Jake Hart stood at the back of the school hallway, broom in hand, the faint scent of disinfectant clinging to his uniform. His mother, Bianca, was bent over a mop a few feet away, humming softly under her breath as though the song could drown out the whispers and laughter echoing around them.
"Hey, Hart!" a boy from his class called out, his voice deliberately loud. "Don't scrub too hard or you'll rub the paint off the floor." The hallway filled with chuckles from a few others who had stopped to watch.
Jake's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. At seventeen, he was old enough to feel the sting of humiliation, but not yet old enough to do anything about it. His cheeks burned as he swept more vigorously, refusing to lift his gaze from the ground.
Another voice chimed in. "He should be grateful. With that face, he could be a model. Too bad he's broke. Poor and cute don't mix." The words were laced with cruel amusement.
Jake gripped the broom handle until his knuckles whitened. His classmates weren't wrong about his looks—he had inherited the sharp bone structure of his father and the hazel eyes of his mother. Some girls whispered about how handsome he was, but to Jake it felt like a curse. All anyone saw was contradiction: the good-looking boy whose mother cleaned their classrooms.
Bianca straightened slowly, her back aching from bending all morning. She glanced at her son, noticed the storm in his eyes, and offered a gentle smile. "Jake, don't mind them," she said softly. "We're almost done here. Then you can go back to class."
Jake swallowed hard, biting back his frustration. "I'm not embarrassed of you, Mom," he muttered under his breath. "I just… I wish people would stop looking at us like this."
Bianca touched his arm lightly, her calloused fingers warm. "One day, things will be different. For now, we do what we must."
Jake nodded but turned away, hiding the shame in his eyes. He wasn't ashamed of his mother—never. But he hated the way the world treated her, as if her hard work made her less.
---
Across town, Lila Hart adjusted the strap of her bag as she walked out of the small company office where she worked part-time. The late afternoon sun painted her long hair in golden streaks, and her ocean-blue eyes caught the light in a way that made strangers pause. She was breathtaking, though she never thought of herself that way.
Men often noticed her—colleagues, customers, even strangers on the street. "Miss Hart, let me take you out for dinner," one coworker had said that morning, his eyes lingering too long on her. Another had tried to slip his number into her notebook. She had turned them all down politely, her smile distant.
Her life had no room for romance. Not when every coin she earned went to her father's medical bills, her mother's meager wages couldn't cover the rent, and Jake was still in school.
As she walked down the street, she thought of her father, Sylvester Hart. Once a strong, proud man, now bedridden after a stroke had stolen half his strength. The image of him struggling to speak, his hand trembling as he tried to hold hers, broke her heart all over again.
She quickened her pace toward the small pharmacy at the corner, clutching the envelope of cash she had scraped together. It wasn't much, but enough for at least another week of his medication.
Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as she handed the money across the counter. The pharmacist gave her a tired smile, sliding the small paper bag toward her. "Take care of him," he said kindly.
"I will," she whispered, more to herself than to him.
With the bag clutched tightly in her hand, she stepped back into the evening air. The streets were quieter now, shadows stretching long across the pavement. Her mind was already on home—on how her mother must be exhausted from cleaning, on whether Jake had eaten properly.
But she never made it far before a dark car screeched to a halt beside her.
"Lila Hart," a rough voice called, and her stomach dropped.
Two men stepped out. Their clothes were cheap but their eyes sharp, the kind of men who thrived on fear. Loan sharks.
Her breath caught as one of them smirked. "Pretty girl, you thought you could keep running? We need our money, sweetheart. And soon."
"I told you," Lila said firmly, though her voice shook. "I'll pay. Just give me more time."
"Time?" the taller one sneered, stepping closer. "Your father's treatment doesn't come free, and neither does our patience. If you don't pay up, we'll take whatever property your family still owns. Furniture, land, anything. You wouldn't want us knocking on your door, would you?"
Fear surged through her veins, but she forced herself to stand straighter. "Please… my father is sick. I'm working as hard as I can. Just—just a little longer."
The shorter man chuckled darkly. "You've got courage, I'll give you that. But courage doesn't pay debts." His gaze slid over her in a way that made her skin crawl. "Maybe there are other ways you can settle what you owe."
Lila's grip on the paper bag tightened until it crumpled. The thought of her family losing their small, fragile world made her chest ache, but the implication in his tone made bile rise in her throat.
Just as her voice threatened to break, the sharp hum of an engine drew closer. A sleek black car slowed down as it approached the scene, its windows tinted, body gleaming like midnight.
Inside, Adrian Blackwood sat with one hand resting casually on the wheel, his sharp gaze catching the sight of the confrontation. His expression didn't change, but something about the girl standing so defiantly against two men caught his attention.
She was stunning—long hair tumbling down her shoulders, eyes like stormy oceans, her posture trembling yet unyielding. There was fear in her, yes, but also fire. He had seen many people beg, grovel, cry. Rarely did he see someone stand tall while shaking inside.
The car slowed further, his eyes narrowing as he watched.
Lila noticed the car in her peripheral vision, but she didn't dare turn. She couldn't afford to look weak in front of the men. "I'll get the money," she said again, louder this time, her voice steadying. "But you will not touch my family."
The taller man laughed, a cruel sound. "We'll see about that. One week, Lila. One week or everything goes." He jabbed a finger toward her chest before stepping back.
The other man gave her a lingering look, then followed. With one last warning glare, they climbed back into their vehicle and drove off.
For a long moment, Lila stood frozen, her knees trembling. She tightened her grip on the medicine bag as though it were her lifeline.
The black car lingered only a second longer, then slid smoothly past her, disappearing down the road. Adrian didn't intervene. Not yet. But as he drove away, the image of her—standing alone on the roadside, fragile but unbroken—burned itself into his memory.
Lila inhaled shakily and began to walk again, every step heavy but determined. She would not let them destroy her family. No matter what it took.
---
At home that night, she handed the medication to her mother, hiding her trembling hands. Jake noticed the tightness in her smile, but he didn't ask. He simply clenched his fists, hating that his sister bore the weight of the world.
In another part of the city, Adrian poured himself a drink, his mind replaying the roadside scene. He didn't know her name yet, but he knew he would see her again.
And when he did, nothing in her life—or his—would remain the same.
---Dear Readers,
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