She pushed the money firmly into his hands. If I take this, that moment becomes different. It becomes me taking advantage of your fear. And I won't do that.
Gregory's hands shook. Tears ran down his face. Nobody's ever. He couldn't finish the sentence.
Beatatrice felt her own eyes sting. Take that money. Put it toward your daughter's education. Go save those 300 jobs.
That's enough payment. "People like you don't exist." "We exist. We're just usually too tired for anyone to notice." He wiped his eyes. Can I at least leave my contact information in case you or your daughter ever need anything?
He pulled out a business card, then stopped, put it back. Instead, he tore a piece of paper from her notepad, wrote Gregory and a phone number just in case. No pressure. Beatatrice took the paper, folded it.
Thank you. Outside, the black town car's engine started. The driver had been waiting over 4 hours. A man in a suit stepped out with an umbrella.
Mr. Ashford, we should go. You need rest before the board meeting. Mr. Ashford. Beatatrice noticed the name but was too exhausted to think about it.
Gregory nodded. "Two minutes, James." He turned back to Beatatrice, extended his hand. She shook it. His grip was firm, grateful.
He held on for a long moment. "I'll never forget this," he said. "Ever."
"Go save those jobs, Gregory."
He smiled through tears. "I will because of you." At the door, he paused.
"What's your full name?" Beatatrice Anderson. Beatatrice Anderson. He repeated it like memorizing it. "Thank you for reminding me what matters."
The car door closed.
The town car pulled away into the night. The rain had stopped. Just wet streets reflecting street lights. Beatatrice locked the door. Stared at her empty worktable where $2,500 had been minutes ago.
Her hands were shaking now. The adrenaline was fading, the reality setting in. She'd just turned down enough money to solve every problem in her life. Was she crazy?
Was she stupid? She didn't know anymore. She climbed the stairs, checked on Nenah, still sleeping peacefully, collapsed into bed. 1:47 a.m. Tomorrow she'd wake up, face the same bills, the same impossible math, the same struggle.
But tonight, she'd kept a promise to her mother. She'd thrown someone a rope without charging for it. That had to count for something. She fell asleep, believing she'd done the right thing.
She had no idea that in less than 9 hours, eight lawyers would surround her shop and nothing would ever be normal again. The alarm went off at 7:00 a.m. Four and a half hours of sleep. Beatatrice's body ached everywhere. Her fingers were stiff.
Her back hurt from hunching over the machine. But she got up, made Nenah breakfast, forced a smile. You look tired, Mom. Late customer, I'm fine, baby.
Nenah left for school. Beatatrice went downstairs, flipped the sign to open, made coffee, sat at her machine. A normal morning, just another day. Except it wasn't.
9:45 a.m. A black SUV drove slowly past her shop. Once, twice, then parked across the street, engine running, two people inside, just watching. Beatatrice noticed but didn't think much of it. 10:15 a.m. A different black car.
A woman in a sharp suit got out, walked to Beatatrice's window, stared inside, pulled out her phone, made a call while looking straight at Beatatrice, then drove away. Mr. Samuel looked up from his crossword. That was strange. Very strange, Beatatrice agreed.
Her phone rang. Unknown number Anderson Alterations. Is this Beatatrice Anderson? A man's voice.
Professional cold. Yes. Who's calling? Please confirm your business address.
Beatatrice gave it, confused. What is this about? You were open last night around 9:00 p.m. Her stomach tightened. I had a late customer.
Why? Thank you for confirming. Click. Beatatrice stared at her phone.
What was that? 10:42 a.m. Nenah called, voice scared. Mom, there's a weird car outside school. A man came to the office asking about me.
The secretary called security. Beatatrice's heart dropped. What did he want? Questions about our family?
Our address? Mom, I'm scared. Stay inside. Don't leave with anyone but me.
Beatatrice called the school. The secretary confirmed it. A man in a suit. Had credentials from a law firm.
What law firm? Ashford something. Ashford. Like the driver had called Gregory last night.
Mr. Ashford. Beatatrice's hands started shaking. 10:47 a.m. All three vehicle doors opened at once. Eight people stepped out in dark suits, carrying briefcases and moving toward her shop together.
Beatatrice backed away from the door. Mr. Samuel stood. Beatatrice, I'm calling 911. The lead man reached her door, opened it.
Miss Beatatrice Anderson. Her voice trembled. Who are you? He pulled out credentials.
Richard Sterling, senior legal counsel for Ashford Industries. We need to speak with you immediately regarding last night. I just fixed a suit. Beatatrice's voice cracked.
I didn't do anything wrong. His expression was unreadable. We know. That's exactly why we're here.
Close your shop now. Richard Sterling's voice left no room for argument. Beatatrice looked at her customers. Mrs. Lopez clutched her purse.
Mr. Samuel had 911 dialed on his phone, finger hovering over the call button. I'm not closing anything until you tell me what's going on. A woman stepped forward, tailored suit, confident. Miss Anderson, I'm Melanie Brooks, VP of communications.
What we need to discuss is sensitive. We need privacy. Privacy for what? Am I being sued?
No. Richard's face remained stone. But we need to talk about Gregory Ashford and what you did for him last night. Gregory, the man with the torn suit, the desperate father, the one who'd offered her $2,000.
What had she done wrong? I helped someone. That's not illegal. It's not.
Melanie's voice softened slightly. But it is unusual, especially when that someone is Gregory Ashford. Another lawyer opened a briefcase, pulled out a tablet. Ms. Anderson, do you follow business news, financial markets?
Beatatrice's patience was fraying. I barely have time to sleep. No, that explains it. He turned the tablet toward her.
Forbes magazine cover. The face she'd spent four hours with last night stared back at her. The headline, Gregory Ashford, the reluctant billionaire reshaping American manufacturing. Below it, $4.2 billion net worth.
Beatatrice's vision blurred. She reached for the table to steady herself. That's that's him. That's Gregory.