3

Faith When I finally opened my eyes, the harsh, glaring lights of the emergency room were gone. Instead, I was staring up at a soft, warm lighting fixture on a tall ceiling. The air didn't smell like cheap floor cleaner or crowded waiting rooms; it smelled faintly of fresh lilies. I blinked slowly, trying to clear the heavy fog from my brain. A wave of throbbing pain instantly hit me. My right arm was encased in a heavy, stiff cast, resting on a thick pillow. Every time I took a breath, a sharp ache flared across my ribs, and my head felt like someone was hammering inside my skull. "Miss Porter? You're awake." A kindly middle-aged doctor in a crisp white coat stepped into my line of sight, checking a monitor beside the bed. I tried to sit up, but the pain in my chest made me gasp. "The... the boy," I choked out, my voice raspy and dry. "Is the little boy okay? Was he hurt?" The doctor smiled warmly, pressing a gentle hand against my shoulder to keep me still. "Shh, take it easy. The boy is completely fine. Not a single scratch on him, thanks to you. You saved his life." A massive weight lifted off my chest, and I let out a long breath, sinking back into the soft pillows. "Thank God..." I looked around the room, and my eyes widened. This wasn't a standard hospital room. It looked more like a five-star hotel suite. There was a plush leather sofa, a massive flat-screen television on the wall, and private floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. "Where... where am I?" I asked, bewildered. "I can't afford a room like this." Before the doctor could answer, the heavy wooden door to the suite pushed open. Two men walked in. The first was a younger man carrying an iPad and a leather briefcase. But it was the second man who instantly drew every drop of air out of the room. It was the man from the street. He was imposing, standing over six feet tall in a tailored charcoal suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His dark hair was neatly brushed back now, and his sharp, sculpted face looked like it belonged on the cover of a luxury magazine. But his dark eyes were cool, guarded, and completely unreadable. The doctor bowed his head slightly. "Mr. Sutton. She just woke up." "Thank you, Doctor. Give us a moment," the tall man said. His voice was a deep, quiet rumble that commanded instant obedience. The doctor nodded and quietly exited the room. The man walked toward the side of my bed, stopping a few feet away. He kept his hands resting inside his trouser pockets, observing me with an intense, calculated gaze. "Miss Porter," he began formally. "I am Nicholas Sutton. This is my assistant, Julian." My breath hitched. Sutton? As in Sutton Enterprises? The massive global conglomerate that owned half the real estate, shipping lines, and tech patents in the city? Everyone knew the Sutton name. They were practically royalty, possessing the kind of unfathomable wealth that normal people like me only saw on the evening news. The silent little boy I had pushed out of traffic was the heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire. "Mr. Sutton," I managed to say, holding my breath against the dull throbbing in my ribs. "I came to personally express my gratitude," Nicholas said, his tone smooth, controlled, and remarkably calm. "What you did on Fifth Street was remarkably brave. You risked your own life to save my son, Noah. For that, I am deeply in your debt." Despite his words of thanks, his posture remained stiff and distant. It didn't feel like a father thanking the woman who saved his child; it felt like a CEO addressing an employee at a business meeting. He gestured slightly with his hand, and his assistant, Julian, immediately stepped forward. Julian opened his leather briefcase, pulled out a sleek black checkbook, and handed a gold fountain pen to his boss. Nicholas uncapped the pen and wrote quickly across a paper cheque. He tore it off and extended it toward me. "I have paid your medical bills in full," Nicholas said evenly. "Consider this an additional gesture of my appreciation. It should cover your living expenses while you recover, as well as a generous bonus for your courage." I looked down at the slip of paper in his fingers. The number written on it made my heart drop straight into my stomach. Five hundred thousand dollars. Half a million dollars. It was more money than I would see in ten years of working back-breaking shifts at the bakery and the diner. It was enough to pay off Maya’s mountain of medical bills instantly, cover our rent for years, and finally give us a real life. For a split second, my hand twitched. But then I looked up into Nicholas Sutton's cold, dark eyes. There was no warmth in his gaze. He was looking at me the same way wealthy men always looked at people like me—like a problem that could easily be solved with a thick stack of cash. He thought I was waiting for a payout. He thought my pain had a price tag. An intense burn of humiliation flared in my chest, hot and sharp. "Take it," Nicholas urged quietly, misinterpreting my silence. "You don't need to be modest." I took a deep, painful breath and pulled my good hand back, resting it against my chest. "Put it away, Mr. Sutton," I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could. Nicholas