Chapter 4 - THE TWELVE-THOUSAND-DOLLAR SECRET
I walked into the kitchen holding my phone.
"Mom."
She looked up from the newspaper.
"Sweetheart?"
"Did Vincent give you twelve thousand dollars?"
The color drained from her face.
I didn't need another answer.
"Mom."
She removed her glasses.
"Emily, please sit down."
"No."
My voice cracked.
"I want to know why a man I barely know sent you twelve thousand dollars."
She stared at her hands.
"After I collapsed outside Bellini's, the hospital found an irregularity with my heart."
"I know."
"They recommended additional testing."
"I know that too."
"What I didn't tell you was that my insurance denied part of the treatment."
I felt the floor shift beneath me.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you were already working two jobs."
"Mom—"
"Because you had given up nursing school. Because you were exhausted. Because I watched you count pennies at the grocery store and pretend you weren't hungry."
Tears filled her eyes.
"I couldn't bear to take one more thing from you."
I sat down.
"Vincent offered to help?"
She nodded.
"I refused twice."
"Then what happened?"
"He arranged payment through a medical assistance fund. I insisted on signing a repayment agreement."
I stared at her.
"You borrowed twelve thousand dollars from him?"
"From the fund. The agreement is in my drawer."
I covered my face.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I was ashamed."
That word hurt.
My mother had worked thirty years as a public-school secretary.
She'd raised me alone after my father died.
She had never asked for anything.
And now she thought needing medical care was something to be ashamed of.
I reached across the table.
"Mom, you didn't do anything wrong."
She began crying.
The next morning, I called Vincent.
"You paid for my mother's treatment."
He was silent.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because she needed it."
"Did you think I wouldn't find out?"
"I hoped she'd tell you when she was ready."
I closed my eyes.
"Do you understand how this looks?"
"Yes."
"Like you're buying your way into my life."
"I know."
"Then why did you do it?"
His voice became very quiet.
"Because four years ago, Isabella asked me to help fund a clinic. I told her I was too busy."
I said nothing.
"Three months later, she was dead."
He exhaled.
"I've spent four years trying to become someone who doesn't make that mistake again."
I looked toward my mother's bedroom.
"That doesn't mean you get to decide what help we accept."
"You're right."
"And if we repay the money, I don't want anyone stopping us."
"I won't."
I swallowed.
"Good."
A pause.
Then I added, "Thank you for helping her."
"You're welcome."
That afternoon, Tyler appeared outside our apartment building.
I spotted him through the window.
He wore a designer coat and carried an expensive watch I'd helped him pay for when we were together.
My stomach tightened.
He rang the buzzer.
I didn't answer.
Then my phone rang.
"Emily, open the door."
"No."
"Don't be dramatic."
"You humiliated me in public."
He laughed.
"You're famous now. You should thank me."
I stared at the wall.
"What do you want?"
"Five minutes."
"No."
His voice hardened.
"You think DeLuca's going to keep you around? Men like him don't marry women like you."
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The familiar cruelty.
The old script.
But this time, something inside me refused to follow it.
"Tyler, I don't care what you think anymore."
Silence.
Then he said, "You should."
The call ended.
A minute later, an envelope slid beneath our apartment door.
Inside was a photograph of me leaving the hotel where I'd met Vincent.
On the back, someone had written:
TYLER ISN'T THE ONE YOU SHOULD BE AFRAID OF.
May you like
And beneath that:
ASK VINCENT ABOUT SEBASTIAN ROURKE.
