You're terminating my employment? For being ten minutes late?" I sound more weary than furious, and how does one muster up anger when your life has already been a grueling fight for months?
Mr. Kelvin showed no indication of concern. To him, my clock in time was some form of sacred text, and his gaze was glued to the printed calendar. Ariella, this is not a one-off incident. You've been distracted. Inconsistent. And to put it bluntly: your personal affairs are influencing your work; we need people who can come to work."
"I have a sister who seizes!" I exclaimed out of nowhere. "She's thirteen. I'm all she has."
No words. No consolation. Not a glimmer of understanding. Just a shrug and silence.
He gently gave me the letter of termination at my request.
"You're a good girl. I'm sorry. But we're running a business."
I fixated my gaze on the paper. Then at his eyes. I stood up and walked out without begging, crying, or any hints of emotion. All I felt was numbness. Because this? This was only additively painful in the aching sting of a myriad punches from the universe deepening.
It started in deepening pain two hours later. Ma'am, I don't know what else to say,' the apartment manager huffed, his arms crossed. "You've missed 2 months of rent, your stuff has been boxed and you need to leave by tonight."
I stood looking at the building I called home for three years. Everything I owned, my entire life, was behind that door, and I didn't have enough money for a motel.
"Can I just have until tomorrow?"
"Midnight."
"Now you've really lost the plot. I just need a little time," I begged.
In response, the man simply turned and walked off. With each step I felt my legs begin to buckle under the immense weight pressing down on me like a tidal wave.
That was the moment my phone began to ring.
"Elle?" Amira asked, exhausted. "I am at the nurse's office, and I think I am having a panic attack."
Sunset did not mean the end of our day; it marked our visit to the emergency room. "Her oxygen levels dipped," said the nurse. "We've stabilized her for now, but your sister will need that surgery. " The longer we wait…
I seized up. The estimate paper she kept shifting in her hand looked ominous, wearing a price tag of $47,300, and I could not shake the feeling it was some form of a death sentence.
Who in the world is offering $47,300?
That night, I envisioned myself delivering flower bouquets, dog walking, and even performing telegrams in dumb costumes, anything to make $47,300. Whatever it takes, I will survive.
By Saturday, I had four jobs lined up and absolutely no energy left. One of them was a rush floral order to a charity gala for some billionaire uptown. I had no intention of picking up the order. It was only because my supervisor called out that I had any shifts left.
"Drop roses, collect signatures, smile, exit." With the arrangement balanced, I muttered the steps through the gold-plated doors of the Crystal Manor Hotel.
The air inside was stifling but laced with a mix of expensive perfumes. Waiters floated through the room and served champagne while women adorned in diamond jewelry, twinkling as brightly as the flash bulbs of their cameras . I made sure to keep my head down.
I whispered, "Delivery for table seven," to a nearby server. He pointed to the far exit of the ballroom.
That was when it happened.
My sneaker snagged on the silk carpet's edge. My arms flailed as the flower vase tilted forward. I heard the faint burn of petals crushing and—bang!
I crashed into a broad, tall torso that reeked of danger and midnight. At the same moment, I felt anger build up as I blurted out, "Oh, my bad! I'm so sorry, I…"
It felt like time froze when I looked up.
The man who had a gaze that felt like ice and fire at the same time was a looker by anyone's standards. His sharp jaw cut against high cheekbones wrapped in a black tailored suit and a disapproving scowl. Beautiful and scary all at once.
"Watch where you're going," he coolly replied.
"I… I never intended to…"
Click. Click. Click.
I blinked against the flashes of light and the reporters' cameras, which went off brighter than what I could remember. I felt as if I were being devoured by a photographer's shark.
"Damon! Who is the girl?" one of the reporters exclaimed, while the other asked, "Are you dating again, and is she the mysterious woman you have been referring to?"
Even though the comments were obnoxious, the last one that said, "Flower Girl, smile for the camera" was the last straw.
"Hold on, is she crying?" another in the back added.
Suddenly the bouquet that dropped on my lap was within my reach, and my heart felt like it was racing, so I picked it up and walked away.
The back service door to the hall was my only way to escape, and by the time I got to the door, it was much too late. Too much time had been spent, and I have long been plastered all over the internet.
The following morning, I could see the trending headlines on the internet. "Billionaire spotted crying over flower girl" or "Billionaire spotted with new crying flower girl at charitable gala" was all the rage on the internet. The hashtags were self-explanatory "Damon with flower girl" or "Damon and Elle. I sat staring at my shattered phone screen, the last 5 tabloid pages scrolling by, and waited.
What just happened?