I was driving to the salon that morning, humming along to a song on the radio, when a taxi swerved into my lane without so much as a signal.
"Seriously? Are you a blind bat?" I muttered under my breath, tightening my grip on the wheel.
The driver stuck his hand out of the window as if that was an apology. I shook my head, eased back into my lane, and kept driving. Reckless drivers were the anthem of the city, but I refused to let them ruin my morning.
I drove down the road and slid into the open space right in front of my salon, shifted into park, and turned off the engine. I parked carefully and turned off the engine, my lips pressed together, and muttered,
"Just perfect".
As my foot froze on the brake. For a moment, I thought of turning the car around and pretending I had never come. But the bold silver letters across the glass door—MARY'S HEART SALON—were mine. I had fought for that sign, against my mother's plans, against gossiping relatives who said "hairdressing is for dropouts." I wasn't about to let one man scare me off my own ground.
Richard_
Standing in front of my salon with a bunch of flowers, like some desperate scene out of a movie I didn't buy tickets for. His shirt was too crisp, his smile too nervous. My first thought wasn't even about him—it was why today? Why on the day I wanted to step into my new life did the ghost of my old one appear?
I grabbed my handbag, and stepped out as if my pulse wasn't racing.
"Mary," he said, his voice too soft for the noise of the city street.
"Richard." I locked the car and walked straight past him.
"Wait," he reached out, but I shifted my body just enough so his hand caught the air.
"I just wanted to congratulate you. The salon looks… beautiful. Just like you."
I let out a laugh, sharp and quick.
"So flowers are supposed to make up for vanishing when I need you the most? You're late, Richard. Three years late, not three days."
He swallowed hard, holding the bouquet tighter. Passersby slowed down, curious at the little drama by my door. I hated that. My business was supposed to open with style, not spectacle.
"Mary, please," he said.
"I made mistakes, but I haven't stopped thinking about you."
"And I haven't stopped building a life without you," I replied, pushing open the glass door.
The new scent of hair cream and fresh polish rushed out to meet me, reminding me why I was here. My dream. My freedom.
Richard lingered on the pavement as I stepped inside, the chime above the door announcing my arrival. One of my assistants was attending to my first customer of the day, an elderly woman with kind eyes, smiled at me from the chair.
"Your young man looks desperate," she teased.
"He's not my man," I said firmly, walking to my office. But in the corner of my heart, a storm I didn't invite had already begun to brew.
~The sharp click of my heels echoed down the short corridor, a sound that usually grounded me, but today it felt too loud, like it was announcing something I was trying to keep hidden. I pushed open the door to my office and stepped in, grateful for the sanctuary.
The room smelled faintly of lavender and fresh rose, the way it always did. My desk, neatly arranged, seemed to scold me with its orderliness while my thoughts remained scattered and unruly. I dropped my bag onto the chair with a little more force than necessary and exhaled, pulling myself into the chair behind the desk.
This was my one week open at my salon and now it looks like a month.
For a moment, I stared at the open planner in front of me, the neat black lines dividing appointments and tasks into orderly segments. Normally, I lived by those boxes, those lists. But the person I saw this morning was still appearing in my mind and it made my chest tighten against my will.
Why do I even care? I thought bitterly, tapping my pen against the desk. He's not my man. I told them. I told myself. But why does it feel like every smile he shares out there is stealing something from me?
I leaned back, rubbed my temples, and told myself to focus. Work. Customers. That was what mattered.
After a few minutes of staring at nothing, I finally gave up pretending. I pushed back my chair, stood, and adjusted my blazer. A deep breath. Then I walked out.
The moment I stepped back into the main floor, I was greeted by the bustle of my team already at work.
"Morning, boss!" one of the receptionists, Tyla, called cheerfully without looking up from her screen.
The front desk was alive with movement. Customers filled the waiting area, some flipping through magazines, others scrolling their phones. Soft background music played overhead, mingling with the hum of voices. My team, as always, was efficient—professional smiles, polished uniforms, the kind of coordination that made me proud.
"Good morning, everyone," I said, projecting warmth into my tone as I moved among them.
"Good morning!" came the chorus of responses, though most of them barely looked up, too focused on their clients.
I walked over to the side, scanning the room with the critical eye of a manager. Everything was in order. Chairs occupied, staff engaged, customers comfortable. It should have eased me, but it didn't.
"Boss," Tyla called softly from the desk.
"The 10 o'clock appointment just checked in. Do you want me to call the vendors".
"Yes," I replied with a nod, glad to shift my mind back into business mode.
"And remind Jessica that she'll need to fill out the consent form."
Tyla scribbled a note and gave me a quick thumbs up.
I turned toward the treatment area just as Kyle, my esthetician , glanced up. Our eyes met for the briefest moment. He gave me a small smile—professional, polite, maybe even innocent. But to me, it was dangerous.
My chest tightened again, and I looked away almost immediately, pretending to straighten a stack of brochures on the counter.
"Your team is on fire today," a customer commented as she passed by, smiling.
"They always are," I answered with practiced ease.
And it was true. They were. Which is why I couldn't afford to let personal storms ruin this.
I was about to retreat to my office again when my phone vibrated against the desk. I reached for it, still half-focused on the movement around me. The screen lit up with a name I didn't expect to see.
"St. John's High School."
My heart skipped. That was my younger sister's school.
Without hesitation, I swiped to answer.
"Hello? This is—"
"Good morning, ma'am," a calm, professional voice came through the line.
"This is the Vice Principal of St. Mary's High. Are you the guardian of Miss Clara—?"
"Yes, yes, I am." My voice was sharper than I intended. "Is everything okay?"
There was a pause, the kind that makes your stomach twist.
"Well," the Vice Principal began slowly, "nothing life-threatening. Please don't panic. But we need you to come to the school as soon as possible. There was… an incident."
