Robert watched from the tinted safety of his Rolls-Royce as Linda emerged from the building and vanished into the gray downpour of Ottawa. He told himself he was just curious about the "liability" he had just fired, but as he trailed her at a distance, his obsession with order began to clash violently with the reality of her life.
She stopped at a rusted street cart under a flickering neon sign. Robert watched, horrified, as a vendor with grease-stained sleeves handed her a crumpled paper sleeve of steaming, glistening street meat. To Robert, it looked like a biological hazard; he watched the vendor wipe his hands on a filthy rag and felt his stomach turn. He expected Linda to look disgusted. Instead, she stood right there in the lashing rain, leaning against a cold concrete barrier, and ate as if it were her first meal in days.
The rain doused her, turning her thin clothing into a second skin. The fabric of her trainers and hoodie clung to her curves, highlighting the shivering strength of her frame. She looked miserable, drenched, and utterly alone—yet she didn't seek shelter. She just stood there, taking the brunt of the storm.
Robert's hand moved to the door handle. A strange, impulsive urge seized him.
He was about to signal his driver to pull over when a roar of an engine cut through the sound of the storm.
A sleek, powerful motorbike skidded to a halt beside her. The rider was a strikingly handsome man with a rugged jawline and an easy, confident air. Robert watched, frozen, as the man hopped off the bike and immediately wrapped a dry jacket around Linda's shaking shoulders.
The most disturbing part for Robert wasn't the man—it was Linda's reaction. The woman who had pinned a giant at the gym and grabbed a billionaire by the throat suddenly looked... relieved. Her guard didn't just drop; it evaporated. She leaned into the stranger, wrapping her arms around his waist in a tight, desperate hug, burying her wet face against his chest.
The sight felt like a physical blow to Robert's chest. He didn't understand the sudden, hot flash of territorial anger that surged through him. He didn't know this woman. He had just fired her. She was "filthy" and "careless," yet seeing her seek comfort in another man's arms made his blood boil.
"Sir? Should we continue to the office?" the driver asked tentatively.
Robert's eyes remained fixed on the motorbike as it sped away, Linda clinging to the handsome rider.
"No," Robert snapped, his voice tight with an emotion he couldn't name. "Drive."
He reached out and slammed his hand against the leather console, his foot instinctively hovering over an imaginary pedal. The Rolls-Royce engine roared as they accelerated past the spot where she had stood, leaving nothing behind but a splash of dirty rainwater against the curb.
The bike wove through traffic with a frantic urgency that Robert's driver struggled to match. They pulled up to the emergency entrance of Ottawa General, a place that smelled of antiseptic and desperation—the polar opposite of Robert's world.
The man on the bike was Marcus, a childhood friend who was the only person Linda allowed into her inner circle. He didn't even park properly; he hopped off and helped a shivering Linda toward the sliding glass doors. Robert followed at a distance, his expensive Italian shoes clicking rhythmically on the linoleum floors, his presence entirely out of place among the grieving families and tired nurses.
He watched from the end of a long, fluorescent-lit corridor as Linda and Marcus entered Room 402. Through the small rectangular window in the door, Robert caught a fleeting glimpse: a frail woman hooked up to a rhythmic, wheezing ventilator.
He saw Linda collapse into a chair by the bedside, her head in her hands. Marcus stood over her, his hand resting on her shoulder in a gesture of intimate support. Robert felt that same sharp, ugly pang of jealousy again, but it was quickly replaced by a cold realization.
This was the "careless" life he had mocked. This was the "nonsense" she didn't have time for.
A few minutes later, the door creaked open. Linda emerged alone. She didn't see Robert shadowed in the alcove of the vending machines. Her face was a mask of sheer, raw exhaustion, stripped of the street fighter's bravado. She looked like a woman who had been holding up the sky and was finally beginning to crumble.
She didn't head for the exit. She headed for the stairs.
Driven by a compulsion he couldn't explain, Robert followed her up to the rooftop. The rain had turned into a cold, biting mist. He pushed the heavy metal door open just in time to see her standing at the edge of the roof, her hands gripping the rusted railing so hard her knuckles were white.
She was just breathing—deep, jagged gasps of freezing air, as if she were trying to fill a hollow space in her chest that the world kept trying to empty. The wind whipped her damp hair across her face.
"The street food usually tastes better when it isn't seasoned with rainwater," Robert said softly, his voice cutting through the wind.
Linda didn't jump or scream. She didn't even turn around. She knew that cold, arrogant baritone anywhere.
"Go away, Mr. Greg," she whispered, her voice sounding dangerously thin. "The show is over. I'm fired, remember? You don't have to watch the 'filthy' people anymore."
Linda whirled around, her eyes flashing with a predatory light that even the hospital's dim rooftop lights couldn't dampen. She looked like a cornered animal—wet, exhausted, and twice as dangerous because she had nothing left to lose.
"You followed me?" she spat, taking a step toward him. "What's the matter, Robert? Did you miss a spot on the Maybach? Did you come all the way down here just to get a front-row seat to the 'pedestrian' life you find so disgusting?"
Robert stood his ground, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his designer overcoat. "I came to see why a woman who values money so much would walk away from a paycheck."
"You fired me!" she yelled, the sound echoing off the brick chimneys of the rooftop. "And now you're stalking me at a hospital? You want to see the 'filthy' reality of my life? Is this a game to you? A little field trip to see how the other half survives so you can go back to your penthouse and feel clean again?"
She marched right into his personal space, her wet hoodie dripping onto his shoes. She didn't care. She poked a finger hard into his chest.
"You don't know me. You don't know what it's like to choose between a bus pass and a bottle of antibiotics. So take your silk suit and get off my shadow. I don't want your pity, and I damn sure don't want your presence."
Robert looked down at her, his face unreadable. He could feel the heat radiating off her despite the cold rain—a raw, honest fury that made his perfectly ordered life feel like a hollow shell.
"I don't offer pity, Linda," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. "It's an inefficient emotion."
"Then get out!" she shrieked, her voice finally breaking. She turned back to the railing, her shoulders shaking with a sob she was trying desperately to swallow. "Just leave me alone."
Robert didn't leave. Instead, he stepped closer, his shadow falling over her as the rain began to pick up again. He saw the way she looked at the city—as if it were a monster trying to swallow her whole—and for the first time in his life, he didn't feel the need to fix the mess. He just felt the need to be in it with her.