Chapter 2: This Isn't A Resort For Rich People

Claire's POV

The elevator doors open, and I'm swiping my card for the last time. Thirty-seventh floor. The glass door reads "TechNova - Executive Suite" in gold lettering, catching the morning light. My fingers pause on the handle for one second. Ten years. This is the last time I'm pushing this door open.

Ethan's sitting in that black leather chair, resignation papers spread in front of him. He looks like he hasn't slept. His shirt is wrinkled, collar open, eyes bloodshot. The ashtray on his desk is overflowing with cigarette butts. Behind him, Seattle's skyline stretches through floor-to-ceiling windows, the Space Needle barely visible through morning fog.

He looks up, voice rough. "You sure about this?"

"Yeah."

Silence. He stares at me for a long moment, fingers drumming on the desk.

He stands suddenly. "Claire, you know every important decision I've made in the past twenty years..."

He stops. Takes a deep breath. His fingers rub his temples.

His voice goes cold. "Forget it. Just sign and get the fuck out."

I pick up the pen. Three documents. My signature goes on each one, every letter careful, steady. The pen scratching across paper is the only sound in this silent office. Ethan turns toward the window, his back to me, shoulders tight.

I open my desk drawer and pull out a small cardboard box. Only three things inside: a succulent plant I've kept alive for five years, leaves slightly wilted because I always forget to water it. A photo of us at sixteen, standing in front of Evergreen's red brick building. A notebook filled with timestamps of midnight calls and emergencies.

I look around this office one last time. That chair I've sat in for ten years. The coffee machine that never stops running. The wall covered in Post-it notes.

"Goodbye, Ethan," I say quietly.

He doesn't turn around.

The elevator descends. 37...30...20...10. With each floor, the weight lifts a little more. When the doors open at ground level, sunlight streams through the lobby glass.

This is the first time sunlight doesn't hurt. The first time breathing comes easy. The first time I don't have to worry about my phone ringing.

I slide into my old sedan. Ethan always said I should get something better, but I never bothered. Now this car is taking me away from Seattle. Away from him.

Skyscrapers become suburbs become forests. Concrete and steel become wooden houses become dirt roads. Chain coffee shops disappear into empty highways. Then I see it: "Welcome to Evergreen, Pop. 4,832."

Last time I came back was three years ago for Mrs. Rodriguez's seventieth birthday. I stayed one day before rushing back. Ethan had an investor meeting. He needed me. Now, nobody needs me anymore. Or rather, I don't need to be needed like that anymore.

Main Street looks the same. The grocery store, hardware store, that old diner. Afternoon sun slants across nearly empty streets. The air smells like pine and earth.

The red brick building hasn't changed. The oak tree by the entrance is bigger, its trunk carved with countless children's names. The swing creaks gently in the breeze.

I push open the front door. A bell chimes. At the desk sits an unfamiliar girl. Early twenties, blonde ponytail, wearing a hoodie that says "Evergreen Staff."

She looks up, eyes widening. "Oh my God! You're Claire, right?!"

"How did you..."

"Mrs. Rodriguez has your photo! In her office! She always says you and Ethan are the most successful kids who came from here!"

"Is she around?"

Her face falls. "She's in Olympia. State funding meeting. Won't be back for three days."

Pause. She tilts her head, smile warm. "But I can help! Are you here to see the kids?"

I hesitate, fingers gripping my bag strap. "Actually... I want to stay for a while. Help with the children. I need to... find my direction."

Saying it out loud makes me feel ridiculous. Twenty-nine years old, running from Seattle back to an orphanage, saying I need to find direction.

But her eyes light up. "Perfect! We're so short-staffed right now! East wing's under renovation, and counselor Luca can barely keep up alone. Wait here, I'll get you a room!"

She bounces up the stairs, ponytail swinging behind her.

I stand alone in the lobby. Children's drawings cover the walls. Crayon scribbles, crooked letters spelling "Home." The bulletin board is pinned with activity schedules. Luca's name appears every single day. The air smells like disinfectant and children, mixed with something cooking.

