Chapter 2

Astrid's deep sleep offered no escape. Her life replayed in her nightmare like a slideshow, each image sharper, more vivid than the last. Astrid Moore lived her life as if she were in complete control, or so she desperately told herself. But deep inside, uncertainty and dread tightened in her stomach, a constant reminder of the precarious balance she maintained. One day, she knew she'd lose control completely if her biological father formally recognized her as one of his children. The thought alone made her mouth twist in disgust. The arrangement was purely transactional: a way for the Moore family to secure a business alliance with the Blackwells, another wealthy family in town. And to add insult to injury, her marriage had been arranged to Adam Blackwell, her childhood bully. A small mercy: the marriage had been delayed, even though she was now of age. Adam had been lost in a plane crash years ago. The Blackwells weren't sure if he was dead or alive, clinging to the hope that he would reappear. The possibility of his return sent a spike of anxiety through her, a feeling she often tried to forget at the exclusive parties she attended or during quiet nights at a dimly lit pub downtown, the clinking of glasses and murmur of voices a temporary balm.

She was the illegitimate child of Ethan Moore, the city's notorious womanizer and business tycoon. Instead, after her mother died during childbirth, she was raised by Daniel Morgan, a close friend of Ethan's. Because Daniel and his wife were unable to have children, he readily agreed when Ethan asked him to raise Astrid.

Now, at nineteen, she ran the operations at the distribution company owned by her adoptive parents, a role that afforded her a life of luxury: designer clothes, lavish staycation sprees, and a sports car she rarely drove, its sleek lines gathering dust in the garage. But this business was small compared to the vast empire her biological family controlled. She preferred focusing on her work, finding a sense of accomplishment in managing the company's day-to-day operations, a small island of order in her chaotic life.

Her cellphone's jarring sound sliced through the silence. Morning already. Her adoptive mother was calling. Fighting through sleepiness and a throbbing headache, she answered. “Hello.”

“Astrid?” Beatrice's voice was cold, as usual, a familiar chill that Astrid had long grown accustomed to, like a draft through a poorly sealed window.

“What is it, Mom?” She yawned, pulling the silk covers tighter around her.

“Your father and I are extending our stay abroad for another week. I trust you aren't neglecting the business?”

“Sure. Of course.” Relief consumed her, a momentary lightness in her chest. Good news, at least for a few more days.

“Alright.” The line went dead, leaving Astrid staring at the ceiling.

A subtle smile touched her lips. A few more days of reprieve from Beatrice's attitude. Beatrice disliked her, her resentment a constant presence. She was, after all, the daughter of Ethan Moore, the man who had dumped Beatrice after their brief affair. Beatrice poured much of her anger for Ethan onto Astrid, a bitter inheritance. Astrid remembered one Christmas, when she was ten, she was excited, it was only rare that his father visited her, receiving a beautifully wrapped gift from Ethan, only to be snatched away by Beatrice when Ethan left and threw it away. She never allowed her to have it. It wasn't just about Ethan; Beatrice seemed to resent Astrid's very existence, a constant reminder of her own weaknesses and failures.

Astrid shook her head, pushing the memories away. She remembered the stranger she'd saved last night. She glanced at the bedside clock. 5:30 AM. She hurriedly checked the guest room. Still asleep? I’ll make coffee first.

In the kitchen, she brewed two cups, the rich aroma filling the air, a comforting prelude to the day, then carried them to the guest room.

She sat on the sofa, watching him. Now that she was sober, she noticed a familiar cast to his features, something reminiscent of Adam Blackwell. The same strong jawline, dark hair, and a well-defined nose. If you didn't know Adam, you might think they were related. A sudden jolt went through her, as if an electric current had surged through her veins. How could this be? Who was this man? As she stared, he awakened, his eyes fluttering open, perhaps jolted awake by the aroma of the coffee.

Blake blinked, disoriented. Where was he? The bed was soft, the air clean, a strong contrast to the alleyways he usually woke up in, the stench of garbage replaced by the subtle scent of jasmine. And he was wearing different clothes. He ran a hand over the unfamiliar cotton of the t-shirt. Who had done this? Shame flooded him as he sat up and saw a young woman watching him from the sofa. She was too far away to make out her features, still he could tell she was beautiful, though a long, jagged scar marred her face. The scar, a pale line that tugged slightly at the corner of her lip, ran below her left eye down to her jawline. He looked down, avoiding her gaze.

She approached, offering a cup of coffee. "How are you feeling? I found you in my parking area last night." Her smile was tentative but genuine.

"My head aches, but I'm okay. Thank you for saving me. I was assualted." He finally met her eyes, a flicker of vulnerability in their depths.

"Drink your coffee. It might help with the headache," Her smile warmed, reaching her eyes.

He couldn't help but stare. She was pretty. Her dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, and her eyes sparkled with an intriguing mix of curiosity and concern. He wondered how she'd gotten that deep scar.

"I'm Ms. Moore," she said, sitting beside him, a subtle shift in her posture. He does have a familiar look. But the thought was fleeting, overshadowed by an inexplicable curiosity drawing her to this man.

He shifted away, suddenly self-conscious about his smell. Her perfume filled the air, intoxicating, a blend of jasmine and something he couldn't quite recognize, a scent that spoke of wealth and privilege. "Blake." He kept his gaze downcast, ashamed of his dirtiness compared to her obvious wealth and neat appearance. He was a homeless garbage collector; she was rich. Worlds apart.

"Nice name. Where do you live, Blake?"

He hesitated, then met her gaze. "I'm homeless. I grew up on the streets." He wondered why she wasn't bothered by having a stranger like him in her house, why she wasn't recoiling in disgust.

"Really?" A shadow of pity crossed her face. "I can't imagine... What happened?"