Chapter 3 - Unspoken Allegiances
When Emma woke up at seven in the morning, the rain had stopped, replaced by a harsh gray Chicago fog filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
She opened her eyes, blinked blindly at the vaulted ceiling, and then stiffened as her brain registered the sheer, decadent luxury around her. She looked down at the hand with the IV tape, then at the silk duvet covering her legs.
Then she saw me.
I was sitting ten feet away at my massive dark oak desk, fully dressed in a tailored black suit, sipping black coffee while reviewing financial ledgers on three curved monitors.
Emma scrambled backward on the bed so fast she nearly pulled the IV line out of her arm. "Oh God," she breathed, her voice cracking with sheer panic. "Oh God, I... I fell asleep. Mr. Vance, I am so sorry. Please, I was just wiping the baseboards and I sat down for a second—"
"Shut up, Emma," I said without looking away from my monitors.
She swung her legs over the side of the mattress, her hands shaking as she tried to peel the medical tape off her skin. "I'll pack my things. I'll leave right now. You don't have to call security. Please don't deduct it from my check, I really need—"
"I said shut up," I repeated, turning my chair around to face her.
The silence that followed was suffocating. She sat on the edge of the bed, her shoulders hunched, breathing fast, waiting for the monster everyone warned her about to destroy her.
I reached into my desk drawer, pulled out a thick manila envelope, and tossed it onto the mattress beside her. It landed with a heavy, dense thud.
"What is that?" she asked quietly.
"Ten thousand dollars in cash," I said flatly. "Consider it an advance on your new contract."
She stared at the envelope, then looked up at me, her brown eyes widening in confusion rather than greed. "I don't understand. I fell asleep on your bed. You should be firing me."
"I fire people who are useless," I said, leaning forward in my chair, resting my forearms on my knees. "You aren't useless. You're just remarkably stupid."
Her jaw tightened, a familiar flash of that quiet defiance returning to her gaze. "I'm not stupid."
"You work twenty hours a day for pocket change while a scumbag named Victor Rosas charges you forty percent illegal interest on a debt your late father ran up," I said, watching her face pale as she realized I knew. "You're starving yourself to keep your mother in a third-rate facility that doesn't even change her linens twice a week."
Emma’s hands clenched into fists against her lap. "How do you know about Apex Finance? Did you search my pockets?"
"I own half the underground in this city, Emma," I replied coldly. "I don't need to search your pockets to know who is bleeding you dry. As of eight o'clock this morning, you no longer work at the diner. You no longer work private home care. You work exclusively for me."
"I didn't agree to that," she whispered.
"Your mother was transferred two hours ago," I continued, ignoring her protest. "She is currently being settled into St. Jude’s Private Pavilion in North Shore. Single room, twenty-four-hour specialized neurological staff, private garden. The bill is paid six months in advance."
Emma froze. A single, silent tear spilled over her lower lash line, followed by another. She looked at me like I had just dropped a bomb on her life. "Why would you do that? You don't even like me. You throw paperweights at therapists."
"I throw paperweights at idiots who treat me like a corpse," I snapped. "You treated me like a human being who was being a pain in the ass. I prefer your approach."
I wheeled myself closer to her until the footrests of my chair almost brushed her shoes.
"Your new title is personal assistant and house manager. Your salary is one hundred and twenty thousand a year, plus medical benefits. In exchange, you make sure my pills are organized, you clean this wing, and you look me in the eye when I'm having a bad night."
Emma looked from the cash on the bed to my face. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her faded apron, her voice barely audible. "Why are you doing this, Mr. Vance? What do you want from me?"
"I want Victor Rosas to lose," I said softly, the hatred in my chest burning like fresh fire. "And right now, helping you is the easiest way to remind him that I am still alive."
She looked at me for a long time, searching my hard, scarred face for any sign of a trap. Finding none, she swallowed hard and reached out, picking up the envelope.
May you like
"I don't take charity," she said, her voice steadying. "I'll earn every penny."
"Good," I said, turning my chair back toward my monitors. "Start by taking that IV out, eating the breakfast on the tray by the door, and getting out of that hideous apron."
