The city felt different in daylight. Market Street buzzed like an electrical wire—vendors calling out prices, taxis barking their horns, laundry hanging like flags of surrender from every balcony. I stood by the window, shirt half-tucked, the tie she'd ironed for me looking far too serious for the room behind me.
Clara was on her knees by the cupboard, wrestling with a roll of contact paper that kept sticking to itself. "Do you think this makes it look less tragic?" she asked, flattening a corner.
"Nothing could make that cupboard look less tragic," I said, reaching for my watch.
She sat back on her heels, hands on her hips. "Go. You'll be late."
I hesitated at the door. "You'll be all right here?"
"I'll make it a palace by the time you come back," she said, chin lifting with mock pride. "You just go conquer the corporate kingdom."
I smiled, kissed her forehead. "Keep the kettle ready. I'll bring flowers."
The elevators in the downtown towers smelled like steel and cologne. Everywhere I went there were men in tailored suits and women carrying tablets that looked more expensive than our entire apartment.
At the first office, the receptionist smiled the polite smile reserved for strangers who already look like a "no." "Mr. Vale," she said after scanning my résumé, "your qualifications are impressive, but we're looking for someone with… recent experience."
Recent experience. Right—because exile didn't count as a career.
At the next place they were kinder, offered me coffee, told me they'd keep my application "on file. "By the third rejection, the coffee had gone cold in my stomach.
Between interviews I sat on a bench, loosened my tie, watched the crowd move around me like a tide that never stopped for breath. I used to think I was built for bigger rooms—boardrooms, negotiations, deals sealed with handshakes and numbers that made other men dizzy. But sitting there, I realized all I wanted was to go home and tell Clara I'd tried.
She met me at the door, paint on her cheek and a screwdriver in her hand. The place looked… different. The walls were brighter. The old curtain had been replaced by one she'd stitched herself out of a bedsheet covered in blue flowers.
"You did this in one day?" I asked, amazed.
She shrugged. "I had a kingdom to build."
The kettle whistled. She poured the tea, added exactly two sugars to mine without asking—she'd memorized it after one morning.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"Let's just say nobody's hiring exiled heirs," I said.
She made a face, mock sympathy. "Then we'll make our own business. Vale & Vale: Specialists in Starting Over."
Her optimism was impossible not to catch. I laughed, sat beside her on the floor. She'd spread out newspapers as a makeshift picnic blanket, two plates of instant noodles between us.
"Dinner à la cardboard box," she said.
"I'd give it three stars," I said. "Ambience, five."
Her laughter filled the room like sunlight.
The next weeks became a pattern: me leaving early with a folder of résumés, her waving from the window with paint-stained fingers. I took any interview I could get—assistant, clerk, driver. I came home smelling of sweat and cheap aftershave from the men I sat beside on buses.
Each night she waited with something new to show me. A small shelf she'd built from old crates. A potted plant rescued from the dumpster behind the florist. A patchwork blanket sewn from thrift-store shirts.
One evening I found her sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by the pieces of a table she'd bought second-hand.
"Need help?" I asked.
"Only if you promise not to read the instructions," she said.
An hour later the table leaned to one side, but it stood. We stared at it like proud parents.
"It's ugly," she said.
"It's ours," I answered, and kissed the tip of her nose.
Two weeks after the last rejection, I found a job—nothing grand, just a position at a logistics firm, managing paperwork and scheduling trucks. When they offered it, I almost laughed from relief.
That night I came home carrying a paper bag with two pastries inside. She was on the balcony watering the plant.
"I brought dessert," I said.
"Did you rob a bakery?"
"Better," I said, holding up the bag. "I got the job."
Her eyes went wide, then wet. She threw her arms around me so fast I nearly dropped the pastries.
"Ethan, that's amazing!" she said against my shoulder.
"It's just a start."
"It's enough," she whispered.
We ate sitting on the floor again, crumbs everywhere, laughing over nothing. The pastry was too sweet, the tea lukewarm, but that night the apartment felt bigger—like the walls had moved back to make space for hope.
When she fell asleep, head resting on my chest, I stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly above us and thought: Maybe this is what happiness really looks like. Not the world at your feet, but the right person in your arms.
The market smelled of overripe fruit and fried street food, the chatter of bargaining drifting in uneven waves. Clara's arms were full, her basket overflowing with vegetables and a few small staples. She frowned as she added the last item to the tally on a crumpled piece of paper.
"Two weeks of groceries, and we're already cutting it close," she muttered, biting her lip.
I leaned against the doorway of the tiny corner shop, arms crossed, watching her tally the prices. Her brows knitted together like she was solving a complex equation. "We'll make it work," I said, though my own stomach knotted at the thought of counting every penny again. "We just—just have to be careful this month."
She shot me a glance, weary but stubborn. "Careful doesn't stretch a week's salary across this much food, Ethan. You can't do it all alone."
I forced a smile, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "I'll figure something out," I said, but the words sounded hollow even to me.
That night, I went to work with the usual sense of fragile hope. The office smelled of recycled air and ambition, the low hum of computers and muffled phone calls punctuating the silence. I barely recognized the man staring back at me in the reflection of the glass doors: the Vale heir, once used to corner offices, now navigating a cubicle maze like any ordinary man.
