Chapter 41
Emily's POV
I watched Alex Monroe walk out into the cold and slide into a black sedan parked at the curb. The car sat there longer than necessary—engine running, taillights glowing red in the darkness—but the windows were too tinted for me to see what he was doing inside.
Reviewing notes, maybe. Making calls. Or just sitting there in climate-controlled silence, separated from the cold and the noise and people like me by several thousand dollars' worth of tinted glass.
Rich people paid extra for privacy. For the ability to move through the world in their own sealed bubble, insulated from everything inconvenient or uncomfortable.
The sedan finally pulled away from the curb, merging smoothly into traffic.
He'd be back.
I knew it with the same certainty I knew when a customer was going to stiff me on the tip or when Marco was about to have a bad day. It wasn't optimism or hope—it was pattern recognition.
I recognized something in the way Alex had left—not defeated, just patient. That stubborn quality some people had, the ones who didn't give up after the first rejection because they'd already decided the goal was worth the effort. People like that always came back.
I understood that because I was the same way. When something mattered, you didn't quit just because it got hard. You didn't walk away from opportunities just because they required more than you'd initially bargained for. Life didn't hand you anything for free—you fought for every inch of progress, or you got left behind.
Maybe that's what made us similar, in some fundamental way. Surviving violence and hunger, surviving boardrooms and falling stock prices—the mechanics were different, but the instinct underneath was the same.
Stay three steps ahead, or drown.
"Emily, table three needs water refills."
Olivia's voice cut through my thoughts. I blinked and turned away from the window where I'd been watching Alex's sedan, grabbing the water pitcher from behind the counter.
"Sorry. On it."
I moved through the dining room on autopilot, filling glasses and clearing plates, falling back into the rhythm of dinner service. The rush kept me busy until closing—a steady stream of orders and table turns that left no room for thinking about business cards or internship offers. By the time I finished my shift and walked back to campus, it was past eleven, and my mind had gone blissfully blank with exhaustion.
The dorm lobby was nearly deserted except for the night security guard half-asleep at his desk. I signed in, took the stairs to avoid the elevator's fluorescent lights and potential small talk, and let myself into my room as quietly as possible.
My roommate Lily was already asleep, her laptop still glowing on her nightstand next to an empty energy drink can. I closed the laptop and changed into sleep clothes before crawling into bed.
---
Saturday morning arrived with Lily's voice cutting through my sleep.
"Emily, you're off today, right?"
I cracked one eye open. She was already dressed, makeup done, bouncing on the balls of her feet with the kind of energy that only came from not working a closing shift the night before.
"What time is it?"
"Nine-thirty. There's a day party at Sigma Chi this afternoon—starts at two. You should come! You never come to anything."
I sat up slowly, rubbing my face. "I can't. I have a client this morning."
Lily's eyebrows shot up. "A client? What do you mean, a client?"
"I'm helping a grocery store owner file his quarterly taxes."
"Wait, you do taxes?" She stared at me like I'd just revealed I moonlit as a circus performer. "How do you even know how to do that?"
I smiled slightly. "Accounting major, remember?"
"Yeah, but you're a freshman. I thought that was like, advanced stuff."
"It's really not that complicated once you understand the structure." I swung my legs out of bed and reached for my clothes. "Anyway, I've got that this morning, and then I need to catch up on assignments this afternoon. But thanks for the invite."
Lily's expression shifted from surprise to something closer to pity. "You work so much, Em. I mean, I get that you have to, but... don't you think you're missing out? Like, this is college. You're supposed to have fun, go to parties, make memories. You can't get these years back."
I pulled on jeans and kept my voice neutral. "I know."
What I didn't say was that "these years" looked completely different depending on whose college experience you were talking about. Lily's college was sorority mixers and spring break trips because she could. Mine was shift work and scholarship requirements and filing other people's taxes on weekend mornings.
Same campus. Different worlds.
"Well, if you finish early, text me," Lily said, grabbing her bag. "We'll probably still be there around six or seven."
"Sure. Have fun."
She left, and I finished getting dressed, grabbed my laptop and a folder of tax forms I'd printed at the library, and headed downstairs. Ethan was already waiting by the entrance, leaning against the brick wall with two coffee cups in his hands.
My face broke into a genuine smile. I walked faster, closing the distance between us, and wrapped my arms around him in a quick hug. He kissed the top of my head and handed me one of the coffees.
"Morning. Ready to go conquer some tax forms?"
"Born ready." I took a sip—he'd remembered I liked it with cream and one sugar—and followed him to his truck.
Once we were inside and he'd started the engine, he pulled up the address on his phone. "So we're going to... 847 Riverside Avenue? That's the grocery store?"
"Yep."
He put the truck in gear but didn't pull out yet, glancing at me with a curious smile. "You still haven't told me how this happened. How did you end up doing someone's taxes?"
I couldn't help the excitement that crept into my voice. "Okay, so you know Marco? My boss? I helped him file his business taxes on Tuesday because he was panicking about the deadline. He paid me five hundred dollars—"
Ethan's eyes widened. "You didn't tell me it was five hundred! For one evening?"
"An hour, technically. And then he told his friend about it—this guy who owns a grocery store where Marco buys some of his produce—and he asked Marco yesterday if I could help him file his quarterly reports." I was grinning now, the kind of unguarded happiness I rarely let myself feel. "It's not just waitressing money, Ethan. It's actual professional work. It's using my degree for something real."
He reached over and squeezed my hand, his smile matching mine. "That's amazing, Em. I'm so proud of you."
We pulled out into traffic, and I asked about his week—about football practice and whether Coach had finalized the playoff roster yet. Ethan launched into a story about one of the linebackers accidentally tackling a equipment manager during drills, and I laughed in all the right places, feeling the easy warmth that came from being with someone who made everything feel lighter.
The grocery store appointment took half an hour. The owner—a middle-aged man named Ray who smelled like cigar smoke and spoke in rapid-fire sentences—had kept decent records but didn't understand depreciation schedules. I walked him through the forms, corrected a few errors that would've triggered an audit, and helped him calculate a small refund he hadn't realized he was owed. He paid me three hundred dollars in cash and told me to come back next quarter.
When I got back to the truck, Ethan was reading a novel.
"All done?"
"All done." I buckled in and held up the cash. "Three hundred dollars for thirty minutes of work."
"You're a genius." He started the engine. "Library?"
"Library."