Chapter 3 - THE PARKING LOT ENCOUNTER
I didn't stop at the staff lockers. I knew if I went back there, security would likely be waiting to toss my bag onto the cold concrete. Instead, I grabbed my coat from the hook, slipped it on, and headed straight out the heavy glass service exit into the cool autumn night.
The alley behind the Golden Oak was quiet, lit only by a buzzing amber security light that cast long, distorted shadows across the pavement. The crisp air hit my face, cooling the burning flush of adrenaline still racing through my veins.
I leaned against the brick wall, pulling my phone from my pocket. My hands were shaking uncontrollably now. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind the cold, hard reality of my situation: no job, $340 in my bank account, and an eviction notice giving me less than seventy-two hours to pack up my life.
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back fiercely. No, I told myself. Crying doesn't pay the rent.
“Excuse me.”
I jumped, spinning around.
Standing a few feet away, holding a dark wool coat loosely over his shoulders, was Ethan Hale. He had slipped out through the same service door, his breath pluming white in the chill night air. He looked smaller out here, away from the intimidating shadow of his father’s empire, but there was an intensity in his dark eyes that hadn't been there inside the restaurant.
“Ethan?” I breathed out, pulling my coat tighter around myself. “What are you doing out here? Your father’s security team—insurance will have a fit if they catch you talking to the fired waitress.”
Ethan took a slow step closer. He didn't just use his hands; he spoke, his voice slightly raspy from disuse, carrying a hesitant, careful cadence.
“I don't care about my father's security,” Ethan said, his voice quiet in the empty alley. He paused, lifting his hands to sign alongside his words to ensure clarity. “Thank you. For what you did back there.”
“I didn't do it to be a hero,” I replied softly, looking down at the wet pavement. “I just... I couldn't stand watching it. Nobody deserves to be treated like that. Especially not by the person who brought them into the world.”
Ethan gave a bitter, humorless laugh. “You have no idea. That was mild compared to what he does behind closed doors. To him, I’m not a son. I’m a PR liability. A broken product with a defective warranty.”
“You aren't defective, Ethan,” I said, looking straight into his eyes.
He stared at me for a long moment, as if trying to calculate whether my words were just empty pity. Then, reaching into his jeans pocket, he pulled out a thick, heavy business card and held it out toward me.
“Take this,” he said.
I looked down at the card. It wasn't his father’s tech conglomerate. It read: Ethan Hale — Independent Architectural Design & Urban Restoration.
May you like
“I don't need a designer, Ethan,” I managed a weak smile. “I need a miracle landlord who accepts rent paid in tears and optimism.”
“I don't need you to hire me,” Ethan insisted, stepping closer and pressing the card firmly into my palm. “I need an assistant. Someone who isn't afraid of my father, someone who knows sign language, and someone who has enough backbone to tell me when my ideas are terrible. My studio is downtown. Please... come by tomorrow at ten. Let me help you, the way you helped me.”
