The afternoon sun was dipping low when I finally closed my laptop and gathered my things. Boylen Keens Media had been buzzing all day. Calls, scheduling shoots, managing client complaints, and chasing deadlines, but the moment my heels clicked against the polished floor, I felt a pulse of nervous energy. Today wasn't just any day. Today, I had to face her. She had sent a message earlier, specifying the location and time for the meeting.
I left the office, careful to maintain the calm, professional facade I wore like armor. My car waited in the parking lot, and the drive to the restaurant felt endless. Crescent Avenue was quiet at this hour, the streets softened by the evening light, but my heartbeat made the stillness almost unbearable.
I parked and took a deep breath before stepping out. The restaurant was modest but elegant, warm light spilling from its windows onto the cobblestone path. I smoothed my blouse and tried to steady the tremor in my hands.
Pushing the door open, I was greeted by the gentle hum of conversation and the faint clatter of cutlery. And then I saw her.
"Good evening, Miss Esmeralda Augustine", she said, her voice smooth, practiced, and carrying a charm that was designed to unsettle. Her smile was careful, almost disarming, and it did nothing to ease the tight coil of tension in my chest.
"Good evening, ma", I replied, keeping my tone even, my gaze locked on hers.
She gestured toward the table nearest the window. "What would you like? You can make your order".
I forced myself to sit, my fingers brushing the edge of the table. "I will have tea, please", I said, trying to sound casual. My pulse was still rapid, my thoughts spinning around the phone call I had received earlier.
She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow on the table and placing her hand lightly against her jaw. Her eyes never left mine. "Tell me", she said softly, "why are you so desperate to be with my son?"
I felt my throat tighten. I coughed lightly, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. "I am not desperate", I said carefully. " I care for him. That is all."
Her smile did not reach her eyes. "Care does not pay attention to reality, does it? Esmeralda, do you even realize what you are asking for? That boy has a future, a family, responsibilities. And you", her gaze softened just enough to make my chest ache, "you have limitations."
The words stung. She was reminding me of the sickle cell crises I had lived with, the nights in the hospital, the fragility others perceived in me. I swallowed hard.
"Name your price, Esmeralda Augustine", she said suddenly, pulling a crisp envelope from her handbag. She slid it across the table toward me along with a pen. "Whatever it is. Take it. Walk away. Forget him."
I stared at the paper, the pen, and then at her. A lump formed in my throat. My hands shook slightly as I pushed the envelope back toward her. "What do you want from me, ma?" I asked, voice unsteady.
She leaned in, her tone sharp now, though still soft enough to be almost seductive. "I want you out of my son's life. You are not fit for him. Look at yourself, Esmeralda. You have a lifetime of challenges ahead. If I were you, I would enjoy the days I have left. Do not force yourself into spaces that are not meant for you."
Tears stung my eyes. I could feel the pressure, the judgment, the weight of every harsh glance I had ever endured. My fingers gripped the edge of the table as the words of a lifetime of struggle and survival built up inside me.
"So the papers?" I asked quietly, my voice cracking. My tears spilled freely now, rolling down my cheeks as I could no longer hold them back.
"Yes", she said, her eyes sharp, cold, unwavering. "Sign them. Name your price. I promise, I will give it to you. But promise me you will never exist in his life again. Not tomorrow, not next year, not ever."
I shook my head, my chest tight with defiance and pain. "Stop it, Miss Maxwell. I will not sit here and let you insult me. I have lived with this crisis for years long before I met your son. I know what it means to survive, to fight for every breath, to face fear and still stand. And I will not allow you to decide my worth or my place in his life."
I continued, wiping a tear but refusing to look away. "I learned to breathe through the pain. I learned to stand when my bones felt like they were breaking inside me."
My voice grew steadier, firmer with every word.
"I survived every night I thought would be my last. And I survived it without your son, without your help, without your pity."
Her smile faltered. For the first time, I saw a flicker of something behind her calm exterior. Perhaps surprise, perhaps disbelief.
She leaned back slowly, her gaze never leaving mine. "You are stubborn. Very well, Esmeralda. Let us see how far that stubbornness will take you."
I swallowed, trying to steady my shaking hands. My heart was still pounding, my chest tight, but I refused to look away.
Then her phone buzzed. She glanced at it briefly, but enough to make my stomach twist into knots.
She looked back at me. Her smile was faint, almost fragile now, but her words carried a weight that pressed like a storm on my chest. "Esmeralda Augustine, whatever happens next, do remember that there was a time I gave you an offer that you rejected. The earlier you make the right choice, the better for all of us."
I swallowed hard. The tea in front of me had gone cold. My hands shook slightly as I gripped the edge of the table. I did not know what awaited me, but the warning was clear, the stakes higher than ever.
The evening light outside dimmed further. Shadows stretched across the floor, and I realized, with a shiver that ran down my spine, that my life and my fight for love were about to enter a storm I had only just begun to sense.