Chapter 7 - THE PRICE OF A DREAM
The police found our apartment in chaos.
Drawers emptied.
Closet doors open.
My mother's photographs scattered across the floor.
But the television remained.
So did her jewelry.
Even the emergency cash hidden inside an old cookbook was untouched.
Whoever entered had been searching for documents.
My nursing school records.
My mother's medical paperwork.
And the repayment agreement connected to Vincent's assistance fund.
I stood in the doorway, shaking.
Mom came home twenty minutes later.
She took one look at the living room and began crying.
I held her while the police photographed the damage.
For the first time, I felt furious with Vincent.
Not because he had caused the break-in.
But because knowing him had brought a danger I didn't understand into our lives.
When he arrived, I met him in the hallway.
"You need to stay away from us."
He stopped.
"Emily—"
"No."
My voice cracked.
"Someone broke into our home. My mother is terrified. I can't even go to work without people filming me."
He looked at me.
"I understand."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then leave."
For a moment, I thought he would argue.
Instead, he nodded.
"I'll make sure the police have everything my people know. After that, I won't contact you unless you ask."
He turned.
Then stopped.
"Emily, I'm sorry."
I watched him walk away.
And hated how badly I wanted him to stay.
Three days later, an email arrived from a foundation I'd never heard of.
Congratulations, Emily Carter. You have been selected for a full nursing scholarship.
I stared at the screen.
The scholarship covered tuition.
Books.
Living expenses.
Everything.
For one impossible moment, I wanted to scream with happiness.
Then I read the conditions.
The award required a confidentiality agreement.
It prohibited me from discussing the foundation's donors.
And it included a clause requiring me to withdraw any public statements involving certain private individuals.
One name appeared in the attached document.
Vincent DeLuca.
My stomach dropped.
I searched the foundation's registration records.
Its controlling donor was a subsidiary of Rourke Capital Partners.
Sebastian Rourke.
I called the foundation.
A woman answered.
"Congratulations, Miss Carter."
"I have a question about the agreement."
"Of course."
"Why does it mention Vincent DeLuca?"
A pause.
"That's standard language."
"No, it isn't."
"Miss Carter, the scholarship is worth more than one hundred thousand dollars."
"I can read."
Another pause.
"We understand your family has significant financial needs."
My hand tightened around the phone.
"Who told you about my family?"
Silence.
Then the woman said, "Mr. Rourke would be happy to explain everything in person."
I ended the call.
That evening, I sat at the kitchen table staring at the scholarship.
One hundred thousand dollars.
A future I'd wanted since I was nineteen.
A chance to stop carrying trays until my feet ached.
A chance to become the nurse I'd always dreamed of being.
All I had to do was sign.
And help someone use my silence against Vincent.
My mother sat beside me.
"Emily, what are you going to do?"
I looked at the document.
Then at the photograph of my father on the refrigerator.
He'd been a mechanic.
He'd worked twelve-hour days.
And he'd always told me one thing.
Never let someone buy the part of you that knows right from wrong.
I closed the laptop.
"I'm going to find another way."
The next morning, Sebastian Rourke called personally.
His voice was smooth.
"Miss Carter, I understand you've declined our generous offer."
"Yes."
"May I ask why?"
"Because I don't sell people."
He laughed softly.
"Everyone has a price."
"Then you haven't met everyone."
His voice cooled.
"Be careful, Emily. Dreams are expensive."
I swallowed.
"So is blackmail."
For the first time, he stopped laughing.
Then he said, "You really have no idea what DeLuca has done."
"Then tell the police."
Silence.
I continued.
"If you have evidence, use it. If you don't, stop contacting me."
I hung up.
May you like
My hands shook.
But I didn't regret a word.
