Chapter 1: The Only Choice

The eviction notice had been on the door for three days.

Bianca Jackson only opened it when they came to enforce it.

“Miss Jackson, I’ll need you to step aside.”

The man’s voice wasn’t unkind. Just practiced. Detached—like this was routine.

Bianca didn’t argue—because there was nothing left to argue.

She stepped back without a word, fingers tightening slightly around the handle of her suitcase—the only thing she had packed when the warning first came.

Not because she was ready to leave.

Because she knew she would have to.

Behind her, the apartment looked exactly the same.

That was the worst part—

it hadn’t even noticed she was leaving.

The couch still held the faint crease where she used to fall asleep with her textbooks open. A chipped mug sat on the counter, untouched since the night before. Notes were still spread across the table—half-finished, half-forgotten.

A life paused mid-sentence—cut off without warning.

“Is there anyone you can call?”

Bianca blinked once.

The question lingered longer than it should have.

Anyone.

Her grip on the suitcase loosened—just slightly.

“No,” she said—too quickly for it to be anything else.

Even. Certain.

As if the answer had always been there.

The man nodded, not pressing. He stepped aside, gesturing toward the door.

That was it.

No scene.

No tears.

No one stopping her.

Bianca walked out.

The door closed behind her with a soft click—quieter than she expected.

She stood there, still, listening—as if something might call her back.

Nothing did.

—

The street was louder than it should have been.

Cars passed. People moved. Conversations blurred together like nothing had changed—like the ground beneath her hadn’t just disappeared.

Bianca adjusted her grip on the suitcase and started walking.

No destination.

Just forward.

Three months.

That’s how long it had taken.

Three months of notices she pretended weren’t final. Three months of numbers that refused to add up, no matter how many times she recalculated. Three months of calling a number that had stopped answering somewhere along the way.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Money that wasn’t hers anymore.

Gone.

Just like that.

Not stolen.

That would have required permission to begin with.

She exhaled quietly, cutting the thought short before it could take shape.

What was done was final.

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

Camilla.

Something in her chest loosened.

Bianca answered immediately.

“Hey,” she said, her voice already lighter. “You’re up early.”

Silence.

Then—

uneven breathing.

Her steps slowed.

“…Camilla?”

“I’m at the hospital.”

The words came out rushed, unsteady.

Everything in Bianca stilled.

“What happened?”

“My mom—” A sharp inhale. “There was an accident. They said she’s in surgery, I—I don’t know anything yet. They won’t tell me anything—”

Bianca’s grip tightened around the phone.

“Which hospital?”

Camilla told her.

Bianca didn’t hesitate.

“I’m coming.”

She ended the call before anything else could be said.

She stood at the edge of the sidewalk, the city moving around her like she wasn’t part of it anymore.

No apartment. No safety net. No time.

Bianca adjusted her hold on the suitcase and raised her hand, flagging down the first cab she saw.

It slowed.

Stopped.

She got in without hesitation.

“Downtown General Hospital,” she said, already pulling the door shut.

The car merged into traffic.

Bianca leaned back against the seat, gaze fixed forward.

Still steady.

Still controlled.

But this time—

there was no plan forming.

Just one clear thought cutting through everything else.

Camilla needed her.

And that was enough.

—

Bianca arrived twenty minutes later.

The moment the hospital doors slid open, the air changed.

Sterile. Cold. Too bright.

It hit the back of her throat, sharpening everything—sound, movement, even her own breathing.

She stepped inside without slowing.

“Excuse me,” she said at the front desk, voice steady despite the urgency beneath it. “Camilla Floris. Her mother was brought in earlier—car accident.”

The nurse barely looked up, fingers moving across the keyboard.

“Third floor. Surgical waiting area.”

“Thank you.”

Bianca turned immediately, already heading for the elevators.

The ride up felt longer than it should have.

Too quiet. Too contained.

Her reflection stared back from the metal doors—composed, unreadable.

