispered last words.
“DAMIEN…..RUN…”
………….
“Ah! Finally done for today!”
Emma Chen said as she added the finishing touch to her painting.
Her hand was stained with paint and desperation. She stretched. Then stood up and looked back at her canvas.
“I’m so glad I’m done with this painting. Took me ages to complete.”
Being a struggling artists was not easy. She had to put up with so many entitled clients.
The gallery owner who wanted this painting had been clear that the painting must be ready by Friday or:
“You can forget the two grand if it’s even an hour late!”
She sighed. She looked around her cramped studio apartment. She dipped her hands in her trousers. Broke. Totally broke.
She had been paid on Saturday and now on Tuesday, she had already spent all her money.
“I’m tired of living from hand to mouth,” she groaned in frustration.
She had nothing. Just paint-stained hands and a headache that wouldn’t quit.
Her phone lit up. Tyler, her sickly younger brother with a terminal illness. Fourth message in an hour.
She grabbed it, wiping paint on her jeans. “I’m working.”
“Em.” His voice sounded wrong. Thin. “I need you at the hospital. Dr. Morrison wants to talk.”
The paintbrush hit the floor. “What happened? Did they find a donor?”
“Just come. Please.”
The line died.
Emma caught her reflection in the window. Twenty-six and she looked ancient. So much older than her age. Had dark circles, messy black hair and worn clothes.
St. Luke’s Hospital still smelled the same way. The way it had always smelt; of bleach and crushed hope.
Emma knew these hallways too well. The nurses nodded as she passed. Tyler’s room was on the cardiac floor, third door on the left.
He looked smaller than last week. Paler. Machines beeped around him, trying to keep his heart going just a little longer.
“Hey.” Emma forced herself to smile. “What’d the doctor say?”
Tyler wouldn’t look at her. “There’s this surgery. Experimental, but it could work.”
Emma’s eyes lit up with hope.
“That’s amazing! When……”
“Five hundred thousand dollars.”
The hope died fast.
“Insurance won’t cover it,” Tyler continued. “Too new, too risky. But Em, it’s my only shot. Without it, Morrison says I’ve got maybe six months.”
Emma sank into the chair by his bed. Five hundred thousand. She made thirty thousand a year juggling three jobs and her painting. She had already spent all her savings. Had sold all her things.
They were orphans. Their parents had died eight years ago in a fire accident leaving nothing but debts for them.
“We’ll figure it out,” Emma spoke, taking her brother’s cold hand. “I’ll pick up more shifts. Sell some paintings. There’s always a way.”
Tyler’s laugh came out bitter. “You’re already killing yourself. I can’t ask for more.”
“You’re not asking. I’m your sister.”
Evening came and Emma trekked to her workplace. A fancy restaurant that catered to the rich.
She didn’t even know why they hired her. Because such restaurants were known for hiring only experienced workers.
She’d worked there three years, watching people spend casually what she desperately needed.
“Emma, you’re on the Ashford party,” Marco said as she tied her apron. “Twenty guests, private room. Big spenders. Don’t fuck it up.”
The Ashford party was already drunk when Emma walked in with champagne. Designer suits, luxury dresses, jewelry that could fund Tyler’s surgery twice over.
“More wine.” A woman snapped her fingers without looking up.
Emma grabbed the bottle a bit annoyed. She regretted it few seconds later because the action caused the wine to spill out of the bottle.
The room went silent.
The woman stood, wine dripping, face twisted in rage. “You clumsy idiot! This dress cost eight thousand dollars!”
“I’m so sorry……”
“Sorry? Do you know who I am?”
“Relax, Vanessa.” A male voice cut through the tension, cold and bored. “It’s just a dress.”
Emma looked up to see the person. She froze, a blush appearing on her cheeks.
“Oh my! Is he human?!”
The man was extremely handsome. Talk, dark haired with piercing grey eyes and long lashes. He was so beautiful he took her breath away.
Her eyes fell on his suit. Its texture showed that it probably cost years of her rent.
“Just a dress?” The woman, Vanessa, whirled on him. “Damien, this is Valentino!”
Damien. Emma knew that name. Damien Cross, billionaire CEO, his face on every business magazine in the city.
He looked at Emma for the first time. “How much do you make?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your salary. I know it’s some measly sum but I still want to know.”
Emma’s face burned in embarrassment. “That’s none of……”
“Humor me.”
“Thirty thousand a year.”
His lip curled slightly. “Then you just destroyed a quarter of your annual income. Impressive.”
Something in Emma snapped. She was done. Done being invisible, done being poor, done with people like him looking through her like she was nothing.
“You’re right,” she said. “I can’t replace her dress. I can barely keep my brother alive. But at least I know what things actually cost. At least I’m not so dead inside that I measure everything in dollar signs.”
The room went silent. Damien’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. All that money but you can’t even buy basic manners. Fuck off.”
She took off her apron and threw it at his feet.
“I quit.”
She walked out with her head up, even though her hands shook and she’d just lost one of her three jobs.
In the employee room, Emma let herself shake. What had she done? Tyler needed that money. She couldn’t afford pride.
“Emma Chen?”
A woman stood at the door. Auburn hair, green eyes, tight fitted clothes. But most of all, she had a kind face.
“What do you want with me?”
“Hello. Nice to meet you,” she said, holding out a business card.
“Claire Winters. Mr. Cross’s personal assistant.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “He’d like to meet with you tomorrow. Eleven AM, Cross Tower.”
Emma stared at the card. “To sue me?”
“To make you an offer.” Claire’s smile widened. “Trust me, you’ll want to hear this.“
