Chapter 7

SCARLETT

Four days later, my feet were aching inside uncomfortable, cheap flats, and my smile felt glued to my face.

I was working at a particular Signature Collection, an exclusive retail boutique in the financial district that sold ridiculously expensive corporate gifts and leather goods. I was polishing the glass counters that held $5,000 fountain pens and pretending I hadn't been an analyst on the 50th floor just last week.

My uniform was a black, fitted dress that felt like a cheap imitation of my old corporate attire.

In my locker, hidden inside my beat-up purse, was the envelope. Carter’s blank check.

I had finally written the exact dollar amount of my owed severance and mailed it to my grandmother’s account. It was the only way to save her without staining my own conscience with his charity.

But that left me with forty dollars, which led to my current living arrangement. At 10:30 PM, after the manager had set the alarm and left, I didn’t go out the back door. I slipped into the tiny, rarely-used Inventory Room D, behind towering stacks of limited-edition leather briefcases.

I lay out on a garment box and curled up, shivering. It was quiet, dark, and utterly humiliating.

I missed Nora’s couch, her gossip, her nagging, but I couldn't go back. Nora’s roommate, Brenda, had been furious. I'd heard them arguing: Brenda complaining about the "trash" she brought in and the risk to the lease. I couldn't jeopardize Nora’s housing security. So, I lied, told her I had found a room near my new job, and settled into this temporary hell.

I don't want to be anyone's problem.

"Did you remember to check the locks on the display cases?"

That voice.

A familiar male voice echoed from the main floor.

I froze. It was Mr. Thompson, the boutique's manager, a fussy man.

Why would he be here? It's 11 PM for goddess' sake!

"Yes, Mr. Thompson. All secured." The second voice made my stomach drop.

No. Not him.

Footsteps approached the inventory section. Before I could scramble away, a beam of a phone flashlight cut through the dark aisle toward me.

"Just double-checking the stock count before the high-ups arrive for the review. They’re sending someone from Blackwood Financial—"

I started to fiddle with the corner of a tall shelf, grappling for a standing position without making a sound or tripping over my makeshift bed. But then the light swung down and landed directly on me.

My face.

I scrambled backward, pulling the thin cardigan I’d been using as a blanket over my leggings and top. I had just changed out of my uniform and was half-dressed in sleepwear.

"What in the actual hell?" Thompson shrieked, dropping his phone. "Wells? Is that you?"

"My God, it is her!" The second voice laughed, cruel and familiar.

Reynolds—a former colleague and friend of Caleb’s. He was wearing an expensive coat and a smug grin.

"From the 50th floor to sleeping with luggage."

Thompson stepped forward, his face red with outrage. "Lying here! Sleeping! You’re fired, Wells! You’re trespassing and potentially stealing high-value merchandise!"

"I haven't stolen anything!" I cried, crawling out from behind the boxes, my voice shaky and overwhelmed with embarrassment. I couldn't even look them in the eye when it's dark.

"She's always been a liability, Thompson," Reynolds reinforced, looking down his nose at me. "She committed gross negligence at Blackwood. She's desperate. It’s no surprise she's squatting. Maybe she was going to steal a briefcase to pay for her grandmother’s—"

"Reynolds!" I exploded, but this short-lived moment was cut off when Thompson fished his phone from his pocket.

"I’m calling the police."

The police? Jail? Leaving Gran alone and dying.

"No, please!" The plea scraped out of my throat. I scrambled to my feet, swaying slightly as the blood rushed to my head. "Mr. Thompson, I’ll leave. I’ll never come back. Just don’t—"

"Too late," Thompson snapped, his thumb hovering over the dial pad. "I run a respectable business, not a homeless shelter for embezzlers."

"Why are you being dramatic? I didn't steal anything. And if you truly suspect I did, why aren't you searching me?" I couldn't stand it; I spat.

Reynolds stepped closer. "Save your breath. You’re done, Scarlett. Caleb really dodged a bullet with you."

The walls of the stockroom seemed to tilt. Police meant an arrest record. It meant background checks I wouldn’t pass. It meant Gran waiting for a call that would never come, wondering why I had abandoned her. The image of her pale face, alone in that hospital bed, snapped something violent inside my chest.

Terror replaced the shame. A survival instinct flooded my veins.

I couldn't be trapped here. Not now. Not by them.

While Thompson was busy on his phone, I bolted out of the room, shoving past Reynolds, who stumbled back in surprise.

I was running blindly for the service exit, leaving my luggage behind. I rounded the corner of the display of diamond watches and slammed breathlessly into a solid chest.

The impact spun me around. Strong hands gripped my arms, preventing my fall.

The air shifted; I was instantly overwhelmed by that familiar scent of masculinity wrapped in danger.

I looked up, gasping, meeting a familiar pair of amber eyes.

Carter Blackwood.

Again.

It seemed the universe had bottled us up in a cruel, cosmic conspiracy to play, and he has a front-row seat to my every humiliation.

He was dressed in a charcoal suit, and his expression was one of shock. Very rare. He was flanked by two nervous executives. He had arrived for the corporate inspection.

At 11 PM.

What the hell is happening? Or is there something wrong with the time on my phone?

"Ms. Wells!" Thompson yelled, rushing toward us. Seeing Carter, he quickly composed himself, smoothing his suit.

"She’s trespassing! She was sleeping in inventory..."

He goes on and on explaining while Carter plays deaf. He looked at my bare feet, my shaking frame, and the look of pure terror in my eyes.

His eyes narrowed. He stayed silent for some time before snatching the fine wool coat from the arm of one of the executives and wrapping it around me.

Not just that. He didn't stop. He shielded my body from the gaze of the gaping people around.

And then...

"Not another word," he commanded, his voice deadly quiet. He didn't look at Thompson or Reynolds; his fury was focused on the air around us.

Then, with surprising gentleness that shocked me to my bones, he lifted me into his arms and carried me toward the locked VIP fitting room.

I stiffened, my face stuck in an expression that had "What the hell?" written all over it.

I don't feel safe. I know I should be, but I don't. At least that's what I tell myself. Not after what he did to me, how he keeps loosening the knots in his brain. And yet I don't know why I still feel this warmth, this connection each time he appears out of thin air. Like he's some kind of guardian angel with a touch of chaos.

He kicked the door shut behind us, setting me down on a velvet bench.

I didn't speak, waiting for him to say something that would make this whole scene look realistic because this is giving 'Fake.' It felt less like a rescue and more like a stage set.

I'm waiting, the cold seeping through the coat into my skin.

I sank onto the soft fabric, unable to look him in the eye as I buried my face in his borrowed coat.

He stood over me, his hands clenching and unclenching.

"Why?" I finally choked out into the fabric. "Why are you here? Why do you keep seeing me like this?"

He lowered himself onto the bench beside me. He didn't touch me, but the heat of his presence was overwhelming.

He stared into the panic in my eyes.

"Because," he murmured, his voice rough in the exact way I hated and craved, "it’s getting harder and harder for me to leave you like this."