I had just settled into my chair, preparing to file invoices and schedules, when the office manager's voice came like a punch in the gut.
"Ethan… can I see you in my office?"
Something in the tone set my teeth on edge. My stomach twisted as I followed him through the narrow corridor. His expression was neutral, almost rehearsed, but his eyes betrayed hesitation.
"I'm… afraid we're going to have to let you go," he said flatly, sliding a paper across the desk. "Effective immediately."
I blinked. My mind refused to compute. "What… what do you mean? I—I've been doing everything you asked! The schedules, the deliveries—"
His sigh was heavy. "It's… it's corporate restructuring. We can't keep your position."
I laughed, sharp and bitter, the sound bouncing off the walls like a slap. "Corporate restructuring?" I stood abruptly, chair scraping the floor. "Don't lie to me. I know what this is!"
He raised a hand, defensive. "Please, calm down—"
I didn't. My voice thundered through the office. "Calm down? I gave you my time, my energy! And now you just throw me out?!" Papers shook in the holder as I gestured wildly. Other employees stared from their desks, murmurs rising.
"I'm sorry, Ethan," the manager said, voice strained, finally giving in to the truth. "It… it's your father. He pulled the strings. He wanted you to… learn a lesson."
The words hit like a hammer. I felt the floor drop beneath me, disbelief and rage intermingling. "My… father?" I hissed. "He fired me? Intentionally?"
"Yes," the manager said quietly. "He called this morning. He wanted to teach you something about… humility. I'm sorry."
I clenched my fists so hard I thought my nails would break. My head felt hot, my vision narrowed to the man in front of me—the one I had trusted to be neutral. "You—" I began, but my anger boiled over.
"Get out of here!" I shouted, voice echoing down the corridor. "You're all part of it!"
He rose quickly, flustered. "Security! Please, security!"
Two burly men appeared from the side, their expressions blank but firm. I shouted, I cursed, I slammed my fists on desks, but there was no stopping them. They escorted me out, my protestations falling like stones into a well.
As the glass doors closed behind me, the office fading into the city noise, I stumbled to my car, knuckles bleeding from hitting the steering wheel, chest heaving. My mind burned with the unfairness, the rage, the humiliation.
I drove straight to the Vale mansion. The city blurred past—streetlights streaked through the rain, neon reflecting in puddles, but I barely noticed. All I felt was the need to confront him, to make him understand that exiling me and firing me had consequences.
When I arrived, the gates opened at a glance—my presence recognized instantly. I stormed up the steps, the familiar marble cold beneath my boots. My father waited at the top, arms folded, expression unreadable. My stepmother flanked him, the same serene cruelty in her smile.
"I know what you did," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "You fired me. Deliberately. For what?"
"You were reckless," my father said, calm and controlled. "You needed to understand the value of discipline."
I laughed, a bark of disbelief. "Discipline? You humiliate your own son for love, and now this is discipline?"
"I warned you," he said, voice rising. "And now you've shown your true colors."
The tension in the hall was so thick I could taste it. I stepped closer, trying to keep my temper, but it was impossible. "True colors?" I shouted. "You think you own me? You think you can dictate my life? I am not a pawn for your amusement!"
"You will leave," my father said, icy, final. "And you will never return."
The words struck me harder than any slap could. My chest tightened, breath caught. "You… you'd throw your own son into the street? For what? A lesson in pride? A game of control?"
"You've disgraced this house enough," my stepmother said softly, venom lacing each syllable. "Leave."
I turned, chest heaving, eyes stinging—not with physical pain, but the sharp sting of rejection, humiliation, and heartbreak. I walked out of the mansion, every step heavier than the last, the rain soaking my coat, my shoes squishing against the gravel.
By the time I reached the apartment, my hands trembled. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing out the world that had humiliated me. Clara was there, painting a frame with meticulous care. She looked up, startled by the storm in my eyes.
I sank to the floor, head in my hands. "They… they… fired me. My father…" The words cracked as I struggled to breathe through the rage and sorrow.
She knelt beside me, hands resting lightly on my shoulders. "Ethan… hey. It's okay. You're home now."
I shook my head violently. "No. It's not okay. Everything I try—they take it from me! They make me… small!"
She pulled me into her arms, the warmth of her body grounding me, her heart beating against mine. "You're not small," she whispered. "You're here. You're alive. You're mine."
I buried my face in her neck, hot tears running down my cheeks, the rage ebbing into exhaustion. "I can't…" I said, voice raw. "I feel… useless. Defeated."
She stroked my hair, fingers gentle. "Then rest. Just let me hold you."
I didn't fight it. I let myself collapse into her embrace, the apartment around us quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the faint patter of rain against the window. Her presence was soft, intimate, a balm to the humiliation and anger still burning inside me.
When I lifted my head slightly, she kissed my temple, her lips warm and reassuring. "We'll get through this," she said softly. "One step, one day. Together."
I cupped her face in my hands, searching her eyes for hope, and found it reflected back. We held each other like that for a long time, the weight of the world pressing down but unable to break us.
That night, we fell asleep tangled together on the small mattress, hearts beating in sync, a quiet intimacy that spoke louder than words. Outside, the city roared, but inside, in our fragile little sanctuary, we were safe.
And for the first time in days, I felt… almost human again.