Chapter 13 The Rescue
Caleb
The rain started hard, hitting my study window like gravel.
It's the weekend and I was working from home. I should have been focusing on the merger documents spread across my mahogany desk. But the sudden, violent sound of the storm snapped my mind instantly to one thing: Elsie.
I vividly remembered her face this morning. An image of her forms in my mind, her captivating eyes, her midnight black hair, and the freckles that pop against her fair skin. I can see the goddess so clearly.
Then I recall the shocking warmth of her skin against my thumb. She was small, fragile and her eyes carried a burden that seemed to weigh on her shoulders.
I saw her frustration, her raw vulnerability, and even her fear when she talked about her sister’s death. I somehow knew exactly what she was going through. I felt that way when our mother disappeared six years ago.
Everything about Elsie, called out to me in that moment. She needed help, and fuck if I wouldn’t be the one to step in and give it to her.
I can’t even describe how sharing such an emotional moment with her felt, only that I’ve never experienced anything like it. I was hard as a fucking rock, yeah, but there was something else. I think I was...proud of her for opening up to me.
Fuck! What is she doing to me? I’d hardly spent any time with her and yet she has me wrapped around her finger. How the hell did that happen?
Then I remembered seeing her in the kitchen making a list for the market. She was out at the market. Right now.
I glanced at the clock. It was well past the time she should have returned. My logical brain screamed that she was just staff, paid to manage her own transit. But the reckless part of me, the part that had been silent since Lena, was screaming louder.
I snatched my phone. I dialed Elsie’s number. It went straight to a dead, empty voicemail. Panic, sharp and cold, hit my chest. I immediately called Mr. Field's work number. No answer. He's on the errand I sent him on.
My worry escalated instantly into fear. She was alone, caught in this weather, and her only way home, Field, was tied up by me. I felt a crushing responsibility.
I shoved the merger documents aside and bolted out of my study.
I ran down the main staircase, ignoring the ringing phone I’d left on the desk. The mansion was quiet, save for the rhythmic pounding of the rain against the tall windows.
I found Mrs. Chavez, one of the staff, a loyal one, polishing the silver in the main hall.
"Where is Elsie?" I demanded, my voice sharp.
Mrs. Chavez looked startled. "Mr. Caleb? Elsie left hours ago for the big market, sir. She hasn't returned yet."
I clenched my jaw and continued into the dining room. Dad was sitting at the end of the long table, drinking coffee and reviewing my afternoon schedule with his characteristic cold composure.
"Dad," I said, unable to hide the urgency in my voice. "It’s raining heavily, and Elsie isn't back from the market. Mr. Field is tied up. I think I should go pick her up."
He raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his coffee. He didn't even bother to look up from his papers.
"Nonsense, Caleb," he dismissed, his voice laced with scorn. "She's staff. She is paid to manage her own transit. We do not dispatch a luxury vehicle for the grocery run. If she's late, she'll take the bus and face the consequences. You have an investor call in thirty minutes. Focus."
His words hit me like ice-cold, logical, and utterly heartless. It was a firm reminder of the gulf between us, and the gulf between my class and hers.
I don't care about his logic.
I didn't answer him. I spun around and stalked out of the room. I went straight to the hall table where we kept the daily keys. I grabbed the keys to the Porsche 911, the one I usually only drove when I needed speed and solitude.
“Caleb!" I heard Dad call out, annoyed.
I ignored him. I didn't need his permission. I needed her.
The need to get to Elsie and make sure she's safe is riding me hard. I had no real reason to think she was in danger, but I still don't like the fact that she's been waiting for a ride for over an hour.
I ran out the front door, dodging the cascade of water from the eaves. The rain was coming down in sheets. I jumped into the Porsche. The engine roared to life.
I drive multi-million dollar deals, not maids. But the thought of her, small, soaked, alone, and crying that morning, was an unbearable weight.
I pulled out of the driveway, the tires hissing against the slick pavement. The windshield wipers struggled to keep up with the deluge. The world outside was a gray blur. I sped down the main road leading toward the commercial district where the large market was located.
Every time a truck splashed water across the windshield, my fear mounted. I cursed myself for sending Field away. It was my fault she was out in this.
I drove slowly along the main bus route, squinting through the storm. I passed several bus stops, all empty. She must have known the buses would be unreliable in this weather and started walking. I knew her kind of relentless dedication. She wouldn't abandon the house's supplies.
I drove past the main plaza, turning onto the quieter, long stretch of road that led back toward the affluent residential districts. And then I saw her.
She was maybe half a mile ahead, clinging to the side of the road.
She was completely drenched. Her thin blue dress was soaked through, plastered to her small frame. I’m a filthy bastard, but my first instinct is to rip them off of her and lick every drop of water off her skin.
Her hair was slicked back, plastered to her face. She was hunched over, stumbling slightly, her shoulders trembling violently from cold and exhaustion.
In her arms, she was struggling to balance two overflowing canvas grocery bags. The plastic of a milk carton or a bag of flour must have been pressing into her throat as she tried to keep her chin up. She looked utterly defeated and miserable, but she was still holding onto the supplies.
I pulled the Porsche up slowly, quietly, right next to her. The contrast was stark: my warm, dry, expensive car versus her miserable, soaked state.
I reached across the console and pushed the passenger door open, the interior light flooding the rain-swept scene.
"Get in, Elsie. Now," I commanded, my voice strained with urgency and relief.
She looked up, her face a mask of shock, confusion, and exhaustion. For a second, she looked like she might bolt. “Mr… Caleb.” she stutters out. The poor girl must be freezing. “The bags, sir—"
"Leave them!" I snapped, cutting her off. I didn't want her to waste another second. "Just get in!"
She dropped the bags onto the pavement with a tired sigh that was almost a sob and collapsed onto the leather seat. She was shivering uncontrollably, her teeth chattering against the sudden warmth. The wet fabric of her dress immediately began soaking into the expensive leather.
I didn't care. I threw the car into park, jumped out, and hurried around the car. The cold rain hammered down on me instantly, but I barely noticed. I grabbed the heavy, water-logged bags, shoved them onto the back seat, and slammed the doors shut.
I got back into the driver's seat, my clothes already damp, and cranked the heating. I looked at her, truly seeing the fragility, the exhaustion, and the absolute vulnerability of her state.
I took one hand off the wheel and, without thinking, placed it gently over her trembling, ice-cold wrist.
"You're safe now," I said, the words simple, honest, and fueled by a protective impulse that was completely illogical but utterly necessary.