My grip tightened around the phone.
"Incident? What kind of incident?"
Another pause.
"I'd rather explain in person. Could you make it down within the next hour?"
I felt the storm inside me shift violently, pulling me in an entirely new direction.
"Yes. I'll be there."
"Thank you. We'll see you soon."
The call ended.
I stood there for a moment, phone still in hand, the world around me moving in slow motion. Customers laughing, staff speaking, music playing—it all felt strangely distant.
"Boss?" Tyla's voice cut in gently.
"Everything alright?"
I forced a small smile that probably didn't convince anyone.
"Yes. Just a call I need to take care of. Hold things down for me, okay?"
"Of course."
I turned toward my office, already running through possibilities in my head. What kind of incident? Was she hurt? Did she fight? Did she collapse? Clara was only in high school, but she'd always been the spirited one—bright, sharp, sometimes stubborn.
The kind of girl who stood her ground even when she shouldn't.
I grabbed my bag, keys, and quickly checked my reflection in the mirror behind the desk. My face was composed, but my eyes betrayed me.
Kyle appeared at the corner of my desk.
"Everything okay?" he asked, concerned in his tone.
I swallowed hard.
"It's my sister's school. They need me."
"Do you want me to—"
"No," I cut in quickly, too quickly. "Just… keep doing your job."
His brows furrowed slightly, but he nodded.
I didn't wait for further questions. With one last glance at the busy floor, I pushed through the doors and out into the bright California morning.
~The morning was fully bright , throwing sharp golden light across the parking lot. My car, parked neatly, almost looked like a lifeboat waiting to take me away. I slid in, shut the door, and exhaled a long breath.
As I started the engine, my planner flashed in my mind. A full schedule—three facials, two consultations, a business call I had been preparing for all week. Damn. I gripped the wheel tighter. Normally, I hated leaving my responsibilities undone, but today there was no question.
Tyla can handle it, I told myself. She was reliable, steady, my right hand at the front desk. But still… there were things I wanted to do personally. The 10 a.m. client had been coming for months, and I'd promised to be the one to handle her treatment. Breaking that promise gnawed at me.
I shook my head and merged into traffic. The road was busy, as it always was mid-morning California—cars weaving, cyclists gliding, palm trees swaying lazily in the warm breeze. The air smelled faintly of jasmine from a nearby nursery as I rolled down my window, trying to keep my nerves steady.
Halfway down Wilshire, my phone lit up on the console. Mom.
I groaned under my breath.
"Oh, not now…"
But I knew better than to ignore her. I tapped my earpiece.
"Hi, Mom."
Her voice came sharp and concerned.
"Why didn't you tell me the school called? Do you know I just got a message from Mrs. White? She said Clara was in some sort of trouble—what's happening?"
I closed my eyes for a second, pressing the horn lightly as the car in front slowed without warning.
"Mom, please, let me get to the school first. And that lazy Mrs. White is full of gossip. I don't even have the full story yet."
"That girl," she muttered, her voice rising.
"Always trouble! I told you she's been keeping bad friends. I warned you. Now see? She'll drag the family's name—"
"Mom!" My tone was sharper than I meant, but the tension in my chest was too much.
"Please. Just… let me find out first, okay? I'll call you as soon as I know."
There was silence on the line for a beat. Then a heavy sigh.
"Fine. But don't sugarcoat it for me. I want the truth."
"I'll tell you everything," I promised quickly, then ended the call before she could spiral further. My fingers drummed on the wheel. As if I didn't already have enough storms inside me.
I drove the rest of the way in silence, the hum of the engine and the city filling the space my thoughts refused to calm.
By the time I pulled into St. John's High School, the tension in my shoulders had hardened into knots.
The school sat on a sprawling campus surrounded by iron gates trimmed with climbing ivy. The buildings were a mix of modern glass structures and traditional red-brick facades, designed to look prestigious but still welcoming. A wide, tree-lined driveway curved into the parking lot, where neatly marked spaces held rows of sedans and SUVs. Students in navy-blue uniforms walked in pairs or small groups, some with backpacks slung carelessly over one shoulder, others dragging their feet with the heaviness only teenagers could muster.
I parked near the administration building, a tall structure with large glass doors framed by clean white columns. A banner stretched across the entrance: "Excellence, Discipline and Leadership." The words seemed ironic today.
Inside, the lobby was bright and airy. The walls displayed framed photographs of debate teams, basketball championships, honor students. To the right was a row of chairs where a few parents sat, speaking quietly. The floor gleamed, freshly polished, reflecting the steady footsteps of students passing through.
The receptionist at the front desk, a middle-aged woman with neatly pinned hair and thin-framed glasses, looked up as I approached.
"Good morning. How may I help you?" she asked in a voice both professional and kind.
"Good morning," I replied, trying to steady my tone. "I was asked to come in regarding my sister, Clara—Clara Collins."
Her eyes flickered with recognition. "Ah, yes. The Vice Principal is expecting you. Please, have a seat. I'll let him know you've arrived."
I thanked her and sat in one of the leather chairs, my foot tapping restlessly against the tile.
A few minutes later, the office door opened, and a man stepped out.
He was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in a crisp gray suit that made him look both approachable and authoritative. His eyes, framed by fine lines of age and experience, met mine with a practiced calm.
"Miss Collins?" he asked.
"Yes." I stood quickly.
"Come in, please."
I followed him into his office. It was a spacious room with bookshelves lining one wall, a large desk at the center, and two chairs placed neatly across from it. A window behind him offered a view of the courtyard where students lounged on benches under the shade of oak trees. The air inside smelled faintly of coffee and new books.
"Please, have a seat," he said, gesturing toward the chair.
I sat, clutching my bag in my lap