At 4:30 AM, Claire Hart's alarm went off. It was quiet when she slapped it and dragged herself out of bed. Her body hurt from working two shifts yesterday. The room was small, but clean, which was different from her crazy life.
Mrs. Dawson sent her a text message saying, "Need you in early." Helen called in sick just once more.
Claire let out a sigh and slurped down her coffee. Today there is no food. It didn't take her long to braid her hair, put on her uniform, and run out the door.
She was knee-deep in flour at Dawson's Bakery by 5:15 AM, her first job of the day.
"Sorry to call you in early," Mrs. Dawson said, her face pinched with worry.
"It's fine," Claire told her, though her back screamed in protest as she lifted a heavy box. "I needed the extra hours anyway."
At noon, Claire traded her flourcovered apron for her waitressing uniform at La Belle, an expensive diner twenty blocks away. She ran the whole way and got there with an extra minute to spare.
"You're cutting it close, Hart," her boss warned. "One more late arrival, and we'll find someone more reliable."
For the next six hours, she put on a smile and served expensive food to people who barely looked at her. A woman sent back her meal three times, then grumbled about Claire's attitude.
"I apologize, ma'am," Claire said, her smile frozen in place even as the woman's husband openly stared at her.
By 6 PM, she had ten minutes to reach her third job—night receptionist at the Meridian Hotel.
"You're late," the day receptionist said, already grabbing her bag.
"By two minutes," Claire answered, moving behind the desk.
During a quiet moment, Claire checked her phone. A message flashed: Dad's birthday tomorrow.
She closed her eyes, sadness washing over her. Two years since Richard Hart, once the proud owner of Hart Industries, had taken his life after losing everything.
Not losing, Claire reminded herself. Stolen. Everything was stolen from him.
As she was checking in a guest, a group of laughing executives entered the hallway. One man stood out—tall, darkhaired, with a dominant presence.
"Mr. Blackwood, welcome back," the hotel manager appeared, bowing and scraping. "Your usual suite is ready."
Claire froze. Blackwood. The name marked on her father's collapse.
Damian Blackwood, CEO of Blackwood Enterprises, nodded curtly before his cold gaze swept the hallway, passing over Claire without seeing her. Why would he notice her? She was nobody to guys like him.
But she noticed him—the perfectly tailored suit that probably cost more than her yearly rent, the careless confidence of someone who had never worried about making ends meet.
"The Blackwoods destroy everything they touch," her father had said in his dying days.
By 2 AM, when Claire finally stumbled home, her entire body ached. She fell into bed without changing, setting her alarm for another 4:30 wakeup.
The next day, after her shifts at the bakery and restaurant, Claire stood outside the walls of what had once been Hart Industries. The building was a shell of its former glory, windows closed up, weeds pushing through cracks in the concrete.
Claire slipped through a gap in the chainlink fence. "Happy birthday, Dad," she whispered as she entered the abandoned hallway.
She made her way to her father's old office on the tenth floor. The door still had his name on it, though the gold writing was faded. Inside, the room was stripped bare except for a broken desk and an overturned chair.
From the windows, she could see Blackwood Tower gleaming in the setting sun, a monument to power and wealth.
"I'm going to find out what they did to you," she promised the empty room. "I don't care how long it takes."
As she turned to leave, something glinted in the dying light. Claire moved closer to where her father's bookcase had once stood. A small metal object was jammed into a crack between the floor and the wall.
Kneeling, she pried it loose—a key with the number 1542 etched into its surface.
"What were you hiding, Dad?" she whispered, turning the key over in her hand.
A loud crash from downstairs made her jump. Voices echoed through the building—rough, angry voices.
"Check upstairs! Make sure no one's been in here!"
Claire's heart beat. She slipped the key into her pocket and looked desperately for a hiding place, but the office offered no shelter.
She tried the windows, but years of carelessness had sealed them shut. She pressed herself against the wall beside the door as footsteps neared.
"Check every room," a voice ordered. "Boss says no one can know we've been here."
Claire held her breath as a beam of light swept the room.
"Nothing here," someone said. "Just trash."
The light moved on. When she was sure they'd left, Claire crept to the doorway and peered into the hall. Empty. She headed for the stairs, moving as quietly as possible.
Halfway down, she heard voices below. Two men were coming up, their flashlights casting long shadows.
Claire ducked into a doorway on the fifth floor. At the end was a service elevator with doors jammed slightly open. She squeezed through the gap and found an empty shaft with a repair ladder bolted to one wall.
Just as she grabbed the ladder, light filled the hallway outside. With no time to think, Claire began to climb down, moving as fast as she dared. The metal rungs were slick with rust, and twice her foot slipped, leaving her hanging by her hands.
Finally reaching the basement, she pushed through the elevator doors into a dark area filled with old furniture and equipment.
She found a door marked "EXIT." It was locked, but a close window was broken. Claire wriggled through the hole, cutting her arm in the process.
She emerged in an alley and ran, not stopping until she was several blocks away, lost in the busy street.
The key burned in her pocket. Whatever her father had hidden, other people wanted it too. Maybe it was the proof she'd been looking for—proof of how the Blackwoods had destroyed Hart Industries.
But first, she needed to figure out what it opened. A safe deposit box? A storage unit? A locker somewhere?
As Claire walked home, her mind spinning with options, she didn't notice the black car that pulled away from the curb and followed her, its headlights off.
Inside the car, a man spoke quietly into his phone. "She was there, just like you said she would be. And I think she found something."
The voice that answered was cold, deliberate. "Follow her. Find out what she knows. Then take care of it—permanently."
The man hung up and continued to follow Claire through the darkened streets, waiting for the right moment to strike.