Five hundred dollars for my mom to show up at the PTA meeting and give me some “social standing.” Two hundred dollars for her to post a single photo of us together on her Instagram feed. She even charged me by the minute for bedtime stories—ten dollars every sixty seconds, flat rate. I paid for all of it. I pulled the bills out of my savings, one by one, and handed them over. My mother called it “Monetizing the Aesthetic.” She told me that a beautiful woman has a market value, and that in this world, love was never a free lunch. 1 My ceramic piggy bank was stuffed with every cent I’d ever managed to scrape together. It was my “Motherhood Fund.” The school’s Family Sports Day was tomorrow. Every other kid would have their parents cheering in the stands, but I just had a price list. I emptied the bank onto my bed, coins and crumpled singles scattering across the duvet. I counted it three times. Four hundred eighty dollars and fifty cents. I was nineteen dollars and fifty cents short. According to my mom’s rate sheet, “Outdoor Public Appearances” started at a base fee of five hundred, and that didn’t even cover the “SPF Surcharge.” I grabbed the wad of cash and ran to her room. She was sitting at her vanity, massaging a three-hundred-dollar night cream into her skin. She caught my reflection in the mirror, her gaze cool and detached. “Do you have the full amount?” she asked. I piled the money onto her marble tabletop, standing on my tiptoes. “I’m nineteen-fifty short, Mom… can I do the dishes for a week to make up the difference?” I asked, my palms slick with sweat. She stopped what she was doing. Turning her chair, she looked me up and down with a flicker of disdain. “Lucy,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Rules are rules. If I start giving you a discount, I’m devaluing my own brand. Who’s going to maintain my worth if I don’t?” “But… I really want you to be there.” My head dropped, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. “No pay, no play,” she said, turning back to the mirror to continue her routine. “Or, you could always call that father of yours. The one who thinks a monthly wire transfer is a substitute for a personality.” My dad? I saw him maybe twice a year. He was just a notification on a bank app. I gritted my teeth and ran back to my room. I took a hammer to the piggy bank, shattering it completely. A single gold commemorative coin rolled out. My grandfather had given it to me before he died, telling me it was a “rainy day” fund. I grabbed it and sprinted back to her room. “This! This is worth a lot!” I held it out to her. She glanced at it, and her eyes sharpened. She took it from my hand with two fingers, inspecting the edge. “It’s decent. I’ll give you two hundred for it.” She tossed it carelessly into her velvet-lined jewelry box. “So, tomorrow?” I looked at her, my heart hammering with hope. She finished her makeup, stood up, and smoothed out her designer silk dress. She looked down at me with a smirk that felt like a slap. “The appearance fee just went up. The UV index is going to be high tomorrow, so I’m adding a three-hundred-dollar ‘Skin Damage Premium.’ Your little pile of change? That’s barely enough for me to look at you.” She picked up her Birkin, stepped into her stilettos, and walked out without a backward glance. I stood there alone in the middle of the room, listening to the hollow click-clack of her heels fading away. In that moment, something inside me didn’t just break—it shattered. I was alone that night. She was off at some gala, “maintaining her social capital,” as she put it. I was hungry, so I tried to boil some ramen. I turned on the gas stove, but a flame suddenly shot up, igniting the grease-caked vent hood above. The fire spread with terrifying speed. My legs went weak. I ran for the front door, screaming, but it wouldn’t budge. The deadbolt was jammed. Mom had refused to call a locksmith last week because he “quoted her a price that insulted her intelligence.” Smoke began to billow, thick and black, clawing at my throat. I pounded on the door, shrieking for help. I truly thought I was going to die. Then, I heard heavy footsteps outside. It was her! I heard the key fumbling in the lock. “Mom! Help me! Please!” 2 I pressed my face to the crack of the door, gasping. The door finally swung open. A wall of smoke rushed out. My mother stood there, covering her nose and mouth, her eyes wide with terror as she looked at the flames. She saw me on the floor. But then, her gaze shifted past me—to the vanity in the bedroom, where her jewelry box sat glowing in the reflection of the fire. That box held her diamonds, her necklaces, and the gold coin I’d just given her. That box was her “net worth.” I reached out a hand toward her. “Mom…” She looked at me. For one second—a second that felt like an eternity—our eyes met. And then, she ran. She lunged past me, shielding her face as she grabbed the jewelry box. She turned and sprinted back out the door, never once looking back to see if I was following. I collapsed, coughing violently, tears and soot masking my face. I realized then that on her price list, my life didn’t even make the cut. The heat began to sear my ankles. I closed my eyes, waiting for the end. Suddenly, a dark, grimy figure burst through the smoke. It was Rick, the guy who was doing the renovations on the apartment next door. My mom hated him. She said he smelled like “manual labor and failure.” Every time we passed him in the hall, she’d hold her breath and pull me away like he was contagious. But now, this “filthy” man was charging into the furnace with a wet moving blanket over his shoulders. He scooped me up in one motion. His grip was rough and it hurt, but for the first time in my life, I felt safe. I heard the roar of the fire. A ceiling beam cracked and slammed onto his back. He let out a gutteral groan, but his hold on me only tightened. “Don’t let go! Hang on to me!” he roared, his voice raspy from the smoke. He carried me, step by agonizing step, through the inferno. We burst out into the hallway. The moment we were clear, his knees buckled and he fell, but he used his own