Chapter 3 - A Debt Acknowledged
Emma had not moved. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs, sounding like thunder in her own ears. Her hands were tucked tightly behind her back, her fingers trembling against the cheap polyester fabric of her uniform vest.
She had just witnessed the destruction of one of Chicago’s most powerful heiresses with a single word. And now, Vincent Moretti was turning toward her.
"Emma," a soft, weathered voice called out.
It was Isabella Moretti. The elderly woman beckoned to her with a frail, gloved hand, her eyes filled with immense warmth and tenderness.
Emma hesitated, looking down at her scuffed black shoes, before taking two cautious steps forward. She sank slightly, unsure whether she was supposed to bow or simply apologize. "Ma'am... Mrs. Moretti. I hope you're unhurt."
"Come closer, child," Isabella insisted gently.
Emma stepped forward until she stood right beside the wheelchair. Isabella reached out and took both of Emma’s hands into her own. As she did, Isabella’s fingers grazed against the red, inflamed marks on Emma’s right wrist—the bruise forming where Victoria’s diamond bracelet had scraped against her flesh during the scuffle.
"Look at this," Isabella murmured, turning Emma’s hand over to reveal the calloused palms and the fresh swelling. She looked up at her son. "Vincent. She stepped into the fire to shield an old woman she didn't know from Adam. Not a single person in this room moved a finger, but this girl stood between me and a blow."
Vincent stepped beside his mother. Up close, his presence was overwhelming. He was tall, broad-shouldered, radiating an aura of absolute authority that made the air feel thin. Yet when he looked at Emma’s bruised wrist, his sharp jawline tightened not with arrogance, but with quiet gravity.
"You work for the Drake's catering division?" Vincent asked.
"Y-yes, sir," Emma managed to say, her throat dry. "I'm on the banquet banquet shift."
"Why did you do it?" Vincent asked, studying her face intently. "You knew who Victoria Sterling was. You knew what she could do to a waitress in this town."
Emma met his eyes, finding courage she didn't know she possessed. "Because nobody should be hit. It didn't matter who she was, or who your mother was. My mother taught me that if you stand by and watch cruelty happen when you have the power to stop it, you become part of the cruelty."
Vincent stared at her for several long seconds. A flicker of something rare and unreadable crossed his dark eyes—respect.
May you like
"A rare philosophy in this city," Vincent said quietly. He reached inside his breast pocket, retrieved a sleek, black-embossed card with a gold crest and a private direct number, and placed it into Emma’s trembling palm. "Keep this with you at all times, Emma Carter."
Before Emma could stammer out a response, the banquet manager, Mr. Henderson, came scurrying through the crowd, sweating profusely through his stiff collar.
