Morning barely touched the east side of the city, its pale sun struggling to break through the heavy smog that hovered over the rooftops. In a cramped, crumbling apartment sat Eliana Bennett and her father, Frank, trying to make sense of this new chapter they hadn't asked for. Dampness clung to the peeling walls, and every corner whispered of forgotten lives and quiet surrender.
Eliana spent yesterday unpacking what little they owned, folding faded clothes into rickety drawers and stacking cracked dishes in cupboards that groaned at her touch. Her chest felt hollow the entire time. Jason Asher—she didn't even know if she could call him her fiancé anymore—hadn't called, hadn't texted, hadn't bothered to ask why she'd walked out of his family's glittering world or where she'd taken her frail father.
She kept glancing at her phone, at that bright photo of them smiling in the spring sun. It felt like another lifetime. Now, the screen stayed dark in her hand, a silent reminder that she might be the only one holding onto what they once were.
Jason, meanwhile, was tangled in satin sheets at Sarai Monroe's penthouse, his golden hair disheveled, his hazel eyes clouded with fleeting guilt. He hadn't meant to abandon Eliana—not entirely. He still felt a pang for her, for the girl who'd once made his heart race with her quiet strength and honey-brown eyes. But the weight of his family's wealth, the sneers of his high-society friends, and Sarai's whispered promises had pulled him away. "You have to let go. She's not one of us anymore," Sarai had purred the night before, her eyes glinting as she traced a finger along his jaw. "You deserve better, Jason. Someone who fits."
"I know," he'd muttered, shoving down the unease in his chest. "But… Eliana's been through so much. Maybe I should check on her."
Sarai's laugh was sharp, like glass. "Check on her? Oh, please. She's probably fine, leeching off someone else's kindness. Let her go, Jason. You're an Asher. Act like it."
He'd nodded, swallowing his guilt, and let Sarai's lips distract him from the ache. Eliana, he told himself, would survive. She always did.
Back in the east end, Eliana's first night in the new apartment had been a descent into chaos. Gunshots cracked in the distance, sharp and jarring, making her jolt upright in the lumpy bed she shared with Frank. At 2:00 a.m., the upstairs neighbor's screams pierced the night, a tirade against her children that rattled the thin ceiling. Somewhere nearby, music blared—thumping bass and screeching vocals that turned the apartment into a nightclub's echo. Eliana clutched the woven blanket, her heart pounding, her eyes darting to Frank's weak form on the couch. His breathing was shallow, his face pale under the flickering light of a streetlamp outside.
"Papa, you okay?" she whispered, slipping out of bed to kneel beside him, her voice trembling.
Frank's eyes fluttered open, his smile weak but warm. "Just noise, Eli. Don't you worry. We've faced worse. Go back to bed honey."
She forced a nod, but fear gnawed at her. This neighborhood, with its violence and decay, could steal what little strength Frank had left. But they had no choice—no money, no options, just this rotting roof over their heads. "We'll make it work," she said, squeezing his hand. "We always do."
The next morning, Eliana rose with the dawn, her body heavy with exhaustion but her spirit stubbornly alight. She prepared breakfast in the cramped kitchen—a meager spread of toast and watery coffee, the best she could manage with her dwindling savings. Frank watched her from the couch, his eyes soft with pride.
"You're too good to me, Eli," he rasped, taking a sip of the coffee. "This… this is home because of you."
She smiled, though her heart ached. "Eat up, Papa. I've got to get ready for work. Sarai found me a job, and it starts today."
"A job?" Frank's brow furrowed. "What kind of job?"
"Caregiver," she said brightly, hiding her nerves. "For a man named Rafael Vexley. Sarai says it's steady work. Good pay."
Frank's eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded. "Be careful, Eli. Rich folk can be… unkind."
"I'll be fine," she promised, kissing his forehead. In the broken bathroom, where the sink dripped and the mirror was cracked, she bathed quickly, the cold water biting her skin. She slipped into a dress her grandfather had bought her two years ago—a simple but elegant navy frock, its fabric still soft despite its age. It was her armor, a reminder of better days. She brushed her long, curly hair, pinning it back to frame her heart-shaped face, and checked her reflection. "You can do this," she whispered to herself, her brown eyes fierce with determination.
