A House That Was Never Home

Five years earlier...

My hands were steady as I folded Marcus Harrington's dinner invitation, handwritten on cream cardstock that cost more per sheet than I earned in an hour.

I dropped it on the table, where my mother saw it immediately.

"Mara." Her voice was sharp. "Why are you not dressed?"

I looked down at my jeans and sweater. "Dressed for what?"

"The Harringtons are coming for lunch. I told you yesterday."

She hadn't. Or maybe she had, and I'd stopped listening to her. 

"I have plans."

My mother's smile went brittle. "Cancel them."

"No."

"We've discussed this, Mara. Marcus is …"

"Forty-two, twice-divorced, and views me as an acquisition. Yes, Mother. We've discussed it extensively."

"Don't be crude. This is a good arrangement. It's good for everybody."

"You mean, profitable."

Her face went cold. "Go upstairs. Change into something appropriate. Be down here in twenty minutes with a better attitude."

"Or what?"

The question seemed to surprise her as if defiance wasn't something she'd calculated into her plans.

"Or you'll discover exactly how limited your options are." She stepped into the kitchen, standing close to me such that I could see her chest rise at every breath. "You think you can survive on your own? With no references, no family support, no connections? You'll come crawling back within a month."

"Maybe."

"There's no maybe. You have a degree you can't use and expensive tastes you can't afford. Marcus is offering security, stability, and a future."

"His future, not mine."

"They're the same thing. That's how marriage works."

I stood, pushed my chair back hard enough for it to scrape against the tile.

"I will not marry Marcus Harrington."

"Yes, you are. Your father and I have already …"

"Negotiated terms? You have settled on a price, haven't you? You have decided my life without consulting me?" There was anger building in my chest. "You don't get to do that anymore."

"We're your parents, and we are right to decide what’s best for you."

"I'm twenty-four years old. An adult. You can't force me into anything."

My mother's expression changed.

"You're right. We can't force you." She pulled out her phone and typed something quickly. "But we can stop funding your independence. Have you forgotten we co-signed the apartment you're so proud of? We are ready to pull out, and let's see how you will get a new place. Say no to Marcus, and you will also lose access to your credit cards, the car insurance, the health coverage, and all family accounts."

My stomach grumbled. "You're blacking me out."

"We're establishing consequences. Choose wisely, Mara. You have until the Harringtons arrive to decide whether you're joining us for lunch and embracing a better life or packing your belongings and going into misery."

My mother left me standing in the kitchen of a house that had never felt like home. I had two options: surrender or become destitute.

I took the train to my apartment, the one my mother had just threatened to take away. I took the stairs to my apartment on the fifth floor because the elevator is out of service. 

I sat on my secondhand couch and calculated numbers I'd been avoiding. Security deposit for a new place. First month's rent. Moving costs. Basic furniture. Food. Transportation.

My three months' savings of café tips and carefully hoarded paychecks amounting to twenty-eight hundred dollars would never be enough. 

My phone buzzed with a message from my father.

Your mother tells me you're being difficult. Reconsider. Marcus is a generous man. This arrangement benefits everyone.

I typed back: Everyone except me.

His response came immediately: Stop being dramatic. Lunch is at one. Be there or be homeless. Your choice.

I turned off my phone. I imagined a third option that didn't exist. I couldn't fight my family because they had money and connections. I couldn't marry Marcus Harrington, as that felt like a different kind of prison with better furniture.

I changed into my café uniform without thinking. Black pants, white shirt, apron that smelled like espresso. My shift didn't start for two hours, but staying at home felt impossible. 

Éclat was empty when I arrived. Jean-Paul was setting up, while the espresso machine was hissing. Morning light turned the windows gold.

"You're early." He didn't look up from counting register bills.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Family trouble?"

I must have looked as wrecked as I felt. "Something like that."

"Well, you're here now. Make yourself useful. VIP section needs restocking."

I began the routine. Napkins folded, sugar packets aligned, salt and pepper filled and polished. It was mindless work that let me avoid thinking about lunch at one o'clock and choices that felt like surrender either way.

The door chimed, and I glanced up, as it was too early for the morning rush. I thought it was someone asking for directions.

Instead, a man walked in. He looked like someone in his early thirties, wearing an expensive suit and smelling nice. He moved to the corner of table seven without acknowledging Jean-Paul or me, pulled out a tablet, and started working like the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Jean-Paul whispered beside me. "Luke Anderson. Comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Don't bother him unless he signals. He doesn't talk to anyone."

Luke Anderson. The name rang a bell. I’ve read business articles about him. He was rich and powerful. 

"What does he order?" I asked.

"Americano. Black. Nothing else."

I watched him work. When he finally glanced up, looking for service, I observed his eyes were gray and assessing.

I approached with my notepad ready. "Good morning. What can I get for you?"

"Americano. Black."

"Coming right up."

I should have walked away and treated him like any other customer. But something made me pause, maybe the way he'd looked at me, like I was a person instead of a transaction.

"The almond croissant is fresh this morning," I offered. "If you're interested."

"I'm not." His voice was sharp.

"I'll bring your coffee."

When I returned with his Americano, I positioned it carefully, handle facing left, because I had noticed which hand he had used to gesture. 

He noticed anyway.

"Thank you."

I walked away feeling his attention follow me briefly before returning to his tablet. Finished my shift moving through familiar routines while my brain circled the same impossible problem: surrender to Marcus Harrington or lose everything trying to stay free.

Then my shift ended, and I saw Luke Anderson stand, collect his things, and leave a tip that was more than my hourly wage. I watched him walk out like he owned the air he breathed, and something clicked.

Men like Luke Anderson had power that made my family's influence look decorative. 

If someone like him decided to protect me, my family couldn't touch me. If someone like him became interested, I'd have leverage they couldn't counter.

I stared at the empty table seven, the generous tip, the space where Luke Anderson had sat completely alone despite being surrounded by people.

Then, there may be a third option after all.