Linda's "home" was a cramped, third-floor walk-up in a building that smelled of damp concrete and old cooking oil. As she pushed the door open, the chaotic noise of her three younger siblings hit her like a physical weight.
"Linda! You're back!" the youngest, Leo, chirped, running to her.
"I'm back. And I've got dinner," she said, dropping a heavy bag of groceries on the scarred wooden table. She pulled out a thick envelope of cash and tucked it into a hidden floorboard before heading to the back room.
Her mother, Sarah, lay in a bed that took up most of the small space. Her legs, useless since the accident years ago, were tucked under a thin quilt.
"You look tired, Lu," Sarah whispered, her face pale.
"I'm fine, Ma. Just a long day with a stubborn car," Linda lied, pressing a cool hand to her mother's forehead. Her heart sank. Sarah was burning up. By midnight, the "fever" had turned into a terrifying, rattling cough. Sarah's breathing became shallow, her eyes rolling back.
The money Linda had fought Robert for was gone within hours—handed over to the private ambulance and the emergency room intake desk. Linda spent the night on a plastic hospital chair, her eyes fixed on the heart monitor, her knuckles white.
The next morning, the Canberg Tech garage was silent.
Robert Greg stood by his Maybach, checking his watch for the fifth time. 8:00 AM. 8:15 AM. 8:30 AM. He had arrived early, though he told himself it was only to ensure his schedule remained "undisturbed."
By 9:00 AM, the spot where Linda should have been standing with her bucket and rags was still empty. A strange, sharp irritation prickled under his skin.
"John," Robert snapped into his intercom. "Call the agency that sent the detailer. Find out why she isn't here."
Minutes later, John's voice came through, hesitant. "Sir, they don't have much. Just a name and a temporary address. They said she... well, she isn't answering her phone. Should I find a replacement?"
Robert stared at the empty space in the garage. He thought of the fire in her eyes and the way she had looked at him with zero fear. He grabbed his tablet, his jaw set. "No. Just give me the address they have on file."
As he looked at the screen—a run-down district he hadn't visited in a decade—he suddenly stopped. He saw his own reflection in the window of his car. He looked ridiculous. A billionaire standing in a basement waiting for a girl who had probably just taken his double-pay and run.
"Why do I even care?" he muttered to the empty garage.
He straightened his tie, the silk smooth and perfect once again. She was just another "filthy" life, exactly as he'd said. If she wanted to be a no-show, he wouldn't waste another breath on her.
"Forget the address, John," Robert said coldly, walking toward the elevator. "She's fired. Get a professional crew in here by noon. I'm done with the nonsense."
But as the elevator rose toward his ivory tower, Robert found his hand drifting to his collar, his fingers tracing the spot where her grip had been. He told himself he was disgusted. His racing heart told a different story.
Two days later, Linda walked into the Canberg garage. She looked like a ghost—her eyes were hollowed out by 48 hours of hospital coffee and the crushing weight of medical bills, but her spine remained as straight as a steel rod.
She stopped dead.
In the bay where she usually worked, a crew of four men in identical white jumpsuits were swabbing his cars with industrial equipment. It was sterile. It was professional. It was exactly what Robert Greg had always wanted.
"You're late," a cold voice echoed.
Robert stood on the mezzanine, looking down at her like a judge from a high throne. He had spent forty-eight hours convincing himself he didn't care, but seeing her standing there—looking fragile yet still holding that defensive edge—sent a jolt through him that he hated.
"I'm aware," Linda said, her voice dry and rasping. She didn't offer an excuse. She didn't mention the hospital, the fever, or the fact that she was currently wondering how to pay for her mother's oxygen tank.
"The position is filled," Robert said, his voice clipped. "I don't tolerate unreliability. You can just leave and forget the job ever existed."
Linda's heart did a slow, agonizing roll in her chest. The financial floor had just dropped out from under her, but her face remained a mask of stone. She hated pity more than she hated hunger. If she told him her mother was dying, he'd look at her with that billionaire condescension, and she'd rather starve than be his charity case.
"Understood," she said. No plea. No explanation. She turned on her heel to leave.
"Miss Thorne! Hey, wait!"
Job stepped out from behind a pillar, looking far more polished than he had at the gym. He hurried toward her, his expression a mix of guilt and puppy-like adoration. "I've been waiting to catch you. Look, about the gym... I was a total jerk. I wanted to apologize properly."
Linda didn't stop walking. "Apology accepted. Get out of my way."
"At least let me give you a ride home?" Job persisted, reaching out a hand but wisely pulling it back before touching her. "It's raining, and you look like you've been through a war."
"I don't need a ride. I don't need an apology. And I definitely don't need you," Linda snapped, her voice cracking just enough for a keen ear to catch the exhaustion.
From the mezzanine, Robert watched the exchange. He saw the way she brushed past Job, her movements slightly slower than usual, her shoulders tenser. He noticed the way she avoided looking at anyone, as if her pride was the only thing holding her skin together.
He had intended to be done with her. But as he watched her walk toward the exit—a lone figure heading back into the storm without a penny or a plan—the "neat freak" felt a messy, uncomfortable tug in his chest. He realized then that for all her "careless" life, she was the only thing in this garage that wasn't a manufactured facade.
He saw her hand shake as she pushed the heavy exit door. She thought she was hiding it. She thought she was alone.
But Robert Greg was finally paying attention.