Chapter 1
2794words
"Mr. Barrett, we've secured the perimeter. The car is waiting."
"I need another minute," comes Adam's voice—no, not Adam. Alexander. Alexander Barrett, billionaire heir and apparent professional liar.
I climb onto the toilet tank, wedging my shoulder against the stubborn window. Three stories up, the fire escape beckons like a rusty ladder to freedom. All I need is one good shove and I can disappear from this fairy tale gone wrong.
Because that's what happens in these stories, right? Poor girl meets rich guy, thinks she's living a romance novel, then ends up miserable. I've read enough books to know how this ends—with the naive heroine crushed under the weight of high society expectations, or worse, discarded when she's no longer novel.
"Emma?" His voice is closer now, just outside the bathroom door. "Please talk to me."
"I need space," I call back, wincing at the crack in my voice.
"We can take this as slow as you want," he says, and I can picture him perfectly—those storm-gray eyes earnest, one hand pressed against the door as if he could reach through it. "But at least let me explain everything properly."
The window finally gives with a screech of ancient paint. Cool night air rushes in, carrying the sounds of Boston traffic below. Freedom is one awkward climb away.
"Emma, I'm not asking you to marry me," he continues, voice softer now. "I'm just asking you not to run."
But running is exactly what I should do. Two months ago, I didn't know Alexander Barrett existed. I was just Emma Snow, mediocre waitress and aspiring artist, living my perfectly ordinary life.
Until that rainy October night changed everything.
## Chapter 2
Two months earlier, I was trudging home from a double shift at Bellini's, my shoes squelching with every step. The rain had soaked through my jacket, my tips barely covered next week's art supplies, and three separate tables had complained about food I didn't even cook.
That's when I saw him—a dark heap against a brick wall that I initially mistook for trash. My phone's flashlight revealed an unconscious man in what had once been an expensive suit, now torn and bloodied.
I knelt beside him, checking for a pulse. Strong but uneven. "Hey, can you hear me?"
His eyelids fluttered briefly. I pulled out my phone to call 911, but his hand suddenly gripped my wrist with surprising strength for someone half-conscious.
"No... hospital," he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the rain. "Please... no ambulance."
"You need medical attention," I argued, but his grip tightened.
"Can't... afford it," he whispered before slipping back into unconsciousness.
I hesitated, chewing my lip. I assumed he was worried about the cost—ambulance rides can bankrupt people without insurance. Been there, almost done that after a bike accident last year.
"This is insane," I muttered to myself, already knowing I was going to do something stupid. My tiny studio apartment was only two blocks away. With a groan of effort, I managed to get him upright, draping his arm over my shoulders.
"If you're a serial killer," I huffed as we staggered down the street, "I'm going to be really annoyed."
Getting him up three flights of stairs was a nightmare I don't care to relive. By the time I dumped him on my couch, I was sweating despite the October chill and questioning every life choice that had led me to this moment.
I cleaned his wounds with my limited first aid supplies—a nasty gash on his forehead, bruised ribs, cuts on his hands like he'd fought back against whatever happened to him. No wallet, no phone, nothing to identify him.
Even unconscious and injured, he was ridiculously handsome—strong jawline, perfect nose, the kind of cheekbones artists dream of capturing. His hands were smooth, uncallused, but his body was athletic under the designer clothes.
I sketched him while he slept, telling myself it was artistic appreciation and not creepy at all.
Three days later, he finally opened his eyes—a startling blue-gray that reminded me of storm clouds.
"Where am I?" His voice was cultured, with that unmistakable old-money accent they don't teach in schools.
"My apartment," I replied, offering water. "I found you half-dead in an alley. I'm Emma."
"Thank you," he said after drinking. "I'm... Adam."
The hesitation was obvious, but I didn't push. Everyone has secrets, and his were probably more interesting than most.
"Just Adam? Like Cher?" I teased.
A ghost of a smile. "For now."
## Chapter 3
Over the next week, "Adam" recovered quickly. He was surprisingly helpful around my tiny apartment—organizing my chaotic art supplies, offering genuinely insightful comments on my paintings, even learning to cook from YouTube videos.
"Where did you learn so much about art?" I asked one evening as he analyzed the composition of my latest piece.
"My mother collected," he said vaguely. "I spent a lot of time in galleries as a child."
Everything about him screamed money and privilege—from the way he held silverware to how he automatically reached for top-shelf brands at the grocery store before catching himself. But there was something refreshing about his presence, too. He listened when I talked about my dreams, really listened, without the patronizing nods I usually got.
