"Mr. Sterling… I didn't mean to stalk you. I just—"
Ava stopped, swallowing hard. Her voice trembled, but she forced the words out. "It's about Silver Creek. My uncle sold it illegally."
Grant pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands with meticulous care, his expression unreadable. The gesture was precise, controlled—like he was already distancing himself.
Ava's chest tightened. She stepped closer despite herself, fingers twisting the hem of her waitress vest.
"My uncle—Silas—he forged the transfer. The deed requires the Rose Jade Seal along with my grandmother's signature. Without both, the land cannot be sold. It shouldn't be legally valid. I don't know how it was accepted, but it was illegal. Please… please understand. The sale is void."
Grant looked down at her as if she were presenting a flawed equation. His voice, when it came, was low and clinical.
"Very well," he said. "If that's the case, come to my office tomorrow morning. Bring your uncle and the documents."
Hope surged so fast it made Ava dizzy—then shattered just as quickly.
She looked down at her scuffed shoes, her voice barely audible.
"Mr. Sterling… my uncle has fled. I can't contact him."
Grant's patience evaporated.
"Then what exactly do you want from me?" he interrupted. The coldness in his tone struck like a slap. He turned slightly away, already disengaging. What had been a legal discussion had become a family problem—and he had no interest in those.
"Mr. Sterling!" Ava took another step forward, desperation overriding sense. "I'll return the money. I saw workers at the gate today—please, just stop the demolition. Just for a moment."
Grant halted.
He looked back at her over his shoulder, a faint, almost mocking glint in his dark eyes.
"Miss Rose," he said quietly, "can you return the money now?"
The question blindsided her.
Ava froze, her mouth opening without sound. Forty-two dollars. That was all she had. The absurdity of it burned her throat.
"I… not right now, but—"
"Then we have nothing further to discuss." His voice hardened, steel beneath silk.
"Miss Rose, if you have family matters, resolve them with your uncle. Do not waste my time. If you believe the sale was illegal, pursue legal action. Sterling Holdings will cooperate fully with any official investigation. Until then, the property is mine."
He didn't wait for her reply.
Grant turned and walked toward the private exit, his silhouette cutting sharply through the dim hallway.
"Mr. Sterling! Please!" Ava rushed after him, her footsteps frantic against the concrete. She followed him toward the valet entrance, rain-slicked pavement glistening beyond the doors.
"Please understand me! My grandmother is very sick. She's all I have. I'll return the money in one month—please, just wait one month!"
She was inches from the car door when a solid barrier stepped into her path.
"Miss Rose." Marcus Thorne emerged from the shadows, his voice firm, weary, professional. He placed a steady hand on her shoulder, stopping her. "You can't do this. You're making a scene."
"But listen to me!" Ava cried, her voice breaking as she caught sight of Grant through the tinted window. He was already seated inside, his face turned forward.
He didn't look back.
He didn't acknowledge her.
"Please step aside," Marcus said quietly, applying just enough pressure to move her away.
The door closed.
The soft, final click sealed Grant Sterling back into his world of quiet power.
Ava stood frozen as the engine started.
"One month," she whispered to the dark glass, her voice swallowed by the roar of the car. "I only need one month."
The black sedan pulled away, leaving behind nothing but exhaust, rain, and the bitter scent of money.
Ava remained beneath the flickering neon sign of the club, soaked and shaking, the last fracture of hope splintering inside her chest.
Her phone rang.
She flinched.
"Rose!" her manager barked the moment she answered. "Where are you? Get back inside. Now."
Ava closed her eyes once—just once—then turned back toward the doors.
Ava returned to the hospital long after midnight.
The corridor lights were dimmed, the world reduced to hushed footsteps and the soft beeping of machines. She stood beside her grandmother's bed for a long time, watching the fragile rise and fall of her chest. Her skin looked almost translucent under the pale lights, as if life itself were thinning.
Ava reached for her hand—cool, light, heartbreakingly small. She stayed until her legs ached and her eyes burned, memorizing the lines of her grandmother's face as if afraid the morning might steal her away. Only when the nurse gently reminded her of visiting hours did Ava finally leave.
By the time she reached Maddy's apartment, the city was silent.
She unlocked the door quietly, careful not to wake anyone. The apartment was dark except for the faint glow of a streetlamp slipping through the curtains. Ava washed her face, changed clothes, and lay down on the sofa in the living room, curling into herself like a child seeking shelter.
Sleep refused to come.
Her thoughts spiraled relentlessly—numbers, deadlines, faces. The demolition. Grant Sterling's indifferent eyes. Forty-two dollars. The weight of helplessness pressed down on her chest until breathing felt like work.
Sometime near dawn, exhaustion finally dragged her under.
When Ava woke, sunlight filled the room. She sat up abruptly, panic flickering—she was late. But the apartment was quiet. On the small dining table sat a covered plate, a glass of water, and a folded note.
Eat first. You looked exhausted. I didn't wake you. – Maddy
Ava swallowed the lump in her throat.
She ate quickly, barely tasting the food, then rushed out to her morning shift at the girls' hostel. There, she slipped back into routine—checking attendance, resolving small disputes, ensuring order. Being a matron required steadiness, and Ava wore calm like armor.
Once her duties were done, she asked to meet the hostel owner.
They sat together in a modest office, sunlight falling across old wooden furniture. Ava spoke without embellishment—about the land, her grandmother, the urgency. Her hands trembled, but her voice stayed firm.
"I'll repay every rupee," she said. "I just need time."
The owner listened quietly, then smiled gently.
"You've always been honest," she said. "I'll help you. Not everything in life is business."
Ava bowed her head, tears threatening for the first time that day. Gratitude flooded her chest—warm, fragile hope.
By afternoon, she found herself standing once again before the towering glass building of Sterling Holdings.
She approached the reception desk with careful politeness.
"I need to meet Director Grant Sterling."
The receptionist didn't even look up.
"Without an appointment, that won't be possible."
Ava nodded once and stepped aside.
She didn't leave.
Minutes turned into an hour. Executives came and went. The receptionist shot her annoyed glances, but Ava remained—still, patient, unyielding.