Chapter34 Accepting help isn't weakness. It's wisdom.
Chloe
Ethan's car idled across from Moonlight & Roses.
"You sure about this?" Ethan asked for the third time.
I gripped the door handle. "I need this job."
"You have a job. At Astor Capital. Making actual money."
I turned to face him. "Ethan, I need savings that are completely mine. Independent of Julian, independent of anyone."
His amber eyes searched mine with an intensity that made my chest tighten. "You really think he's going to leave you? After everything he's done?"
The question hit like a slap. I looked away, focusing on the café entrance. "I don't know what I think. I just know I can't afford to assume anything is permanent."
"Chloe—"
"Do you remember my eighteenth birthday?" The words came out harsher than intended. "The day of the car crash? When Evelyn looked at me after the DNA results came back and said, 'You're not my daughter. You are no longer part of this family.' Just like that. Eighteen years of love—gone in two hours."
Ethan's jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jump. "That was different. She's a cold bitch who never deserved you."
"Was it different?" I turned back to him, and I could feel the tears threatening. "I thought that love was eternal. I thought family meant something. I was wrong about everything. So forgive me if I don't trust that one day he won't wake up and decide I'm not worth the trouble."
The silence stretched heavy between us. Then Ethan reached out, his hand covering mine where it rested on my lap. His palm was warm, calloused from weekend basketball games.
"Even if he leaves," Ethan said, his voice dropping to something raw and fierce, "even if the whole world turns its back on you—I won't. I will never leave you. Do you understand that?"
There was something in his voice that made alarm bells ring in my head. Something too intense, too possessive. I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip tightened.
"Ethan—"
"No, listen to me." His eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that stole my breath. "You're the only person who matters to me. Not because of obligation. Not because we grew up together. Because you're you. Because for three years I was locked in that room thinking about nothing but you. Wondering if you were safe. If you were eating. If you were still alive."
My heart hammered against my ribs. This is wrong. This is crossing every line we've ever had.
"You were fifteen," I said, my voice barely steady. "You were a kid who missed his sister—"
"I'm twenty-one now." His voice was firm, almost angry. "I'm not a kid anymore, Chloe. And what I feel for you isn't—" He stopped himself, jaw working. "You need to stop seeing me as that fifteen-year-old boy."
"Then what do you want me to see?" I challenged, even though I was terrified of the answer.
He stared at me for a long moment, and I could see the war in his eyes. Then he released my hand abruptly, turning to face forward.
"The light's green," he said, his voice carefully neutral now. "You should go to your interview."
I sat frozen for another heartbeat, then practically bolted from the car. Behind me, I heard him say, "I'll wait here."
I didn't look back.
---
Inside the café, the scent of fresh-ground espresso and vanilla hit me immediately. A young barista looked up from the espresso machine.
"Hi! Are you Chloe Harrison? Vivienne's waiting for you."
She gestured toward a corner table where a woman sat, afternoon sunlight turning her chestnut hair to burnished copper. She was wearing a camel-colored trench coat over a white turtleneck, elegant in a way that spoke of old money and good breeding.
She looked up from her tablet and smiled.
"You must be Chloe Harrison." She stood, extending her hand. "I'm Vivienne Astor. Please, sit."
Astor. The name hit me like ice water. My hand froze mid-reach, but I forced myself to complete the handshake. Her grip was firm, professional, confident.
"Thank you for meeting with me," I managed, sliding into the chair across from her.
Vivienne settled back, studying me with eyes that were sharp but not unkind. "I've reviewed your resume. UCLA economics degree, currently working at a financial firm. Very impressive credentials."
"Thank you," I said carefully. "I'm looking for weekend work. Something flexible."
"I see." Vivienne tilted her head. "Can I ask why? With your background, you could certainly find something more... substantial than a barista position. The pay here is only fifteen to eighteen dollars an hour."
I had my answer ready. "I want to experience different types of work. And I like the atmosphere of coffee shops."
Vivienne's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "That's very diplomatic. But let me be direct, Chloe. You're clearly overqualified for this position. Which makes me curious about what you're really looking for."
My pulse quickened, but I kept my expression neutral. "Financial independence. I want my own income stream."
"Ah." Something shifted in her expression—recognition, perhaps understanding. "I know that impulse. Better than you might think."
She turned her tablet toward me. "Let me propose something different. I own an art gallery in West Hollywood. You'd introduce visitors to the artwork, answer questions, assist with catalog sales. Fifty dollars an hour, eight hours each weekend. Four hundred a week."
Fifty dollars an hour. My breath caught. That was more than triple the café wage. In a month, I could save sixteen hundred. In six months, nearly ten thousand.
But something felt off. "Why would you offer me that? I have no art background."
"Because high-end galleries don't need art history PhDs," Vivienne said smoothly. "They need people who can engage with clients naturally, who project intelligence and taste. You have that quality."
She paused, her expression softening. "And honestly? I know how hard it is for young women in this city to maintain independence. If I can help, I will."
Her sincerity seemed genuine. I studied her face, looking for deception, but found only warmth and what looked like understanding.
"The gallery," I said slowly. "Is it part of a larger company?"
"It's independently owned. My late husband left it to me." She pulled out a business card, sliding it across the table. "Astor Art Gallery. I'm the founder and CEO."
Astor Art Gallery. I stared at the embossed lettering. The name was the same, but... I hadn't seen her at Julian's family dinner. His grandmother, his uncles, his cousins—none of them had mentioned a Vivienne. And if she were part of his immediate family, she would have been there.
It must be coincidence. Astor isn't exactly uncommon in Los Angeles.
"I need time to think about it," I said finally.
"Of course." Vivienne's smile was understanding, almost maternal. "Take all the time you need. My contact information is on the card. Whatever you decide, Chloe, remember—accepting help isn't weakness. It's wisdom."
The words unlocked something in my chest, something dangerously close to hope. Maybe she's right. Maybe I've been carrying too much alone.
"Thank you," I said, standing. "I'll let you know tomorrow."
"I look forward to hearing from you."
---
When we reached the mansion, Ethan killed the engine but didn't get out.
"Chloe." His voice was quiet. "What I said earlier. About always being here. I meant every word."
My throat tightened. "I know."
"Do you?" He turned to face me fully. "Because sometimes I think you still see me as that fifteen-year-old kid who got locked in his room for stealing money to help you. But I'm not a kid anymore. I haven't been for a long time."
But I need to keep seeing you that way. I thought it but didn't say it. Instead I reached over and squeezed his hand once, briefly. "Thank you for today. For driving me. For waiting."
He looked like he wants to say more—so much more—but finally just nodded. "Anytime."
The front door opened before I reached it.
Julian stood there, still in his work clothes but with his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up. His amber eyes scanned my face, reading exhaustion and stress in an instant.
"How's your mother?"
"Stable. Asking questions I couldn't answer." I stepped past him into the foyer.
"And the interview?"
I turned back, forcing a smile. "The owner offered me a better position. At her gallery. Fifty an hour."
Julian's expression didn't change, but I saw something flicker in his eyes. Something that looked almost like recognition.
He stepped closer, his hand finding my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. "You look exhausted. Have you eaten?"
"I'm not hungry. I just need to be alone for a while."
Something in my voice must have convinced him, because he released me and stepped back. "All right. But if you need anything—"
"I know. Thank you."
I started toward the stairs, but his phone rang.
Julian's entire body went rigid. He pulled out his phone, glanced at the screen.
"I need to take this," he said, his voice carefully controlled but with an edge I didn't recognize.
He answered, pressing the phone to his ear.
His voice dropped low, dangerous.