As days turned into weeks, I found myself looking forward to coming home. My cramped studio had always been just a place to crash between shifts, but now it felt... different. Warmer somehow.
"I should probably start looking for my own place," Adam said one evening, though I noticed he didn't sound particularly enthusiastic about the idea.
"Your ribs are still healing," I pointed out quickly. Too quickly. "And winter's coming. Not a great time to apartment hunt in Boston."
He smiled that small, private smile that made my stomach do gymnastics. "If you're sure I'm not imposing..."
"It's nice having someone to split the takeout bill with," I said casually, as if that was my only motivation for keeping a gorgeous man in my apartment.
The truth was more complicated. Something was happening between us—something in the lingering glances, the way our hands would brush when passing coffee mugs, the late-night conversations about everything and nothing. I caught him watching me sometimes when he thought I wasn't looking, his expression soft in a way that made my heart race.
But neither of us made a move. It was as if we were suspended in a perfect bubble, and any change might cause it to burst.
## Chapter 4
The first time "Adam" made me laugh—really laugh—was four days after I found him. He was still weak, moving gingerly around my apartment while I got ready for work.
"You don't have to wait tables," he said, watching me put on the hideous maroon vest that was Bellini's idea of classy attire. "You could focus on your art."
"Sure, and pay rent with exposure and good vibes?" I snorted, searching for my name tag. "Welcome to reality, where dreams don't pay bills."
"What if you sold some paintings?"
"To whom, exactly? The art market isn't exactly clamoring for unknown painters from South Boston."
He studied one of my canvases—a cityscape at dusk, all purples and deep blues with glints of gold. "This is genuinely good, Emma. You have a distinctive style."
"Thanks, but distinctive doesn't pay the electric bill." I found my name tag under a pile of sketches. "Not all of us have trust funds to fall back on."
"How do you know I have a trust fund?"
I gave him a look. "Please. You practically have 'trust fund' tattooed on your forehead. You fold your socks, Adam. Nobody folds socks unless they grew up with staff."
Instead of being offended, he laughed—a rich, genuine sound that transformed his face. "I fold my socks because I went to boarding school, where they inspected our drawers. But fair point."
"See? Boarding school. Called it."
"You're very perceptive," he said, still smiling. "It's refreshing."
"Refreshing?"
"Most people either don't notice details or pretend not to. They see what they expect to see."
Something in his tone made me pause. "And what do people expect to see when they look at you?"
His smile faded slightly. "Someone who has everything figured out."
"Do you? Have everything figured out?"
"Not even close," he admitted. "But I'm working on it."
I was almost late for work that day, but it was worth it for that moment of genuine connection. Over the following weeks, those moments multiplied. We talked about everything—art, books, places we wanted to travel, childhood memories (though his were always carefully edited, I now realize).
He helped me prepare for a small local art show, framing my pieces and suggesting which ones to display. When a gallery owner expressed interest in my work, Adam was more excited than I was.
"This is just the beginning," he insisted, spinning me around my tiny living room in celebration. "You're going to be huge."
For a brief, beautiful moment, I believed him. I believed in myself.
## Chapter 5
As weeks passed, Adam became more than just a houseguest. He became my confidant, my cheerleader, my friend. And maybe something more, though neither of us dared to cross that line.
There were moments—his hand lingering on my shoulder, our eyes meeting across the room, the way he'd tuck my hair behind my ear with such tenderness—that made me wonder. But he always pulled back, as if fighting some internal battle.
One night, after I'd had a particularly brutal shift at Bellini's, I came home to find him asleep on the couch, a book on his chest. I stood there watching him for a moment, struck by how peaceful he looked, how at home in my cramped little space.
That's when it hit me—I was falling for him. Hard. For a man who wouldn't even tell me his last name.
I should have been scared. Instead, I felt strangely calm, as if some part of me had known all along that Adam would change everything.
The next evening, we were watching TV when the news came on. I was about to suggest switching to a movie when the anchor's serious tone caught my attention.
"The search continues for Alexander Barrett, heir to the Barrett Industries fortune, who disappeared over two weeks ago..."
A photo appeared on screen, and my heart stopped. The perfectly styled hair was different, the expression more severe, but there was no mistaking that face.
It was Adam.
## Chapter 6
And now here I am, halfway out a bathroom window while Alexander Barrett—the real Alexander Barrett—pleads with me through the door.
With one final push, the window gives way completely. I tumble onto the fire escape with all the grace of a drunken flamingo, barely catching myself before face-planting on the rusty metal.
"Emma?" His voice is more urgent now. "Are you okay?"