body to cushion my head. I lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness, looking at his face—masked in soot and ash. I did the only thing I knew how to do. “How much…” I wheezed. “How much do I owe you for saving me? My mom… she took all my money…” Rick froze. He looked down at me, his face contorted with a mix of anger and pity. “You’re worried about money when you almost died?” he barked. “Forget the damn money! Just stay with me, kid. I’m getting you out of here!” In his arms, I finally let out a sob. It hit me then: some things don’t have a price tag. The ambulance arrived. Both Rick and I were rushed to the ER. I had minor burns and smoke inhalation, but Rick was in bad shape. His back was mangled from the beam, and his arms were severely burned. In the emergency room, I saw my mother. She was untouched. Not a hair out of place. She was sitting on a bench, clutching her jewelry box, frantically checking to see if her precious gems had been discolored by the smoke. When she saw the nurses wheeling my gurney out, she finally stood up. Her first words weren’t “Are you okay?” She pointed a finger at Rick and screamed: “What the hell did you do? You got her filthy! Look at her clothes!” She turned her fury on the paramedics. “And he probably ruined my new Persian rug when he went in there. That rug cost five thousand dollars. Can a grease monkey like him even afford the cleaning bill?” I lay on the bed, feeling a chill that went deeper than the hospital AC. Rick struggled to sit up, but a nurse pushed him back down. He looked at my mother with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. “Lady, your kid is alive. That’s all that matters,” he said, his voice weak but firm. “I’ll pay for your damn rug.” “You won’t pay for anything!” I rolled off the gurney, ignoring the nurses’ protests. I stumbled over to Rick and stood in front of him, facing my mother. “You ran away!” I screamed. “You left me in the fire for a box of rocks! Rick saved me! Don’t you dare talk to him like that!” 3 It was the first time in my eight years of life that I’d ever raised my voice to her. My mother’s face went livid. She stepped forward and her hand flew out—CRACK—a sharp slap across my face. “Lucy! Is that how I raised you?” she hissed. “You ungrateful little brat! Who do you think I do all this for? Without me maintaining our image, you’d be living in a gutter. This man is covered in bacteria. If you catch something from him, do you have any idea how much the medical bills will be?” She sneered at Rick. “Stay away from my daughter. Poverty is a disease, and I won’t have her catching it.” Rick’s fists clenched, his veins bulging under the soot. But he looked at my bruised cheek and forced himself to relax. “Honey, listen to the doctors. Go back to bed,” he said softly. His voice held more tenderness than my mother had shown me in a lifetime. I shook my head, sobbing. I didn’t want this woman to be my mother anymore. I wanted to give everything I had—my money, my life—to this stranger. Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the ER swung open. A man in a tailored suit stormed in. It was Douglas, my “father.” He glanced at my mother’s rage, then at my disheveled state, and finally at Rick. He frowned, pulled a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, and tossed them onto Rick’s chest. “Here’s for the medical bills and the lost wages. Take it and keep your mouth shut. I don’t want this in the tabloids.” The bills scattered over Rick’s lap. Rick didn’t touch them. He just stared at the two of them—the power couple of the year. Then, he started to laugh. It was a dark, jagged sound. “You two,” Rick said, picking up the bills one by one and folding them neatly. “You’re really something else.” He threw the money back, hard, right into Douglas’s face. “Get lost.” Douglas was stunned. I doubt anyone had ever dared to treat him with such contempt. My mother started shrieking: “He assaulted you! Call the police! I want him arrested! I want to sue!” Douglas held her back. He was a businessman; he hated a scene. “Forget it. Why bother with someone of his class? Let’s just go.” He wiped his face with a silk handkerchief and looked at me. “Lucy, if you’re fine, we’re leaving. The house needs a full renovation. We’ll be staying at the Four Seasons.” I looked at him, then at her. They felt like cardboard cutouts. “I’m not going with you,” I said. “What did you say?” Douglas’s brow darkened. “I want to stay with Rick.” I reached out and grabbed Rick’s uninjured hand. It was rough, calloused, and stained with work, but it was warm. It was real. My mother let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Fine, Lucy. You want to be a martyr? Go ahead. Stay with the handyman. But don’t you dare come crawling back for your allowance. Let’s see how you enjoy eating canned beans in a trailer.” She was certain I’d break. She’d spent years molding me into a pampered princess. But I didn’t let go of his hand. “I don’t care.” Douglas lost his patience. “Enough of this. Get in the car.” He reached out to grab my arm. Rick suddenly sat up, knocking Douglas’s hand away. “The kid said she doesn’t want to go. Are you deaf?” His eyes were fierce. Douglas sneered. “I’m her legal guardian. Who the hell are you? A kidnapper?” “I’m the guy who saved her life!” Rick roared, the effort causing him to wince as his back wound reopened. The tension was suffocating. Just then, a doctor walked in holding a manila folder, his expression unreadable. “Excuse me,” the doctor said, looking at Douglas. “Mr. Henderson, you asked us to run a standard panel including the blood type verification we discussed earlier. The results are back.” Douglas paused. “And?” He glanced at my mother. My mother’s face shifted for a split second, a flicker of panic crossing her features before she smoothed it over. The doctor handed over the report. “Based on the genetic markers… Mr. Henderson, there is a zero percent chance that you are Lucy’s biological father.”
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “454690”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel
Leave a Reply