Carrie.
Humming is one of the few things I genuinely enjoy. It's my little escape, something I fall back on whenever I'm stuck doing things I'd rather not. Like now, for instance, as I busied myself cleaning yet another hotel room, I hummed quietly to myself. A simple tune, aimless and soft, but enough to distract me from the reality of the moment.
Truth be told, I hate my job.
I mean, who in their right mind would enjoy scrubbing toilets, changing sweaty sheets, or picking up after complete strangers, most of whom were spoiled, rich brats who thought "maid" meant "personal servant"? The work was exhausting and thankless, and every day felt like a test of how far I was willing to go just to get by.
As I moved toward the bed to change the linens, something caught my eye: a cellphone lying near the pillows. I picked it up, glanced at the screen, and made a mental note to drop it off at the front desk. Lost and found would handle it. Without much thought, I slipped it into the front pocket of my apron and continued working.
Just as I was smoothing out the fresh sheets, my phone rang. Startled, I reached into my apron and pulled out a phone, only to realize it wasn't mine but the one I'd just found. Shaking my head, I quickly returned it to my pocket and retrieved my own.
The caller ID made my stomach clench.
It was the hospital.
The reason I was stuck in this soul-sucking job in the first place.
I walked over to the window, trying to steady my breath as I answered the call. "Hello?"
"Hi, Carrie. I just wanted to let you know your brother woke up a few minutes ago," the voice on the other end said quickly, her words rushed but familiar. Andie: nurse, best friend, and the only reason I hadn't completely lost it.
Relief washed over me for a moment until reality snapped back into place. "How is he, Andie? Is there any improvement?"
There was a pause. Then her voice dropped lower, tinged with dread. "He's not doing better, Carrie. You need to find the money soon. If we wait the full three months for the surgery, there's a chance he might never walk again. The earlier we do it, the higher his chances."
Her words echoed in my chest, heavy and sharp. I pressed my forehead against the glass and stared blankly at the streets of New York below. The city buzzed with life, but mine felt like it was falling apart.
Peter. My little brother. The only family I had left in the world.
What would I do if I lost him? The thought alone was enough to make my chest tighten and my throat ache with unshed tears.
"I'm still trying," I whispered, barely able to keep the desperation from cracking my voice. "I'm working as hard as I can, every hour I can get. But I don't have anything. Nothing I can sell, nothing to fall back on. No savings, no assets… no one I can turn to for help."
I took a shaky breath, staring out the window as if the streets of New York might somehow offer answers.
"I don't even have anyone I could borrow money from," I admitted, my voice low with shame. "It's just me. Me and whatever hours I can put in scrubbing floors and changing sheets. And it's not enough. It's never enough."
I closed my eyes, clenching my fists at my sides.
Please don't take him away from me…
Since the diagnosis of a tumor in his leg, my world had slowly begun to crumble. We'd been in and out of hospitals, scraping together money, making endless payments. And now, with the surgery looming, we were nowhere near the amount we needed.
So here I was, cleaning hotel rooms and humming just to stay sane.
Because if I didn't work my ass off every single day, I might lose the one person I couldn't bear to live without.
I ended the call with a murmured thank you, though it felt hollow in my mouth. Nothing about this situation felt right. As much as I tried to keep my emotions bottled up, I could feel the pressure building behind my eyes, threatening to spill over.
I couldn't afford to cry.
Crying didn't pay medical bills. Crying didn't save my brother's leg. Crying wouldn't get me out of this life I was barely surviving.
I took a deep breath, wiped my hands on my apron, and returned to making the bed like nothing had happened. Like my world wasn't quietly falling apart while I took care of people's untidiness.
"Hey."
The voice was smooth, deep and calm, like a low chord on a piano. I looked up, and the sight before me quite literally stole the breath from my lungs.
Standing just a few feet away was, without exaggeration, the most stunning man I had ever seen.
My mouth parted, ready to respond, but the words got stuck somewhere between my brain and lips. Nothing came out. I just stood there, dumbstruck, my lips slightly parted like an idiot.
He was tall, immensely tall. Towering, really. At least six-foot-five, maybe even pushing six-foot-seven. Broad shoulders filled out a sharp, tailored black suit that hugged his frame like it had been stitched directly onto his body. The cut was impeccable, classic and modern all at once, the jacket nipping in slightly at the waist to emphasize his powerful build. The black fabric shimmered faintly under the hotel's soft lighting, like shadow woven into silk.
Black looked like a color invented just for him.
The jacket's sleeves hugged his biceps just right, hinting at the strength beneath. His shirt, crisp, white, and open at the collar, provided the perfect contrast, a flash of light beneath the darkness of the suit. His tie was missing, and somehow that made him look even more effortlessly captivating. Not polished to perfection, no, this man didn't need perfection to look powerful. He was power.
His face was the kind sculptors must dream of, angular and hard, with high cheekbones, a strong, chiseled jawline, and lips that were full but firm. His eyes were sharp, a deep gray, stormy and unreadable set beneath thick brows that gave him an almost regal intensity. His hair was dark, nearly black, swept back in a slightly tousled way that made him look like he belonged both on the cover of a fashion magazine and at the head of a boardroom table.
Everything about him radiated quiet control, the kind that didn't need to be loud to be respected or feared.
My fingers itched with the strangest urge to reach out, to feel the fabric of his suit, to see if it was as smooth as it looked… or maybe to confirm he was real. Because standing there, he didn't look real. He looked like a beautiful mirage, conjured from the universe just to mess with my already fragile day.
Somewhere in the fog of my admiration, my brain managed to reboot and remind me I needed to actually say something. Just as I finally opened my mouth to speak, he beat me to it.
"I think I forgot my phone somewhere around here," he said, his voice smooth and confident, just like everything else about him.
I blinked, staring up at him again as if seeing him for the first time, even though I hadn't looked away for more than a second. My mind scrambled to catch up. Right. The phone. The one I'd found on the bed earlier.
Protocol was clear: I was supposed to take any found items straight to the front desk, especially something as valuable as a cellphone. For all I knew, he wasn't the one who stayed in the room. Even if he had, how could I be sure the phone was his? But in that moment, my brain wasn't interested in following protocol. It wasn't interested in logic at all.
It was too busy trying not to melt under his gaze.
Without thinking, I reached into the front pocket of my apron and pulled out the phone. I held it out to him, a reflex more than a decision.
That's when he laughed.
Not just a chuckle. A full, amused laugh, rich and annoyingly beautiful.
"So you were going to steal my phone?"
His words hit me like cold water.
Excuse me?
My jaw clenched as heat rushed to my cheeks, not the flattered kind from before, but the infuriated kind that burned. I looked up at him sharply, my eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?" I echoed, my voice low, clipped.
A hundred biting comebacks crowded my throat. I could have torn into him, told him exactly what I thought of people who made assumptions, who mocked the working class like it was sport. But I didn't. I couldn't. Because one slip of the tongue could cost me more than just my pride, it could cost me my job. And I couldn't afford that. Not now. Not ever.
So I swallowed the words. Every single bitter, satisfying one of them.