Bidding Frank goodbye, she grabbed the address Sarai had texted her and stepped into the gritty morning. The taxi ride to Rafael Vexley's estate was a journey through worlds—from the east end's decay to a realm of unimaginable wealth. When the cab pulled up to the gates of Vexley's estate, Eliana's breath caught. The property sprawled like a kingdom, its manicured lawns stretching endlessly, its mansion a monolith of glass and stone that dwarfed the Asher estate tenfold. Marble statues lined the drive, their faces stern, as if guarding secrets. The iron gates loomed, topped with spikes that gleamed in the sunlight.
Eliana approached the security booth, her heart thudding. Two guards, burly men in crisp uniforms, eyed her curiously. "I'm Eliana Bennett," she said, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach. "I'm here for the caregiver position. Mr. Vexley is expecting me."
The guards exchanged a glance, their expressions hard to decipher. One raised an eyebrow, the other shook his head slightly, a gesture Eliana missed as she clutched the strap of her bag. The first guard muttered into a radio, "New caregiver's here. Bennett." A crackling voice responded, and he nodded. "Go on in," he said, his tone laced with something like pity. "Good luck."
Eliana frowned slightly but thanked them, stepping through the gates. The driveway felt endless, the crunch of gravel under her shoes the only sound besides the distant chirp of birds. The mansion loomed closer, its windows like eyes watching her approach. A butler, stiff and formal, met her at the grand entrance and led her through a foyer that gleamed with marble and crystal. Chandeliers glittered overhead, creating rainbows across the walls. Eliana's nice dress felt like a rag in comparison, but she squared her shoulders, refusing to feel small.
The butler guided her to a vast living room, its walls lined with bookshelves and modern art, its furniture sleek and cold. At its center sat Rafael Vexley, slumped in a wheelchair, his tall frame draped in a crisp black suit. His dark, wavy hair fell over his forehead, and his steel-grey eyes—clouded, or so it seemed—stared blankly ahead. He was yelling, his voice a low, venomous growl that sent a chill through Eliana.
"You call this coffee?" Rafael snapped, his hand gripping a porcelain cup. A young maid stood before him, her face pale, her hands clasped tightly. "It's sludge! Do you think I'm some fool who can't tell the difference?"
"I-I'm sorry, sir," the maid stammered, her voice trembling. "I'll make another—"
"Don't bother!" Rafael's arm shot out, hurling the cup at her. The maid gasped, ducking just in time as the porcelain shattered against the shiny marble floor, fragments skittering like tiny blades.
Eliana froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes widened, her pulse racing as she took in the scene—the maid's trembling form, Rafael's cold fury, the glittering shards on the floor. Fear coiled in her chest, but she forced herself to step forward, her voice soft but firm. "Mr. Vexley?"
Rafael's head snapped toward her, his grey eyes narrowing, though they seemed unfocused, as if he couldn't see her. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded, his tone sharp enough to cut.
Eliana swallowed, her hands tightening around her bag. "I'm Eliana Bennett. Your new caregiver."
The maid scurried away, casting a grateful glance at Eliana. Rafael's lips curled into a sneer, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Another one? What's this, the fifth this month? Did they warn you I'm a nightmare, Miss Bennett?"
Eliana's heart pounded, but she met his gaze, her voice steady despite the fear. "They didn't need to. I can handle a challenge."
Rafael's laugh was cold, mirthless. "Oh, you're brave. Or stupid. We'll see which." He gestured to the shattered cup. "Clean that up. And don't expect me to thank you."
Eliana hesitated, her eyes flicking to the shards, then back to Rafael. His face was a mask of disdain, but beneath it, she glimpsed something—pain, perhaps, or loneliness. She knelt, gathering the pieces carefully, her hands steady despite the storm in her chest. This was her new reality, and she'd face it head-on, just as she always had.