Chapter 7
Three days later, Scarlett collapsed.
She had been running on caffeine and adrenaline, preparing documents for the public defender by night and teaching piano lessons in a run-down community center in Queens by day. She had used a fake name, "Ms. Rose," hoping to avoid the press.
She was walking out of the center when a flash went off in her face.
"Scarlett! Scarlett Miller! Is it true your father stole from orphans?"
A paparazzo had found her. He shoved a camera in her face.
Scarlett stumbled back, her vision blurring. The world tilted sideways. The sidewalk rushed up to meet her face.
When she opened her eyes, she wasn't on the concrete. She was in a bed with sheets that felt like clouds. The air smelled of antiseptic and lilies.
"Oh, good. You're awake."
Scarlett turned her head. Sitting in a wingback chair by the window was a woman who looked like royalty. Silver hair coiffed to perfection, pearls the size of grapes.
"Mrs. Sterling?" Scarlett croaked. She recognized her from society pages. Harrison's mother. Eleanor Sterling.
"Please, call me Eleanor," the woman smiled warmly. "My family doctor, Dr. Aris, has a clinic nearby. My driver saw the commotion with the photographer. We brought you here. You were severely dehydrated, dear."
Scarlett tried to sit up. "I... I can't pay for a private clinic."
"Hush. It's taken care of." Eleanor stood up and walked to the bed. She peered closely at Scarlett's face. Her expression shifted from polite concern to something sharper. A flicker of recognition.
"It's strange," Eleanor murmured, tilting her head. "You have such a familiar look. You remind me of an old friend I haven't seen in decades. The eyes, mostly."
Scarlett froze. "My mother passed away when I was young."
"I see." Eleanor didn't press. But her gaze lingered, thoughtful and calculating.
The door flew open.
Harrison burst in. He looked like he had run all the way from midtown. His tie was askew.
"Scarlett!" He rushed to the bed, ignoring his mother. "Are you okay? The doctor said-"
He stopped. He realized his mother was watching him with a knowing smirk.
"Harry," Eleanor said, arching a brow. "Is this the 'acquaintance' you were so worried about?"
Harrison straightened up, smoothing his suit. The mask slammed back into place. "Mother. Thank you for helping her. She is... a former client."
"A client you sprinted across the city for?" Eleanor chuckled. She patted Scarlett's hand. "He hasn't run since prep school track."
"Mother, please," Harrison warned.
Eleanor picked up her purse. "I'll leave you two. Scarlett, dear, take this." She pressed a small velvet pouch into Scarlett's hand. "It's a St. Christopher medal. For safe travels. You seem to have a bumpy road ahead."
She looked at Harrison, then at Scarlett. "Take care of her, Harry."
With that, she swept out of the room.
Silence descended.
"I'm sorry," Scarlett said. "I didn't mean to drag your mother into this."
"You didn't. She loves stray puppies," Harrison grumbled. He pulled a chair up to the bed. He looked angry, but his hands were gentle as he poured her a glass of water. "Drink."
"I'm fine."
"You fainted on a sidewalk in Queens. You are not fine."
He saw a bowl of fruit on the bedside table. He picked up an apple and a small paring knife. He started peeling the apple. He was terrible at it, hacking away chunks of fruit.
Scarlett watched him. The great Harrison Sterling, struggling with a Granny Smith. A weak giggle bubbled up in her throat.
Harrison glared at her. "Shut up."
"You're butchering it."
"It's a tough apple."
He finally managed to cut a jagged slice. He held it out to her. "Eat."
Scarlett took it. "Thank you."
Harrison didn't leave. He stayed as the sun went down. He stayed as she drifted off to sleep.
The last thing Scarlett felt was a large, warm hand covering hers.
"I won't let you fall," a voice whispered in the dark.
You may also like
