The Jilted Heiress: Rising From Ruin

Rain didn't just fall in New York City; it assaulted the pavement, turning the alley behind the gilded velvet ropes of The Sapphire Club into a river of oil and grime. Emely Cohen stood in the center of it, water soaking through the thin fabric of her coat, plastering it to the rolls of flesh she spent every waking moment trying to hide.

She clutched the resume in her hand so tight the paper had turned to pulp. It was a pathetic shield against the elements, and an even worse shield against the woman standing in the doorway.

Yvonne pushed the heavy steel door open with her hip, a cigarette dangling from her perfectly painted red lips. She didn't step out into the rain. She wouldn't dare ruin her blowout. Instead, she leaned against the frame, her eyes scanning Emely's body with a look that was physically painful to endure. It was a look of pure, unadulterated disgust.

"Jesus, Emely," Yvonne said, smoke curling from her mouth. She pulled a silk handkerchief from her clutch and pressed it to her nose, as if Emely's poverty had a scent. "You take up half the alley. You're like a walking mountain."

Emely's stomach twisted, a hard knot of shame tightening behind her ribs. She looked down at her shoes, which were sinking into a puddle of questionable substance. "You said there was a job opening, Yvonne. Assistant manager."

"For a human," Yvonne laughed, the sound sharp and brittle. "Not for a circus attraction. Do you know what the uniform size limit is? Size eight. You haven't seen a size eight since middle school."

Emely swallowed the lump in her throat. "Please. My dad... the factory lawsuits. We have nothing left."

Yvonne rolled her eyes and flicked the cigarette butt into the puddle near Emely's foot. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pale pink envelope. The paper was thick, expensive. "I don't have a job for you. But I have an errand."

Emely's head snapped up, a flicker of hope warring with suspicion. "An errand?"

"If you want me to keep these photos of your dad's factory being vandalized off Twitter, you'll do it." Yvonne's smile was a slash of red malice as she held up her phone, displaying a picture of the Cohen Pharmaceutical sign spray-painted with the word "KILLER."

Emely flinched as if struck. "You wouldn't."

"Try me." Yvonne extended her arm, holding the envelope out into the rain. "Take it. It's for Christ Collins. He's at a private party tonight. You're going to slip in the back and give it to him."

Christ Collins.

The name hit Emely like a physical blow to the chest. The air in her lungs seemed to vanish, replaced by a vacuum of memory. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and took the envelope. The gold calligraphy on the front shimmered under the security light: Collins.

"Good girl," Yvonne sneered. "Try not to eat the hors d'oeuvres on your way in."

The door slammed shut, the heavy metallic clang echoing the finality of Emely's dignity. She stood alone in the downpour, staring at the name, and suddenly the smell of rain and garbage vanished.

The sun was blinding. It was the kind of Hamptons summer day that felt like a fever dream-golden, hot, and smelling of chlorine and expensive sunscreen.

Twelve-year-old Emely lay on a lounge chair, her body lean and wiry, skin bronzed by hours of swimming. She was sipping lemonade, watching the shimmer of heat rise off the pool deck. The lifeguards were busy flirting with a group of girls in bikinis near the snack bar.

No one was watching the deep end.

Except Emely.

She saw the ripple first. Then the hand. It broke the surface, pale and desperate, clawing at the air before slipping back down. It wasn't a splash. It was a silent surrender.

Emely didn't think. Her body moved before her brain could process the danger. She sprinted to the edge and dove, the water shattering around her.

She opened her eyes underwater. The boy was sinking, his black hair floating like a halo around his head. He wasn't fighting the water; he was rigid, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open in a silent scream.

Emely kicked hard, her lungs burning. She grabbed his arm.

The moment her skin touched his, a shockwave tore through her. It wasn't static electricity. It was like grabbing a live wire. Heat, intense and vibrating, shot up her arm and straight into her heart.

She ignored the pain. She wrapped her arm around his chest and kicked for the surface, dragging his dead weight. They broke the surface gasping, water streaming from their faces. Emely hauled him to the edge, her muscles screaming, and shoved him onto the hot concrete.

The boy coughed, water expelling from his lungs, his chest heaving. Emely sat back on her heels, panting, wiping wet hair from her eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice shaking.

The boy lifted his head. Wet black hair plastered to his forehead, dripping into eyes that were an unsettling, icy blue. He didn't look grateful. He looked furious.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glared at her. "Who asked you to interfere?"

Emely blinked, stunned. "You were drowning."

"I was practicing holding my breath," he snapped, though his voice was raspy and weak. He pushed himself up, trying to regain some semblance of dignity, but his hands were shaking.

"You were sinking," Emely argued, her temper flaring. "You were convulsing."

He leaned in close. He was taller than her, even then, with a sharp jawline that promised a devastating adulthood. "Cohen, right? The little factory princess."

He reached out, his cold wet finger hooking under her chin, tilting her head up. The contact sent that same strange buzz through her skin, making the fine hairs on her arms stand up.

"Remember this," he whispered, his eyes dark. "You didn't see anything today."