The coffee was cold. Sienna still drank it. The bitterness scraped her throat, making her wince, but she forced it down anyway. Taste didn't matter. Warmth didn't matter. Not tonight. All that mattered was the way her chest felt like it was caving in with every shallow breath.
Her laptop screen glared at her from the corner of the table, the light harsh against the darkness of her cramped apartment. Line after line stamped across her inbox in that same detached, lifeless phrase: We regret to inform you…
She snapped the lid shut before the words carved themselves any deeper into her mind. It wasn't just rejection anymore. It was exhaustion. It was humiliation.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly, every second hammering against her skull like it was counting down to something—her downfall, her deadline, the end of the fragile hope she clung to.
Less than thirty days now.
She pressed her palms against her face, dragging them down slowly, as if she could wipe away the dread that lived in her skin.
From the bedroom came the soft sound of steady breathing. She rose and padded barefoot to the doorway. Mia was asleep, curled up in a ball under a too-thin blanket, her small fingers clutching the ear of a worn-out teddy bear. Sienna lingered, leaning against the doorframe.
Her little sister's face was so peaceful—soft, almost glowing under the faint light spilling in from the hall. Mia's lips moved in some dream, and she sighed in her sleep, her body shifting closer to the teddy like it was her safe haven.
The sight made Sienna's chest ache with both love and guilt.
She'd promised Mia everything would be fine. She had sworn she'd protect her, keep her safe, give her a better future. But every passing day made that promise feel less like truth and more like a lie she had to keep repeating, for Mia's sake as much as her own.
If only love paid bills. If only determination erased debts.
Back in the living room, her phone buzzed on the table. Most notifications were reminders she didn't need—electricity, rent, medical. Numbers she already couldn't meet. But one alert caught her eye, glowing in a way that almost mocked her:
Hope Foundation Annual Charity Gala.
She frowned. She'd seen that invite weeks ago, stuffed in a stack of other emails she didn't have time to care about. She'd brushed it off immediately—the kind of event where the cheapest glass of champagne probably cost more than their monthly groceries.
But tonight, with options thinning into nothing, she clicked it open again. Her eyes caught on a line she'd ignored before:
Employees may attend at no cost.
Her chest rose sharply.
It was a long shot. A stupid one. She didn't know a soul at the event who would willingly hand her a lifeline. Still, maybe—just maybe—if she could talk to the right person, someone might open a door. She didn't need charity. She needed a chance.
Her reflection in the bathroom mirror stared back at her, pale and exhausted. She dabbed at her face with the little makeup she owned, coaxing her skin into something presentable.
The dress she chose was emerald green. The only one she had that pretended to be formal. It sagged loose at her waist but hugged her hips too tight, the fabric wrinkling no matter how she smoothed it. Her hands trembled as she pulled her hair into a low bun. She prayed it came off as elegant instead of "trying too hard."
She whispered to her reflection, "Just one night. Just smile. Just try."
When she stepped into the ballroom, the air shifted.
Crystal chandeliers poured golden light over polished marble floors. Laughter rippled across the room like music, blending with the delicate clink of crystal glasses. The place shimmered—sequins, silks, jewels—and Sienna's breath caught. She felt like an intruder.
Waiters moved with graceful precision, weaving between guests with trays of champagne that sparkled under the light. Every corner of the hall screamed money, class, belonging—and she had none of it.
Still, she pushed her shoulders back, faked a smile when necessary, and drifted through the crowd. She asked polite questions, laughed in the right places, tried to mask the desperation sitting heavy in her chest.
But it didn't take long to realize she was invisible here. The conversations were polite but dismissive. Eyes skimmed over her as if they could smell her need and wanted no trace of it near them.
Her courage frayed. She was already plotting a discreet escape when she saw him.
Adrian Wolfe.
Her pulse stumbled.
He stood near the bar, framed by the warm glow of the chandelier, sharp lines and easy confidence. A glass of whiskey rested casually in his hand, his posture relaxed but commanding all at once. His suit fit like it had been made for him—sleek black fabric that shifted with his every small move.
Two years had passed since she'd last seen him, yet her body betrayed her instantly. The tightening in her chest. The rush of heat she despised. The memory of how he'd once made her feel—wanted, alive, and then abandoned.
As if sensing her, his gaze lifted. Their eyes locked across the room.
Something unreadable flickered across his face. Then, slowly—deliberately—he began to move toward her. Not rushing, not faltering. Every step was calculated, like he knew she wouldn't move away.
Her heart hammered. She hated that he still had this effect on her.
When he reached her, his voice was low, steady, maddeningly calm.
"You clean up well."
She lifted her chin, forcing her spine straight. "I didn't come here to impress you."
One side of his mouth tugged upward in a half-smile that made her chest tighten further. "Could've fooled me. Still… here you are. At my event."
Her brows rose. "Your event?"
"Hope Foundation. My family's work." His eyes didn't waver. They stayed locked on hers, steady and unrelenting. "So tell me, Sienna—was this fate playing tricks again, or did you come because you need something?"
Her throat tightened. She wanted to deny it. She wanted to throw the words back at him, cut him out of her night, her life. But her voice betrayed her. "I don't need anything from you."
Adrian studied her, his gaze slow, searching. Something softened in his eyes, something she wished she hadn't seen. His voice lowered. "Still a terrible liar."
The truth of it stung.
Before she could speak, someone across the room called his name. He didn't glance away. His eyes lingered on her like a promise.
"We'll talk later." It wasn't a suggestion. It was a certainty.
And then he was gone—disappearing into the crowd, leaving her heart pounding and her breath shallow.
She pressed a trembling hand against her chest.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
Her phone buzzed in her clutch. Unknown number.
She hesitated, then swiped to answer.
"Miss Hale," a man's voice said—deep, unhurried, a quiet threat woven through the syllables. "You've got seven days left. Don't waste them."
The call ended before she could find her voice.
Her hand shook as she lowered the phone, staring at her reflection in the dark glass of the ballroom's window.
Seven days.
The words echoed like the ticking clock back in her apartment.