Chapter 5
“She worked for a contractor connected to us,” Vivian said. “Her position was unnecessary.”
“She cleaned offices,” I said, my voice breaking. “She scrubbed floors until her hands bled. That job paid for our rent.”
Vivian’s gaze stayed cold.
“And yet here you are, employed by the same empire you clearly despise.”
Humiliation burned my face.
Because she was right in the cruelest possible way.
I had applied to Vance Corporation because the salary was better than anywhere else. Because my mother’s hospital bills had followed me long after her funeral. Because survival had no pride.
Liam looked at me then, and something in his expression changed again.
It was not pity.
It was recognition.
“Who is your direct manager?” he asked.
I knew that tone. Everyone knew that tone.
It ended careers.
“Mr. Vance—”
“Emma.”
The way he said my name made refusal impossible.
“Daniel Cross,” I answered.
His eyes went dark.
The door opened again.
This time a nurse appeared, startled by the tension.
“Ms. Hale needs rest,” she said.
Liam looked at his mother.
“Leave.”
Vivian smiled faintly.
“You think one paper flower makes her family?”
“No,” Liam said. “It reminds me what family is not.”
For one suspended second, Vivian looked as though she might strike him.
Instead, she turned toward the door.
Before leaving, she glanced back at me.
“You should be careful, Miss Hale. My son mistakes guilt for loyalty. It never lasts.”
Then she was gone.
The door closed.
My entire body trembled.
Liam remained standing for a long time, staring at the place where his mother had been. Then he came back to the chair beside my bed.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The apology sounded unfamiliar in his mouth, as if he had rarely used it and hated that no other words were enough.
I closed my eyes.
“Sorry doesn’t bring my mother back.”
“I know.”
“It doesn’t erase the bills.”
“No.”
“It doesn’t undo the nights she coughed blood into a towel and told me she was fine.”
His face tightened with pain.
“No,” he said again.
I expected him to defend himself. Powerful men usually did. They turned pain into paperwork, guilt into donations, truth into strategy.
But Liam only sat there and took every word.
That made it worse.
Because anger needed resistance.
And he gave me none.
After a while, I whispered, “Why do you still have it?”
“The flower?”
I nodded.
He opened his palm.
The little blue flower trembled slightly, though his hand was steady.
“I kept mine for years,” he said. “The one your mother made me. It was the only thing from that night that felt real.”
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“What happened to it?”
“My father burned it.”
