Chapter 2
Willow's POV
The beam of my flashlight cut through the darkness, dancing over the churning surface of the Los Angeles River. At 2 AM, this wasn't exactly how I planned to end my night after an eight-hour shift at the Sunset Strip Lounge. But I'd definitely heard someone shouting for help.
"Hello?" I called out, sweeping the light across the water. "Is someone there?"
A flailing arm broke the surface about twenty feet from the shore, followed by a desperate gasp for air. "Help! I'm drowning!"
Shit. This was real.
I scanned the riverbank, my black crab jacket squeaking as I moved. The stage makeup from tonight's performance was still caked on my face – heavy smoky eyes, dark lipstick, and enough contouring to give me cheekbones that could cut glass. Not exactly rescue-appropriate, but there wasn't time to worry about that.
The man's head bobbed up again. "Save me!" he sputtered, coughing up water. "I'll give you... one million!"
I couldn't help but laugh. "Sure thing, Tommy Vercetti. Did you swim all the way from Vice City?"
Spotting a life ring attached to a nearby post, I grabbed it and the attached rope. Thank God for mandatory safety equipment. With the precision I'd developed from years of choreographed dance moves, I hurled the ring toward the struggling figure. It landed just a few feet from him.
"Grab it!" I shouted.
He lunged for the ring, his movements sluggish. The sharp smell of alcohol hit me as I pulled him closer to shore – drunk swimming, always a brilliant idea. Using all my strength (hauling drunks out of the club had given me decent upper body strength), I dragged him onto the muddy bank.
He immediately rolled onto his side, coughing up river water. In the beam of my flashlight, I could make out an expensive suit, now ruined, and a face that seemed oddly familiar.
"Wait a minute," I murmured, studying his features. "I've seen you somewhere... Forbes magazine, maybe?"
The man didn't respond, his eyes fluttering between consciousness and something else. He was breathing, at least. I patted down his pockets, looking for ID, and found a soaking wet leather wallet containing several hundred-dollar bills but no identification. His wrist sported a Rolex that probably cost more than my yearly rent.
I fished out his waterlogged phone and dialed 911, giving them our location. While waiting for the ambulance, I kept checking his breathing and pulse, making sure he stayed on his side in case he vomited.
As I adjusted his position, something from his jacket came loose – a small, ornate pin that fell right into my jacket pocket without me noticing. I was too busy trying to keep Mr. Millionaire alive to feel it.
The ambulance arrived in record time. As the paramedics loaded him onto a stretcher, one asked if I knew him.
"No idea," I replied. "Just found him drowning in the river and pulled him out."
"You coming along?" the paramedic asked.
I glanced at my watch – 3:15 AM. I had to be at the supermarket for my morning shift at 6. But I couldn't just leave this guy, especially since his one million promise.
"Yeah, I'll follow you," I sighed, heading to my motorcycle.
The ambulance sped off toward downtown, its siren cutting through the night. I followed on my shabby bike, the only luxury I'd ever allowed myself. As I rode toward the heart of Los Angeles, the city revealed itself in all its insomnia-fueled glory. Even at this hour, the skyline blazed with light, a constellation of man-made stars competing with the heavens.
Traffic thinned as I wove between cars, the cool night air whipping against my face. Neon signs from bars, clubs, and 24-hour restaurants painted the streets in electric blues and pinks. Los Angeles never truly slept – it just shifted into a different kind of awakeness.
As I approached the financial district, my eyes were drawn upward to the massive digital billboards adorning skyscrapers. And there she was – Chloe Sinclair, her perfect profile gazing serenely across the city from at least three different buildings. One ad for luxury perfume, another for designer handbags, and a third announcing her charity gala next month.
My stomach knotted at the sight of her face – my face, but polished to a high-society shine. The sister I'd never known growing up, the twin who'd been kept while I'd been given away. I gunned the engine, accelerating past her fifty-foot smile.
"Must be nice," I muttered inside my helmet, my words lost to the wind and traffic noise. "Being the version they decided to keep."
The Angeles Heights Medical Institute loomed ahead, its modern glass façade illuminated against the night sky, conveniently located in the downtown medical district where LA's elite received their healthcare. Just another reminder of the city's stark divides – my own parents were treated at a clinic that looked more like a converted warehouse.
The Angeles Heights Medical Institute was exactly what you'd expect from a hospital in the wealthy part of town – marble floors, tasteful artwork, and receptionists who looked like they belonged on magazine covers.
"We need payment information for the patient," the registration clerk said, eyeing my disheveled appearance with thinly veiled judgment.
"I'm not related to him," I explained. "I just pulled him out of the river."
"I understand, but someone needs to complete his paperwork. Since you brought him in..."
I sighed. "Fine. How much?"
"The preliminary emergency fee is $2,000."
My heart sank. That was almost half a month's wages from both my jobs combined.
"Can I pay with card?" I asked, already mentally rearranging my budget. Ramen noodles for the rest of the month it is.
"Of course. I'll need your driver's license as well."
I handed over my driver's license, and the clerk's eyes widened as she looked from the photo to my face and back again.
"Ms. Chloe Sinclair?" she asked, her voice suddenly hushed with reverence. "Is that really you? With this... unique makeup?"
I froze. Chloe Sinclair – the notorious socialite, LA's golden girl, and apparently my doppelgänger. I'd seen her in magazines but never in person. The clerk was still staring at me, waiting for a response.
"Um, yeah," I mumbled, deciding that explanations would only complicate things.
Her entire demeanor changed. "I'm so sorry for the wait, Ms. Sinclair. We'll take excellent care of your friend."
I winced as I typed my PIN, watching my bank balance shrink dramatically. The doctors assured "Ms. Sinclair" that the patient was suffering from mild drowning symptoms and severe intoxication, but would recover fully.
Before leaving, I scribbled a note on a hospital notepad: "If you wake up, remember you owe me money. Rescue fee: $2,000. Call me." I added my phone number and left it on his bedside table.
By the time I got back to my motorcycle, it was almost 4 AM. I checked my watch and groaned. Two hours until my shift at ValueMart started. There was no way I could make it home, shower off this makeup, change, and get to work on time – not without some serious traffic violations and zero sleep.
"This is what I get for playing hero," I muttered, pulling out my phone. I scrolled through my contacts until I found Jenny, a fellow cashier who always needed extra hours to pay for her nursing classes.
I typed quickly: "Emergency SOS. Can you cover my 6-10 AM shift today? Will cover ANY shift for you next week. Literal life or death situation. Please??"
The response came faster than I expected: "Sure thing. You OK? Also you owe me one of those fancy coffees you hate."
Relief washed over me. "You're a lifesaver. Coffee with all the stupid whipped cream. Promise. Thanks."
I tucked my phone away and started the motorcycle. As I rode toward my apartment in Angelino Courts, I couldn't help wondering about the drunk millionaire. Would he remember his one-million-dollar promise? Even a fraction of that would help with my adoptive parents' medical bills.
But I'd learned long ago that in Los Angeles, promises from rich men usually evaporated faster than morning dew under the California sun.