No trace of the morning.

Good.

The doors opened.

She stepped out—

—and spotted Camilla instantly.

Curled into herself in a rigid chair, elbows on her knees, hands tangled in her hair like she’d been holding herself together for too long.

“Camilla.”

That was all it took.

Camilla looked up—

and whatever control she had left broke.

“Bianca—”

Bianca closed the distance and pulled her into a firm, grounding embrace.

“I’m here,” she said quietly. “I’ve got you.”

Camilla clutched her like she might fall apart otherwise.

“They won’t tell me anything,” she said against Bianca’s shoulder. “They just said internal bleeding and that they’re trying to stabilize her, and I—I don’t even know how bad it is—”

Bianca’s hand moved slowly along her back. Steady. Rhythmic.

“Hey. Breathe first,” she murmured. “We’ll figure everything else out after.”

Camilla nodded, unsteady.

They pulled apart, but Bianca stayed close.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

Camilla let out a weak breath. “Does coffee count?”

“No.”

That earned the faintest hint of a smile.

Bianca glanced around the waiting area—vending machines, a small café down the hall, people scattered in quiet distress.

Manageable.

“I’ll get something,” she said. “Stay here in case they come out.”

Camilla hesitated, fingers tightening around Bianca’s sleeve.

“…Don’t go far.”

“I won’t.”

Bianca gave her arm a reassuring squeeze before stepping away.

—

The café line was short.

Bianca ordered without thinking—something simple, warm—and leaned lightly against the counter as she waited.

Her mind recalculated.

Hospital bills. Time. Recovery.

Camilla’s mother’s job.

That thought lingered.

Live-in nanny. One-year advance.

Money like that didn’t come without conditions.

It didn’t matter.

Right now, none of it did.

She collected the food and turned back—

—and slowed.

Two figures stood near the surgical wing.

Well-dressed.

Out of place in a way that had nothing to do with clothing—and everything to do with presence.

The woman stood slightly ahead, posture elegant, composed. The man beside her matched it—calm, attentive, focused entirely on her.

Bianca’s gaze lingered for a fraction longer than necessary.

Not curiosity.

Recognition.

Power.

Wealth.

Distance.

Everything she had no place among.

She looked away first.

Not her world.

Not her concern.

Bianca adjusted her grip on the paper bag and kept walking.

—

Camilla looked up the moment she returned.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Eat first,” Bianca replied, sitting beside her.

For a while, neither spoke.

Just quiet.

Just waiting.

Until—

“Miss Floris?”

Both looked up.

A doctor approached, expression carefully neutral.

Camilla stood so quickly her chair scraped against the floor.

“I’m her daughter—how is she? Is she okay?”

The doctor exhaled.

“The surgery is still ongoing. We’ve controlled some of the bleeding, but the next few hours are critical.”

Camilla’s face drained of color.

“But—she’s going to be okay, right?”

A pause.

Measured.

“We’re doing everything we can.”

Bianca felt the shift beside her.

Hope—fragile. Unstable.

She reached out, grounding Camilla before she could spiral.

“Is there anything she’ll need? Anything we should prepare?” Bianca asked, calm and direct.

The doctor glanced at her, then nodded.

“If she pulls through recovery, she’ll need long-term care. She won’t be able to return to work immediately.”

Work.

There it was.

Camilla’s grip tightened on Bianca’s sleeve.

“My mom…” she whispered. “She just got hired… she hasn’t even started yet…”

Bianca’s gaze flickered.

There it was.

The opening. The risk. The decision.

She didn’t rush it.

But the thought had already formed.

Clear.

Precise.

Dangerous.

She looked at Camilla—really looked.

At the fear. The exhaustion. The quiet desperation.

Then she exhaled softly.

She didn’t care how.

She had no other choice.

“…Tell me about the job.”

—

Because if she didn’t take it—

there wouldn’t be anywhere left for her to go.

And this time—

there would be no door to stand behind.

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