The walls of Ashley's childhood home were thin, too thin to contain sickness, fear, or the slow crumble of hope. Every whisper of pain echoed through the narrow hallways, and every sleepless night seemed tattooed into the creaky floorboards. The chipped window frames let in more dust than breeze, and the ceiling fan above spun with a lazy rhythm that mocked her restlessness. It ticked slowly like a countdown clock she couldn't stop.
Ashley sat beside her mother's bed, her back aching from hours spent hunched over. In her hands, she wrung out a cloth in the bowl of lukewarm water perched on the nightstand. The fever had returned, again. It was the third time this week. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed the damp cloth to Mikaela's forehead, her movements gentle, almost reverent. She studied the face she loved more than anyone in the world. It was pale and gaunt, yet somehow still radiant in its softness. It didn't seem fair, how sickness could steal so much and still leave behind so much beauty.
If only love could pay hospital bills.
Mikaela stirred beneath the faded floral sheets, her eyelids fluttering open with effort.
"You're still here," she croaked, voice as brittle as autumn leaves.
Ashley leaned closer, brushing away the sweat-damp curls at her mother's temple. "Where else would I be?" she murmured. "You know I hate leaving you when you're like this."
"You haven't slept," Mikaela rasped.
Ashley offered a soft shrug. "I'll sleep later."
"You always say that."
"Well, I always mean it."
A ghost of a smile tugged at Mikaela's lips. "Still stubborn."
Ashley didn't reply. She dipped the cloth back into the bowl, the silence between them carrying everything she couldn't say aloud. Fear, exhaustion, helplessness and other feelings she couldn't explain, all hung in the air like humidity. It was thick and inescapable.
She was twenty, but her soul felt weathered. In another life, she might have been in her third year of nursing school by now or maybe curled up in a cozy campus library, surrounded by books and the scent of coffee. But in this one, she was here, watching the woman who once braided her hair now struggle to lift a spoon.
"I hate this," Ashley whispered suddenly, not meaning to say it out loud.
"Hate what?" Mikaela's voice was barely above a whisper.
"This. You… being sick. Me not being able to fix it."
"You do more than enough, Ash."
Ashley scoffed, blinking fast. "If that were true, you'd be getting proper treatment, and I wouldn't be deciding between groceries and medication every week."
"Hey." Mikaela reached for her hand. "Look at me."
Ashley hesitated, then met her gaze.
"I'm proud of you," Mikaela said. "I don't say that enough. You carry this house on your back, and you do it with grace."
Ashley swallowed hard, her throat tight. "Grace doesn't pay rent."
They both fell silent. Outside, a dog barked in the distance. Somewhere down the block, tires rolled over broken asphalt.
Her gaze drifted toward the nightstand drawer. Inside, unopened envelopes lay in a messy pile. The envelopes contained final notices, medical bills, and loan demands. Words printed in red that bled into her anxiety.
She had picked up every shift she could at the diner. She cleaned houses on weekends. She sold two of Mikaela's best jewelry sets. Still, the debt didn't stop growing.
Time didn't stop either.
"Ash," Mikaela said, suddenly clutching her hand again.
Ashley flinched. "What is it? Are you in pain?"
"No," her mother whispered. "Listen to me. If something happens—"
"Don't," Ashley said sharply. "Don't start talking like that."
"You have to hear me," Mikaela insisted. "You're not meant to wither in this house. You've got a whole life ahead of you, and I don't want it swallowed by this place. Promise me something."
Ashley shook her head. "No. I'm not making promises like that."
"Promise me," Mikaela repeated, a trace of old strength in her voice. "If the right door opens, even if it's unexpected, even if it scares you… you'll walk through it."
Tears welled behind Ashley's eyes, blurring her vision. "I'm not leaving you, Mom."
Mikaela's fingers curled around hers. "And that's exactly what frightens me."
Ashley pressed her lips together, biting back every argument, every excuse. Her mother's breathing was shallower now, her body sinking back into the mattress.
The silence returned, this time heavier. It settled into the room, into the corners of her heart.
Later that night, after Mikaela had drifted into another feverish sleep, Ashley stood by the window with her arms wrapped around her waist. The street outside was quiet, bathed in the yellow light of flickering streetlamps. A train's distant wail broke the silence, followed by a child's muffled cry two houses over.
This life, this street, this home… was small. But it was hers. Full of memories, of mangoes on sunny afternoons, of music and hair grease and laughter that felt like sunshine. It also held grief, unpaid bills, and the kind of worry that clung to her ribs.
And then the question came again, as it had so many times lately:
What if this is all there ever is?
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Ashley spun around.
The knock came again. This time around, it was firm, measured and intentional.
She tiptoed through the living room, barefoot and tense. Peering through the peephole, she saw a man in a gray delivery uniform standing on the porch, with an envelope in his hand.
She opened the door just a crack.
"Yes?"
"Are you Ashley Patterson?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "I am."
"This came for you earlier today. My boss said it was urgent. Told me to make sure it got to you tonight, no matter how late."
Ashley frowned. "Who's your boss?"
The man shrugged. "Didn't give a name. Just said you'd know what to do."
She reached out and took the envelope, still wary.
"Thanks, I guess," she said.
He offered a half-smile, then turned and walked off into the dark like something out of a dream, or a warning.
Ashley shut the door and bolted it. Her pulse thudded in her ears as she studied the envelope. The paper was thick, like something used for wedding invites. There was no return address, but her name was written in sharp cursive. It was elegant, deliberate, and expensive.
It smelled faintly of sandalwood. And something deeper, something spicy, warm and unplaceable.
She took a shaky breath, then tore it open.
Inside was a single sheet of parchment, cream colored and heavy with ink.
Miss Patterson,
You have been recommended through a private channel.
A temporary live-in position has opened at Cross' Estate in Connecticut.
The role is highly compensated.
Discretion is essential. Immediate start.
If interested, report to the estate by Monday.
J.C.
Her knees nearly gave out.
Cross?
Her lips parted in disbelief. There was only one Cross family she knew of. The family of Jake Cross, the reclusive billionaire. The heir to one of the most powerful empires on the East Coast. The same man whose photo she once paused on for too long, wondering what that jaw would look like softened by a smile. His face had been on a magazine she'd skimmed through at the salon once. He had on a black suit. He also had gray eyes and a jaw that looked like it had been carved from marble. But he was cold, distant and unreachable.
What could someone like him possibly want with someone like me? She thought to herself.
She reached back into the envelope and pulled out a train ticket. It was a one way first class ticket and it was leaving on Monday morning.
She stared at it for a long time, her heart caught between dread and something that felt dangerously close to… hope.
"No," she whispered. "This can't be real."
But it was. She could feel it. Whatever this was… It was real.
She should've laughed, called the number on the back, reported it as a scam and tossed it in the trash.
Instead, she clutched it tighter.
She turned toward her mother's room. The door stood slightly open, a line of soft light spilling into the hallway. She could still hear Mikaela's slow, raspy breathing.
Her throat tightened.
How could I leave? Even just for a little while? What if something happened while I was gone? She thought while trying to shut everything she was feeling down.
But then again… what if this was the very door her mother meant? The one she'd begged Ashley not to be too afraid to open?
What if, just maybe, this was her only chance to save them both?