---

The next morning, sunlight floods the playroom. Seven kids sit in a circle. Ages six to eleven. Construction paper, glue, scissors scattered everywhere.

Emma, seven years old with brown hair, quietly cuts paper, but her grip on the scissors is wrong. Fingers too close to the blade. Tyler, ten, builds blocks in the corner, occasionally glancing at me. Ben, eight, sits against the wall clutching a box of building toys.

I'm crouching beside another child, helping with glue. "Very good! Just like that, slowly..."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Emma's fingers sliding toward the blade.

"Stop."

A cold male voice from the doorway.

A tall figure stands backlit. I look up as he walks in. At least six-foot-two, dark messy hair. Gray-blue eyes. Black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He radiates coldness.

He strides to Emma and crouches down, his voice suddenly gentle. "Hey, sweetheart. Remember what I taught you? Thumb goes here..."

He adjusts the little girl's finger position carefully. "Just like that. Good girl."

Emma giggles.

Then he stands, turns to me. The gentleness vanishes.

"If you don't know how to supervise kids with sharp objects, you shouldn't be in charge of craft time."

I freeze, then frown. "I just didn't notice for a second. Emma's fine."

"This time." He cuts me off. "What about next time?"

He steps closer, looking down at me. "These kids deserve focused care, not half-assed supervision."

I stand up, meeting his eyes. "I wasn't half-assing anything. I was helping another child."

His gaze sweeps over my clothes. My cardigan. My pants. Simple, but expensive fabric.

"You just shouldn't be here." His tone is scathing. "This isn't a resort for rich people to do guilt therapy."

Heat rises to my cheeks. "You don't know me."

"I know enough." His voice goes harsh. "City girl wanting to play savior. Stay two weeks, take some photos, then go back and tell your friends you did volunteer work."

He steps back, crossing his arms. "If you want a sense of purpose, go back to your big city. Be decorative there. These kids don't need your pity project."

My hands curl into fists. My throat tightens. Eyes sting, but I refuse to cry.

He turns to leave.

"You don't know me, and you're judging me like this?"

He stops. Looks back. Eyes cold. "I don't need to. I've seen too many people like you."

He walks out, shutting the door hard.

Seven children watch in silence. Tyler hugs his blocks tighter. Ben shrinks further against the wall.

Emma walks over carefully, tugging my sleeve. "Don't worry, Miss Claire. Luca does this to everyone new. He's just trying to protect us."

Protect? Protect them from people like me? I came from here too. I cried in these hallways, felt scared here, wanted to be loved here too. But the way he looked at me. Like Ethan looked at unimportant people. Like I'm invisible. Like I don't belong.

After dinner, the staff member brings clean sheets and towels. She sits on my bed with sympathy in her eyes. "Don't mind Luca. He's actually really good, just... protective."

"Why is he so hostile to me?"

She shrugs. "Maybe because you look very... city?" She pauses. "Luca doesn't like people who just volunteer short-term, take photos, then disappear. Last year an influencer came for three days, posted tons of Instagram photos, then vanished. The kids kept asking when she'd come back. Luca was furious."

After she leaves, I lie on the narrow bed. Mattress slightly sunken, springs creaking. Much smaller than my king-size bed in Seattle, but somehow more comfortable.

No midnight calls. No emergencies. No Ethan's voice commanding me to get there now.

Children's laughter drifts through my window, then a deep male voice.

"...and the dragon realized the princess didn't need rescuing. She was perfectly capable of saving herself."

The children giggle.

Emma's voice: "One more! Please!"

"Okay, one more. But then sleep, deal?"

The children chorus: "Deal!"

I stand and walk to the window. Through thin curtains, I see lights from the building across. Luca's silhouette moves by a window, surrounded by children.

He's telling them bedtime stories. The man who was harsh to me earlier now has nothing but gentleness in his voice.

I lie back down. Luca starts humming. A low melody like a lullaby.

I close my eyes. That voice cuts through the night, drilling into my chest.

Outside, Evergreen's night is quiet. Only his voice, and the children's gradually calming breaths.