"I understand perfectly," he interrupts, his eyes sharp. "You lost. You’re broken. But you aren’t dead. And as long as you’re breathing, you fight."
Something about his voice—his presence—makes me pause. He’s not just some homeless old man, is he?
Before I can ask, he stands up.
"Come with me."
And for some reason, I do.
***
His house is massive. No. Not a house. A mansion.
I stare in shock as he pushes open the grand doors, revealing a space so luxurious it looks like it belongs in a movie.
I turn to him, baffled. "What the hell—?"
He smirks. "I never said I was actually homeless."
I gape at him.
"Richard Blackwood," he says, extending a hand. "The richest man in America."
My mouth drops open. I know that name. Everyone does.
"But—but—"
He chuckles. "I like to go out and pretend sometimes. It reminds me of what’s real. And sometimes, I meet people like you. People who need help."
I stare at him, unable to process anything.
"Why me?" I whisper.
His smile softens. "Because I see fire in you, Claire. You just need someone to bring it back to life."
I don’t know what to say. For the first time in a long time, I feel something other than pain.
Hope.
"Stay here," he says. "I’ll take care of you. And when you’re strong enough…"
His eyes glint.
"You’ll take back what’s yours."
A slow, burning determination rises in my chest.
I lift my chin, my fingers curling into fists.
Liam.
I’m coming for you.
For the first time in months, I wake up in a real bed.
Not on the cold, hard pavement.
Not in some dirty alley, curled up with my arms wrapped around myself.
A real bed. With silk sheets and the scent of fresh linen surrounding me.
It almost feels like a dream.
But when I open my eyes, the massive chandelier above me reminds me that this is real. That I’m in Richard Blackwood’s mansion—no longer a homeless, broken woman left to rot in the streets.
I don’t know why he took me in.
I don’t know why he’s helping me.
But I do know one thing—I owe him. And whatever he wants in return, I’ll give it.
***
Richard Blackwood is nothing like I expected.
Despite his age, he carries himself like a king—powerful, untouchable.
He doesn’t speak much unless necessary, but when he does, his words cut through the air with an authority that demands attention.
Today, I sit across from him in his private study, a grand room filled with books, expensive whiskey, and the smell of old money.