Chapter 5 Go back home
Chapter 5: Go back home
The night was still high strung when Golden felt the heavy weight of headlights slashing across her windshield. At first, she thought it was just Varney in his Maybach Exelero tailing her, but then she saw the sudden bloom of flashing red and blue in her rearview mirror.
Police cruisers. At least four of them, blocking the road ahead in a wide semicircle. Their sirens pulsed low and commanding, the kind of sound that rattled your chest more than your ears.
Golden slammed on the brakes, her chest heaving as her seatbelt cut against her collarbone.
She looked forward, and the cops were already out of their cars, guns holstered but hands near them, as if ready for a dramatic movie standoff.
Varney's white Mercedes Maybach Exelero slid smoothly to a stop behind her, boxing her in.
For a moment, Golden just sat there gripping the steering wheel, her mascara streaked from earlier tears, her breath fogging up the tinted glass.
Varney stepped out of his car, dominating aura, his jawline as sharp as his voice when he called out.
"Golden, step out of the car. Don't make me come drag you out," Varney warned, his voice carrying across the still night.
Finally, she shoved the door open, the engine still purring like an untamed animal.
She stepped into the harsh light. The police officers shifted but held their formation. Varney strode toward her, the Maybach's lit headlights throwing him in silhouette.
"You're going straight home," he said firmly, stopping in front of her. "No detours, no excuses. Don't even think of pulling some stunt, Golden. Because I'll be right behind you and if you try, the officers here have eyes on you. Don't test me."
Golden clenched her fists at her side, her whole body trembling with rage and shame."Why are you trying to control me?"
"This isn't control. This is me saving your life," Varney shot back, his voice rising. "You're not walking into the hands of a quack surgeon just because some Florida college brats laughed at you on TikTalk Live. Not happening, not under my watch."
Golden glared at him, her chest heaving. But she knew she couldn't win this battle tonight. She spun around, stalked back to her car, and slid behind the wheel with a slam.
The Pagani roared to life. She shoved it into gear and drove forward, the cops quickly moving out of her way, forming a protective bound around her.
Varney slipped back into his Maybach and immediately dialed her number.
She ignored him but when the phone kept ringing, she snatched it up, furious.
"What?" she snapped into the receiver.
"Slow your damn speed," Varney ordered. His voice was calm but edged with steel. "This isn't a race to heaven. I don't need to scrape my little sister off the highway tonight."
Her grip on the wheel loosened slightly. Tears she thought had dried welled up again, blurring the road. She slowed her speed and silently obeyed.
Across Town
On the poorer side of Ocean City, Allan Renshaw slipped quietly through the back door of a weathered little house. His clothes reeked faintly of smoke, perfume, and stale liquor from nights of reckless partying, and he was hoping, praying he could sneak to his room before anyone noticed.
But Florence was a mother who noticed everything. She was standing in the dim kitchen light, still in her work uniform, her lips pressed into a thin, angry line.
"Allan," she said, her voice sharp.
He froze. "Ma..."
"Where's my money?" she demanded. She held up a bank slip. Her eyes blazed with fury and exhaustion. "Allan! Where is the little money in my account? The one I've been saving to buy medicine for your brother?"
Allan swallowed hard. He knew this fight was coming. "Ma, I..."
"You took it!" Florence shouted, her voice cracking as she grabbed the cane leaning by the fridge. Before Allan could back away, she swung it sharply across his legs.
"Ma, stop!" Allan yelped, stumbling backward.
"You good for nothing boy! Do you know your brother coughs blood at night? Do you know I've been praying every day for his healing, and you're out there wasting money on your little parties?"
She struck him again, tears springing into her eyes. "You'll kill me before my time, Allan. You'll bury me with your foolishness!"
Allan winced, guilt eating at him even more than the sting of the cane. "I'm sorry! Okay? I needed it, Ma. I just..."
"You just what?" Florence barked, panting heavily.
He looked away. He couldn't tell her the truth, that he needed it to look like he belonged, to keep up with the rich kids.
"Sorry is not enough," Florence said finally. Her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. "You'll pay me back. You hear? You'll work for it. One week, Allan. You'll follow me to work. No excuses, no sneaking out. That's your punishment."
Allan stared at her, horrified. "What? Ma, come on..."
"I said one week!" she snapped, slamming the cane down on the tiled floor. "If you don't, you can leave this house and never come back. Your brother and sister deserve better."
His little sister, Octavia, peeked out from the hallway, her eyes wide with worry. Behind her, his brother Rema coughed weakly, the sound rattling through the quiet house like broken glass.
Allan's chest tightened. He hated that sound.
"Fine," Allan muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'll go."
"Not fine. You will," Florence said, her tone brooking no argument.
The Nixon Estate
The weekend sun rose hot and golden over Florida, spilling over the sprawling Nixon Estate like light on a palace. Its tall gates glimmered, the driveway long and lined with imported palm trees.
Florence Renshaw walked ahead, Allan trailed reluctantly behind her, his hoodie pulled low, his hands jammed deep into his pockets.
He hadn't asked where they were going. He didn't care. Work was work. But when the estate gates swung open and his sneakers crunched against marble tiles, he finally lifted his head.
"Ma... what is this place?" he muttered.
Florence didn't answer. She was already focused on the job, nodding respectfully to the uniformed guards who recognized her.
They walked into the grand living room, and Allan froze. His mother cleaned here?
Upstairs, nursing fresh wounds on her heart and her pride, Golden Nixon was very much home. And Allan Renshaw was standing right in her living room.