#Chapter 4: A Chance Meeting

After dumping my belongings at the cheapest hotel I could find at the last minute, I head over to an auction house I know, to offload the jewelry and designer bags Charles has given me over the years.

 

I don't want it anymore, and I could definitely use the cash, even if I only get a fraction of what it's worth.

 

The appraiser looks up at me after sorting through the pile I'd dumped haphazardly onto her desk. The look of pity in her face betrays her next words.

 

"I'm so sorry, honey," she says gently. "I know you wouldn't be here if you knew, which means someone has lied to you terribly. These are all fakes. Good fakes, but fakes."

 

I feel the blood drain from my face. "What?" I whisper. My head is swirling, pounding. This cannot be happening – haven't I suffered enough? When will the blows stop coming?

 

"I'm so sorry," she says again, reaching out to pat my hand. "Whoever he is, he's given you a pile of junk. It's worthless, hon. I can't give you anything for it. I'm so sorry."

 

Tears stream down my face before she even finishes talking. I flee, ignoring the lady calling after me, asking if I want to take my knock-off crap with me.

 

I don't.

 

---

 

I don't really have a plan, but I do know that I need to get justice for myself. I have to find a way to talk to the Alpha's family, to maybe cause a scene at that wedding, but I just don't know how. Becki is right, much as I hate to admit it: the place will be swarming with security.

 

I sit alone at the scarred, wobbly desk in the hotel room that reeks of stale cigarettes, scanning the papers for sublets while drinking glasses of cheap red wine from a plastic cup.

 

Not knowing what else to do, I decide to volunteer somewhere. At least it'll give me something to put on my resume, and it'll get me away from day drinking in a dingy hotel while feeling sorry for myself.

 

I'm going to slip into a worse depression than I'm already in if I don't do something constructive with my time, and at least this will be helping people in my community, people worse off than I am.

 

Briefly, I think of Marcus on TV, saying much the same thing. I shove the thought of him away and pick up my phone to scan for volunteer opportunities nearby.

 

That's how I find myself filling out the official volunteer paperwork at St. Mary's, the soup kitchen downtown. My days fall into a pattern of chopping vegetables, serving food, washing dishes: it's peaceful.

 

Until one afternoon in March, when the calm is broken by the sound of a kerfuffle outside. There's a flurry of activity: cameras, journalists swarming around the outside of the building. Whispers run like wildfire through the kitchen.

 

"Can you believe it? The Alpha's son is volunteering today!"

 

"I thought they always warn us before a celeb comes in?"

 

I peer out the window. Sure enough, there's Marcus, trailed by flashing cameras. He's as handsome as ever: black hair combed back, blue eyes sparkling as he shoos away the journalists.

 

"Thanks, but let's drop it here, folks. Martin, come with me for personal shots, but I need everyone else to clear out, please. This isn't a zoo; people deserve to eat in peace."

 

The journalists laugh as they head off into the rain. Marcus turns to flash a smile at us. I find myself examining his teeth – you can hardly tell that his canine teeth are a little longer and sharper than you'd find in a human.

 

"How can I help?" he asks Martha, our manager.

 

"Marcus!" she beams, tossing a dishrag over her shoulder. "You sneaky boy, you didn't tell me you were coming. You know we ask our celebrity volunteers to call ahead; if you were anyone else, I'd have you out on your ear."

 

"Sorry, Marty," he says with an apologetic grin. "Last-minute media stunt. Father is trying to amp them up before the wedding. I tried to fight it but was overruled."

 

"Well," Martha snaps her dishrag at him. "I'll let it slide this once. Get over there and dish out the rest of lunch, and then get your princely ass into the kitchen and scrub dishes."

 

"Yes, ma'am!" Marcus salutes. He winks at me as he goes to wash his hands.

 

I focus on the stew, portioning it out with more precision than necessary. I don't want to talk to Marcus – he's going to be my ex-boyfriend's brother-in-law, for god's sake. It's embarrassing.

 

Marcus slides in next to me behind the counter. "What can I do?" he asks.

 

"Unpack the dinner rolls," I mumble, keeping my head down. I can feel him next to me, radiating heat. He smells like cedar and smoke, a clean, masculine scent that makes my head spin. Focus, I tell myself.

 

If Marcus finds my behavior strange, he doesn't show it. He unwraps the rolls and adds them to plates before I pass them across the counter.

 

"Sorry for the interruption," he says. "I hate this kind of thing, making a big fuss. It feels selfish and disruptive, but my father insists. And–"

 

"And you have to play along," I say. "I get it."

 

An awkward silence falls between us. I know I'm being unfriendly, but I can't bring myself to look at him. He's royalty, for god's sake, and I'm – well, I'm nobody.

 

After a few uncomfortable moments, Marcus turns to me and takes a breath. Before he can say anything, there's a crash at the end of the line.

 

People scatter around a little girl who has passed out on the floor. Her dark hair spills across the tiled floor in stark contrast to her pale and clammy face. Her mother shouts anxiously in Spanish and gently shakes her shoulder.

 

Marcus vaults over the counter and grabs his coat, sliding it under the little girl to protect her from the cold floor. His phone is already in his hand.

 

"Tom? It's Marcus. Yes, I need you at St. Mary's soup kitchen immediately. No, I'm fine, it's a little girl. Hurry. Yes, I'll call an ambulance next, but I want you to get over here as soon as you can; I want the best, and you're the best."

 

I've whipped off my gloves and am already kneeling by the girl, checking her pulse and lifting her eyelids to see her pupils. "When's the last time she ate?" I ask her mother in Spanish.

 

The lady hesitates.

 

"Ma'am, you're not in trouble," Marcus says. "We just want to help."

 

"Yesterday morning," the lady says, crying. "I'm so sorry."

 

"Marcus, get the mom some water," I command. "And call that ambulance." I look up at Martha, who is hovering nearby. "I need something to elevate her feet. Quickly, please."

 

Martha nods and grabs a box from behind the counter, tossing it to me.

 

I elevate the little girl's feet and unbutton the collar of her shirt, to relax the restriction around her throat. I unbutton the front of her jeans for the same reason, and then I pull out my phone and flick on the flashlight setting to check her pupils. I check her pulse.

 

"I think it's probably just hunger and dehydration, but I'll be happier if we can get her to the ER," I finally announce to Marcus. "Her vitals are good and stable, and she's coming around now."

 

I place a gentle hand on the little girl's shoulder, holding her still. "Gentle, niña. You had a bad fall, and you need to take it slow." The little girl nods in confusion, and I slip an arm around her back to slowly help her sit up, cradling her against me.

 

I glance hesitatingly at her mom, biting my lower lip, and then back at the little girl. I wonder if I can get away with skipping the ambulance, maybe get someone here to drive the pair to the hospital. These people can't afford an ambulance.

 

"Cost won't be an issue," Marcus says, noticing my expression and reading it correctly. "Ma'am, we're going to get your little girl to a hospital, and I'm going to cover the costs. When your daughter is feeling better, we're going to get you some support. Don't worry, it's going to be okay."

 

"Professional as ever, Dr. Nicole," he murmurs to me. I stare at him in disbelief. He gives me a small smile before calling 911.

 

He even remembered my name? A nobody like me?