"Peachy!" I call back, already scrambling down the fire escape. "Just living my best rom-com life, escaping from billionaires through bathroom windows!"
"This isn't funny, Emma. Please, just talk to me."
But I'm already descending, the cold metal biting into my palms. Three floors down isn't so bad. I've done worse in college on a dare. Besides, I've read enough romance novels to know exactly how this plays out—ordinary girl gets swept into wealthy man's world, becomes tabloid fodder, gets chewed up and spit out by society vultures who think her accent is "quaint" and her background "colorful."
No thank you. I'll stick with my mediocre but drama-free existence.
I reach the second floor when I hear the bathroom door open. Too late, Mr. Moneybags!
"Emma!" His voice floats down from above. I glance up to see his head poking out the window, expression a mix of disbelief and—is that admiration?
"Sorry, can't hear you over the sound of my dramatic exit!" I shout back, continuing my descent. "Tell your security goons I said hi!"
"You're being ridiculous!"
"That's me—Emma 'Ridiculous' Snow! The girl who thought she was nursing a regular guy back to health, not Boston's most eligible bachelor!"
I reach the bottom of the fire escape and jump the last few feet to the alley below. A man in a black suit spots me and speaks urgently into his wrist. Great. Now I'm being tracked like some escaped zoo animal.
"Miss Snow," the suit approaches cautiously, like I might bite. "Mr. Barrett would like to speak with you."
"Mr. Barrett can speak to my dust cloud," I reply, already backing toward the street. "I'm not interested in becoming tomorrow's gossip column headline."
"He's very concerned about your welfare."
"My welfare was fine before I found him bleeding in an alley, and it'll be fine now." I turn and sprint toward the main street, dodging another security guy who looks genuinely confused about whether he's allowed to tackle a five-foot-four woman in ratty jeans.
I don't stop running until I reach the 24-hour diner three blocks away. Sliding into a booth, I order coffee with shaking hands and try to process what just happened.
I just escaped from Alexander Barrett. The Alexander Barrett. The man whose face is plastered across business magazines and whose family name is on half the buildings in downtown Boston.
The man who, for two months, was just Adam—the guy who laughed at my terrible jokes, who organized my paintbrushes by size and type, who looked at my art like it actually mattered.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: "Emma, this is Alexander. Please let me know you're safe."
How did he get my number? Right. Billionaire. Probably has the NSA on speed dial.
I ignore it and sip my coffee, trying to convince myself I made the right choice. Because I did, didn't I? What future could there possibly be for Emma Snow and Alexander Barrett? We're from different planets, different universes.
For two months, we existed in a bubble—him playing at being normal, me blissfully ignorant of who he really was. But bubbles always burst.
## Chapter 7
Three days later, I return to my apartment. The security detail is gone, and so is any trace of "Adam." It's like he never existed, except for the lingering scent of his cologne on the couch cushions.
I try to resume my normal life—waiting tables, painting in my free time, pretending my heart isn't cracked right down the middle. I tell myself it's better this way. Cleaner. Less complicated.
Then the packages start arriving.
The first one comes a week after my dramatic escape—an enormous box professionally wrapped in expensive paper. The card simply reads: "For the artist who saved more than my life. - AB"
Inside is an easel—not just any easel, but a professional-grade one I've been drooling over online for months. The kind that costs more than my monthly rent.
"Oh no," I mutter. "No, no, no."
But the gifts keep coming. Every day, something new arrives—premium paints imported from France, brushes made from rare natural fibers, a leather portfolio case embossed with my initials.
No notes, no pressure, no requests to call or meet. Just gifts that show he was paying attention when I talked about my art dreams.
A week after my dramatic escape, the biggest delivery yet arrives—a large flat package that takes two men to carry up the stairs.
It's a painting. Not just any painting, but one by an up-and-coming artist I'd mentioned admiring. The kind of painting that costs more than my car (if I had a car).
This time, there's a note: "Art deserves to be seen. Your work deserves a gallery. When you're ready to talk, I'll be waiting. - AB"
I should be annoyed. I should send everything back. Instead, I find myself touching each gift with a strange mix of longing and fear.
Because the truth is, I didn't run because I was angry about his lies. I ran because I was terrified of what might happen if I stayed—terrified of falling even harder for someone whose world would eventually crush me.
So I don't call. I don't text. I go back to waiting tables and painting in my free time, trying to pretend the last two months never happened.
But every night, I dream of storm-gray eyes and a voice that made me believe, just for a moment, that I could be something more than Emma Snow, struggling artist and professional plate-carrier.
And every morning, I wake up wondering if I made the biggest mistake of my life.