raised an eyebrow, his fingers freezing in mid-air. "Excuse me?" "I don't want your money," I told him, looking him straight in the eyes. "I didn't run into that street because I knew who your son was. I didn't do it for a reward, and I certainly didn't do it for a cheque. I saw a five-year-old child in danger. Any human being with a heart would have tried to save him." A heavy silence descended over the room. Julian, the assistant, looked like he had just seen a ghost. His jaw hung open slightly as he stared at me in total disbelief. Nicholas didn't move. A subtle flash of shock crossed his handsome features, vanishing as quickly as it came. He slowly lowered his arm, looking at me with a sudden, intense curiosity, as if trying to decipher a complex puzzle. In his world, money bought everything and everyone. He clearly wasn't used to anyone turning down a fortune. Before he could say another word, the heavy door to the room creaked open. A female therapist walked in, holding the hand of a small boy in a dark blue sweater. The moment the little boy saw me sitting up, his big brown eyes lit up. He instantly yanked his hand out of the therapist's grip and sprinted across the polished floor. "Noah, wait!" the therapist called out softly. Noah ignored her completely. He ran straight to the side of my bed, climbing up onto the small footstool so he could reach me. His tiny, warm hands reached out and delicate fingers wrapped tightly around my uninjured left hand. He looked up at my bandaged head and the heavy cast on my right arm, his eyes brimming with big, glossy tears. "Noah, be careful," Nicholas warned quickly, taking a step forward. "Miss Porter is hurt." Noah didn't look at his father. He stared straight at my face, his bottom lip trembling violently. Then, his tiny mouth opened. "Does... does it hurt a lot?" he asked softly. His voice was small, raspy, and delicate, like a draft of wind blowing through an old house. The entire room went completely dead quiet. The therapist let out a sharp gasp, covering her mouth with both hands. Julian nearly dropped his leather briefcase onto the floor. Nicholas froze in his tracks. His face went entirely pale, his dark eyes wide as he stared at his son in utter shock. Noah was speaking. I didn't know about his two years of silence, nor did I understand why everyone was staring in disbelief. All I saw was a frightened, sweet little boy who felt guilty for my injuries. I managed a soft, warm smile, gently squeezing his tiny fingers with my good hand. "It hurts a little bit, sweetie," I whispered gently. "But the doctors are taking good care of me. You saved me from being sad today by being safe. That's all that matters." Noah leaned his small forehead against the edge of my mattress, letting out a shaky breath. "I was scared," he muttered softly against the blanket. "I know," I said, stroking his soft dark hair with my fingers. "I was a little scared too. But we're both okay now." Noah looked up, his big brown eyes locking onto mine with absolute earnestness. "Can I come see you tomorrow? Please?" "Noah..." Nicholas started, his voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion as he struggled to process his son's sudden voice. Noah ignored his father again, staring at me with desperate, pleading eyes. "Please?" "Of course you can," I promised him gently. "I'll be right here." Only after I gave him my promise did Noah finally agree to leave. He allowed the therapist to lead him out of the room, though he kept turning his head to look back at me until the door fully closed behind him. Nicholas stood near the foot of the bed for a long moment, staring at the closed door in stunned silence. He looked back at me, a profound, unreadable expression in his eyes, before quietly turning around and leaving with his assistant. The room fell quiet again. I sank back into my pillows, feeling utterly exhausted. I reached over to the bedside table with my good left hand and picked up my cheap, cracked phone. There was a single new text message notification on the screen. It was from my boss at the bakery where I worked as a head decorator and cashier. My heart sank as I opened the message. Faith, I heard about your accident from the police report. I'm sorry you got hurt, but I can't keep your spot open for six weeks while your arm heals. I had to hire someone else starting tomorrow. Hope you heal up soon. A cold, sick feeling flooded my stomach. I had been fired. No job. No savings. Rent due in three days. Maya's medical bills piling up by the hour. How was I going to buy groceries? How was I going to keep a roof over my sister's head with a broken arm and cracked ribs? Tears of pure panic welled up in my eyes. I covered my face with my left hand, fighting back the desperate sobs threatening to tear through my bruised throat. The heavy wooden door opened softly. I quickly wiped my cheek and looked up, expecting the nurse. It wasn't the nurse. Nicholas Sutton stepped back into the private room alone. He had his suit jacket unbuttoned, his hand resting in his pocket, his dark eyes locked straight onto my tear-streaked face. He didn't mention the cheque. He didn't mention my refusal. Instead, he stood at the edge of my bed and said evenly, “I may have another job for you.”