Chapter 6

Lucy's POV

"With your background..." The HR director at Mount Sinai Hospital paused delicately, perfectly manicured nails tapping against my resume. "We have to be... extremely careful about who we hire."

Rejection number five, and it wasn't even noon. I'd heard the same story at Columbia Presbyterian and NYU Langone - my Harvard degree meant nothing compared to a prison record.

"Have you considered private clinics?" She suggested, already rising to end our interview. "Or perhaps... research?"

I forced a polite smile. "Thank you for your time."

I stepped out of Mount Sinai Hospital into the harsh sunlight. A group of residents hurried past, their white coats a painful reminder of the future I'd lost. I should have been one of them. Instead, the reality was so cruel.

My phone buzzed with another rejection email from a private clinic. I deleted it without reading it. At this rate, I'd be lucky to get a job as a receptionist.

When I pushed open the back door that evening, instead of the usual warm welcome, I found Sarah pacing the kitchen nervously while Uncle Owen sighed heavily at the prep table.

"Finally!" Sarah's voice was shrill. "Did you see what your darling husband is doing?"

My stomach clenched. "What?"

"Storm Investment Group is buying the entire block!" She thrust a letter in my face. "They're doubling everyone's rent - doubling! We can barely make ends meet as it is!"

"Sarah..." Uncle Owen's warning tone did nothing to stop her.

"We took you in when you had nowhere to go! And this is how you repay us? By letting your husband destroy our business?"

The familiar guilt rose like bile. "I didn't know. I'll talk to Ethan-"

"Talk to him?" Sarah mocked. "You're sleeping in our spare room while he's probably having dinner with that Wilson heiress right now. Wake up!"

"That's enough!" Uncle Owen stood up, his kind face lined with worry. "Lucy, we'll figure something out. Don't worry about us."

But guilt and shame were already choking me. I pulled out my phone, typing furiously: Using your money to bully my family? Real mature, Ethan.

His reply was instant: Come home and we'll discuss it.

I looked around the kitchen - at the family photos on the walls, the worn counter where Uncle Owen taught me to make real Italian pasta. This place was more home than the Storm mansion ever was.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered. "I'll find somewhere else to stay."

"Lucy, no-" Uncle Owen started, but I was already heading upstairs to pack.

The Brooklyn walk-up was exactly what you'd expect for $800 a month - cracked tiles, flickering lights, and a persistent smell of curry from next door. But it was mine. No designer furniture chosen by Ivy, no ghosts of a marriage built on lies.

I was hanging my old sweatshirt when my phone rang - an unknown number.

"Mrs. Storm?" A male voice, professionally concerned. "This is Tom from The Pierre. Your husband is... quite intoxicated. He's refusing to leave the Sky Lounge."

I should have hung up the phone, but thoughts of my uncle's restaurant compelled me to speak with Ethan in person. As the taxi wound its way across the bridge, steel cables stretched like dark ribbons above us while the glow of street lamps guided our way into the heart of Manhattan.

The hostess's eyes widened at my worn jeans, but she recognized me instantly.

"Mrs. Storm! Mr. Storm is in the VIP section with Miss Wilson-"

I pushed past her, following the sound of familiar voices. Through the frosted glass doors, I saw them - Ethan slumped in a leather chair, tie loosened, while Ivy pressed her lips to his.

"Oh, Lucy!" Ivy's voice dripped fake concern when she spotted me. "Thank God you're here. Ethan's so upset about your... situation."

Her hand rested possessively on his arm. Ethan's head rested against the chair with eyes tightly shut, his lips parted slightly and face flushed with alcohol.

"I tried to talk him out of the property acquisition," she continued all wide-eyed innocence. "But you know how he gets when he's angry. If only you hadn't been so stubborn..."

"Still playing the victim, Ivy?" My voice was ice. "You staged that fall down the stairs to frame me, and now you're using my family's business to force me back? Aren't you tired of these dirty tricks? You want Ethan? Fine. You'll have it."

Lucy tried to explain, "You misunderstand me; I'm just..."

"Save it. I saw you kiss him. "My voice dripped with contempt. "Keep your perfect little show. I'm done being your blood bank."

Ivy quickly wheeled herself towards me, her face a mask of practiced concern.

"Lucy, please," she reached for my hand. "That kiss was just a mistake. He was so upset about you leaving... I was just comforting him as an old friend."

I yanked away from her touch. "An old friend? Are you kidding me?"

"You're being paranoid." Her perfectly glossed lips curved into a sympathetic smile. "I know the prison time must have been traumatic, but-"

"Shut up." I stepped around her wheelchair, but she grabbed my wrist, nails digging in.

"You can't just walk away," she hissed, mask finally slipping. "Do you think anyone will believe an ex-con over me? You're nothing without the Storm name."

I jerked free. In that instant, Ivy's wheelchair rocked backwards. She let out a piercing scream. She tumbled to the floor in a practiced fall.

I hesitated for a moment. What the hell was she up to?

Just then, a furious shout interrupted my thoughts, "What have you done?"