Vivian POV
I jolted awake as a car horn blared outside my window, the sound slicing through the thin walls of my apartment. My heart pounded, and for a moment, I thought I was back there, ten years ago, running from the house, Bella's screams echoing in my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the memory down, and swung my legs off the bed. The mattress creaked under me, a reminder of how little I had now.
I shuffled to the dresser, avoiding the mirror. My fingers brushed a faded photograph tucked under a cracked mug, me and Bella, grinning like fools, her arm slung around my shoulders. I yanked my hand back as if it burned. Ten years since I'd run, since I couldn't face Dad's accusing eyes or the whispers at school: She let her sister drown. I grabbed my waitress uniform instead, tugging it on with quick, jerky movements.
The door clicked shut behind me as I stepped into the gray morning. New York buzzed around me, taxis honking, people shouting, but I kept my head down, weaving through the crowd to the diner three blocks away. The bell jingled as I pushed inside, the smell of grease hitting me like a wall.
"Vivian, you're late!" Mr. Jenkins barked from behind the counter, flipping a burger with a scowl.
"Sorry," I muttered, tying my apron. "Subway was packed."
"Excuses don't serve tables. Get moving." He jerked his chin toward the floor.
I grabbed a tray and headed to a booth where a guy in a cheap suit was tapping his fork impatiently. "What'll it be?" I asked, pencil poised over my notepad.
"Eggs, over easy. And coffee, black. Make it quick." He didn't look up from his phone.
I nodded, scribbling it down, and hustled to the kitchen. The day blurred into a mess of orders and complaints. A woman sent her toast back twice because it wasn't "golden enough." A kid spilled juice across my shoes. By noon, my head throbbed, but I kept smiling, barely.
"Hey, Vivian," a raspy voice called as I refilled a coffee pot. Mr. Thompson, a regular, sat at his usual spot, hunched over a plate of pancakes. His gray hair stuck out like he'd just rolled out of bed.
"Morning, Mr. Thompson," I said, pouring him a cup. "How's the knee?"
"Creaking like an old door," he chuckled, then squinted at me. "You okay, kid? You look like you're carrying the world."
I froze, the pot trembling in my hand. "Just tired," I lied, turning away before he could press.
But he wasn't wrong. Every step felt heavier today, Bella's face flashing behind my eyes. I'd been twelve when it happened, too young to save her, too scared to stay after Dad said it should've been me instead. I shook it off, delivering the suit's eggs before Mr. Jenkins could yell again.
"These are cold!" the guy snapped, shoving the plate back at me. "Do your job right."
I bit my tongue, snatching the plate. "I'll heat them up."
In the kitchen, I slammed it onto the counter. "Re-do these," I told the cook, who grunted without looking up. Back on the floor, Mr. Jenkins caught me.
"Vivian, that's the third complaint today. Focus, or you're out!" His voice was sharp, cutting through the diner noise.
"Yes, sir," I mumbled, cheeks burning. I wanted to scream that I was trying, that I couldn't stop seeing Bella's hand slipping under the water, but I swallowed it down.
By the time my shift ended, my legs ached, and my apron was stained with ketchup and regret. I needed air, something to shake the day off. The café down the street wasn't fancy, just a hole-in-the-wall with chipped mugs, but it was quiet. I pushed through the door, the bell tinkling softly, and ordered a latte from the bored barista.
I slid into a corner table, clutching the warm cup. Across the room, two little girls giggled over a cookie, their mom shushing them with a smile. My chest tightened. Bella and I used to fight over the last brownie, laughing until Dad yelled at us to quit it. I blinked hard, but a tear escaped, rolling down my cheek.
"Excuse me, are you alright?" a voice asked, low and smooth.
I jerked my head up. A man stood by my table, tall, dark-haired, in a suit that screamed money. His blue eyes locked on mine, steady but not pushy.
"I'm fine," I said, swiping at my face. "Just… long day."
He tilted his head, like he didn't buy it. "Mind if I sit?"
I shrugged, too tired to argue. He slid into the chair across from me, setting his coffee down. "Rough days can hit hard. Want to talk about it?"
I stared at him, this stranger who looked like he belonged in a penthouse, not here. "Why do you care?"
"Call it curiosity," he said with a small smile. "You looked like you needed someone to ask."
I hesitated, the words clawing up my throat. "It's my sister," I blurted. "She… she died ten years ago. Seeing those kids just, hit me."
His smile faded, replaced by something softer. "That's a heavy loss. What happened?"
I gripped my mug tighter. "We were at the pool. I dared her to jump in, but she couldn't swim well. I tried to grab her, but…" My voice cracked. "She drowned. My dad blamed me. I ran away after that."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You've been carrying that alone all this time?"
"Pretty much." I forced a laugh, bitter and short. "Been on my own since I was twelve. Not exactly a fairy tale."
"No," he agreed, "but surviving that's no small thing. I'm Evans, by the way. Evans Newton."
"Vivian Grants," I said, still not sure why I was spilling my guts.
"Vivian," he repeated, like he was testing it out. "You're tougher than you look, you know."
"Doubt that," I muttered, sipping my latte.
He tapped his fingers on the table, then said, "Listen, I've got a guest room sitting empty. If you ever need a place to crash, it's yours. No strings."
I nearly choked. "What? You don't even know me."
"I know enough," he said simply. "Offer's open. Think about it." He slid a business card across the table, his name printed in crisp black letters.
I stared at it, then at him. "Why would you do that?"
"Let's just say I've had my share of bad days." He stood, adjusting his jacket. "Take care, Vivian."
He walked out, leaving me clutching the card like it might vanish. I didn't get it, some rich guy offering me a lifeline after five minutes? It sounded crazy. But as I finished my coffee, the idea stuck, nagging at me.
Back at the apartment, I unlocked the door and froze. A paper was taped to it, an eviction notice. Three days to pay or vacate. My stomach dropped. I yanked it down, crumpling it in my fist. Inside, I paced the tiny room, panic rising. My paycheck wouldn't cover the rent, and Mr. Jenkins wouldn't front me cash. I had nothing to sell, no one to call.
Then my eyes landed on Evans' card, sitting on the dresser where I'd tossed it. I picked it up, hands shaking. Could I trust him? Did I have a choice? I grabbed my phone and dialed before I could talk myself out of it.
"Evans Newton," he answered, voice calm as ever.
"It's Vivian. From the café." I swallowed hard. "I… I got an eviction notice. Does your offer still stand?"
"Absolutely," he said, no hesitation. "I'll have a room ready by tonight. Can I send a car at six?"
"Yeah," I breathed, relief crashing over me. "Thank you."
"My pleasure, Vivian. See you soon."
I hung up, sinking onto the bed. For the first time in ten years, I felt a flicker of something, hope, maybe. Or just desperation with better lighting. Either way, I was about to find out what Evans Newton was really about.