Chapter 3

That evening, I walked into an old coffeehouse where Daniel was waiting for me in a rosewood armchair. He was older now, heavier than he had been in the photographs, and dressed in an immaculate suit, but I recognized him instantly.

That face. Those brows.

They were exactly the same as the face I'd been staring at in an old photograph for the past 30 years.

"Prof. Collins."

I sat down across from him. He took a slow sip of his coffee before looking up at me.

"Ms. Sutton, I've looked into you. You're a young woman who made her way out of the backcountry and built a career for herself. That's quite impressive."

His voice was calm and measured, carrying the effortless confidence of a man who had spent decades surrounded by power and influence.

"I came from the backcountry myself, so I know how difficult that journey can be."

He poured another cup of coffee and pushed it toward me.

"Whatever your concerns may be, I'm confident Natalie meets your standards. If you're willing to make an exception, I can guarantee you'll go much further in this profession."

As he spoke, his eyes traveled casually over me. "You're still young. What you need most is an opportunity."

There was something almost patronizing in the way he said it, as though he were offering wisdom to someone beneath him. His words sounded generous on the surface, but the sincerity was nothing more than a performance that came naturally to a man accustomed to getting his way.

And through it all, there wasn't even a flicker of recognition.

People had always told me that my grandmother and I looked remarkably alike. Yet sitting across from me was the man who had once known her better than anyone, and he didn't recognize me at all.

Of course, he didn't. He didn't even know I existed.

"Prof. Collins." I looked at him calmly.

"You came from the backcountry too. I've always been curious…" I held his gaze and spoke slowly, letting each word land. "How many people did you step on to get where you are?"

The coldness in Daniel's eyes was immediate. The faint smile vanished, and he set his coffee cup down with a sharp click.

"Enough. Tell me what you really want."

What did I want?

I repeated the question silently, and the corners of my mouth slowly lifted.

I wanted justice for what he'd done 50 years ago—for abandoning my pregnant grandmother in the middle of nowhere, stealing her name and identity so he could escape to the city, and then leaving her behind to build a new life with another woman.

Because of him, my grandmother was branded a "slut" and condemned to spend the rest of her life in that remote village. My mother was called a "bastard" from the day she was born. Her school refused to let her into the classroom because they said her mother was "dirty," and therefore, so was she.

For two years, she sat outside the classroom, listening to lessons through the door, until a teacher finally chased her away.

She never had the chance to receive an education. At 13, she began sewing clothes for other people just to make a living. She worked until her fingers were covered in tiny scars and bloody puncture wounds from the needle.

Two generations. Two pairs of hands worn raw by lives they never deserved.

My grandmother and my mother had endured everything so I could escape that remote village. So, I could earn a place at one of the country's top universities to study law and political science, build a career of my own, and eventually sit where I was now.

Every sacrifice they had made, every humiliation they had endured, had brought me to this moment.

And this was the moment I'd been waiting for.

I stared straight into his eyes. "Prof. Collins, I want only one thing—justice."

His expression didn't change, so I continued.

"Before I walked in here, I had already published the final hiring announcement."

I paused.

"And Natalie isn't on it."

Silence settled over the coffeehouse.

He stared at me, and I stared right back. Between us lay 50 years of unfinished business, and for the first time, I wondered if he had any idea just how much of it was about to catch up with him.

His face darkened, and he let out a cold, humorless snort.

"Young lady, you really don't know when to show some respect."

He tapped his fingers against the table, his patience visibly wearing thin.

"I agreed to meet with you because I was willing to give you a chance. But you've chosen to make things difficult for yourself. Don't blame me for what happens next."

He rose from his seat and calmly fastened the bottom button of his suit.

"You think you can stop my granddaughter from rising? You're still far too inexperienced to understand how this world works."

With that, he turned and walked away.

I remained where I was, watching his back disappear through the coffeehouse doors. I didn't call after him or try to stop him. There was nothing left to say.

The coffee in front of me remained untouched. By then, it had gone completely cold.

That same night, an emergency statement appeared on the law firm's homepage: "Former partner and lead interviewer Emily Sutton has been terminated for deliberately obstructing the firm's recruitment process and undermining fairness in employment."

There had been no investigation, no explanation, and no opportunity for me to respond. Just a few dry lines of text accompanied by a photograph of me.

But that was all the Internet needed. The comments exploded within minutes, and public opinion came crashing down like a flood, one accusation after another.

"She made partner at such a young age. I bet she slept her way there."

"Looks like she finally picked a fight with someone she can't beat."

"People like her are the ones destroying fairness in employment! Who knows how many careers she's ruined?"

I read them one by one without saying a word. My phone kept buzzing on the table, each new notification bringing another insult, another accusation, another stranger convinced they knew exactly what kind of person I was.

Then two messages from Natalie appeared.

"Emily, how does it feel to lose everything? Regretting it yet? You should look in the mirror and ask yourself who you think you are. You really thought you could go up against me?"

The second came right after.

"Tomorrow, Harrington & Partners is holding a press conference to officially welcome me into the profession. I'll walk into this industry openly and proudly. As for you, don't even dream of finding another job in this field."

The cold glow of my phone illuminated my face as I stared at the messages for a long moment.

Then, without replying, I turned the phone face down on the table.

My mother sat beside me with her back turned, her shoulders trembling. Her hands—the same hands that had spent half a lifetime sewing clothes— were clenched so tightly around the hem of her shirt that her knuckles had gone white.

"Honey…"

Her voice was hoarse and unsteady. "Maybe… Maybe we should just let it go."

I reached for her hand and held it in mine.

These were the same hands that had carried me out of those mountains, hands covered in countless tiny needle scars, rough and worn from years of work until they barely looked like a woman's hands anymore.

I held them for a long moment before gently squeezing them.

"Mom, we're not the ones who did anything wrong."

I looked at her scarred fingers and thought of everything she had endured, everything she had sacrificed so I could have the life she never did.

"They've owed us this debt for 50 years."

I tightened my grip around her hand.

"It's time they paid it back."