Chapter 7

Willow's POV

I emerged from the dressing room with my makeup fixed and clothes straightened, but nothing could repair what had happened inside. The usual buzz of the Sunset Strip Lounge felt different now—conversations quieted as I passed, replaced by hushed whispers and sidelong glances.

"Yo, Wild! Just heard your little rendezvous with Damian in the locker room," a familiar voice called out. Beckeet was leaning against the wall, gold chains gleaming under the club lights, designer sneakers probably worth more than my monthly rent. "Man drops billions like they're mixtapes and you score a solo audience? That's fire, girl."

"Cut the crap, Beckeet," I muttered, avoiding his eyes. "Why are you even here?"

He pushed off the wall, his usual swagger faltering when he noticed my expression. "Just vibin', you know? Saw some crazy shit go down." He lowered his voice, dropping the performer act. "You good though? For real?"

Before I could answer, I noticed Mia quickly averting her eyes, Jasmine covered her mouth and giggled at me, and even the bouncer finding something incredibly interesting on his phone.

Great. News travels fast in this place.

"There she is! The Wildfire herself!" Carlos appeared, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "Not every day a girl gets personal attention from Damian Blackwood in the VIP room and the dressing room. Moving up in the world, chica!"

I shrugged his arm off. "Not now, Carlos."

"Half the dancers here would kill to be in your position." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Was he as cold in bed as he is in the boardroom?"

"That entitled asshole can go straight to hell," I spat. "Him and his whole fucking family."

Carlos's eyes widened. "Whoa, someone's not impressed by billions. What happened in there?"

I didn't answer. My head was spinning with memories of Damian's cold eyes, Ava's calculated smile, and unwanted hands on my body. The music seemed too loud, the lights too bright, the air suffocating with expensive cologne and desperation.

"I need to leave," I muttered, heading toward the manager's office.

Five minutes and one fake migraine later, I was on my shabby motorcycle, racing through the night streets of Los Angeles. Wind whipped through my hair as I accelerated, trying to outrun my thoughts. The engine roared beneath me—a comforting vibration I'd known since Thomas first taught me to ride at ten. "It's freedom on two wheels," he'd said. Right now, I needed that freedom more than ever.

The city was a blur of neon and shadow. Hollywood Boulevard's tourist traps gave way to residential streets, then back to commercial districts. I took the long way, weaving through neighborhoods where mansions sat behind gates and security cameras, then down streets where homeless encampments sprawled under overpasses. Los Angeles—city of dreams and nightmares, all coexisting in an uneasy truce.

Billboards flashed by advertising luxury I'd never afford. Somewhere in this city, Chloe Sinclair—my identical twin—was probably at some glittering event, wearing clothes that cost more than my monthly rent, smiling with perfect teeth that had received the orthodontic care mine never did.

Same face, different worlds.

I stopped at a convenience store with flickering fluorescent lights, nodding to the cashier who recognized me from my regular late-night visits. I grabbed food before pulling into East Los Angeles General Hospital's parking lot—a far cry from where the Blackwoods received their healthcare. The building was old, concrete stained with decades of smog, but the care inside was genuine.

The antiseptic smell hit me as I pushed through the revolving doors. Midnight in a hospital has its own peculiar rhythm—quieter than daytime, but never truly still. Somewhere a monitor beeped; someone coughed; a squeaky wheel on a medicine cart echoed down a hallway.

The night nurse gave me a tired smile from behind her station. "Back again, Willow? You should get some rest yourself."

"Any change today?" I asked, ignoring her concern.

She shook her head. "Same as yesterday. But he's stable—that's something."

I continued to room 312, my footsteps echoing on the linoleum floor. Maria—my foster mother—dozed in a chair beside Thomas's bed, her reading glasses slipping down her nose, an unfinished crossword puzzle in her lap. He lay still beneath the thin blanket, tubes and wires connecting him to machines that beeped and hummed, the soundtrack to our new normal.

"Mom?" I said softly.

She startled awake. "Willow! I didn't expect you until now." Her tired eyes assessed me. "You look exhausted, mija. Those late nights at that club..." She shook her head, worry lines deepening around her mouth.

I handed her the sandwich and water. "You need to eat."

"Always taking care of everyone else," she sighed. "I'm supposed to be the mother here."

I took Thomas's limp hand in mine. His skin felt papery and cool. His mechanic's hands—once strong and sure, callused from years of work—now lay motionless, IV needles taped to the back where grease stains used to be.

"Any word from the doctors?" I asked.

"Same story. Wait and see." She stared at the unwrapped sandwich. "The insurance called again. They're questioning some treatments. Saying they're 'experimental' and not covered." Her voice cracked on the last word.

"Don't worry about that," I said firmly. "I've got it covered."

Maria's eyes filled with tears. "We've failed you. Look at your sister—living like a princess while you're working two jobs and sleeping four hours a night. That's not what parents are supposed to do."

"You and Thomas gave me everything," I said, squeezing her hand. "A home, love, family. That's more than the Sinclairs ever did. They threw me away like I was nothing."

She smiled sadly. "The shop was supposed to be your inheritance. Thomas always said you had the touch—could diagnose an engine problem just by listening. And now..."

"It wasn't your fault," I said gently. "No one could have predicted that mudslide."

The memory haunted me. Thomas had been delivering a restored Harley when rain-soaked earth gave way. Six weeks had passed, and he hadn't opened his eyes since. The doctors talked about brain function and nerve responses, using words that created more questions than answers.

"I keep thinking about him insisting on making that delivery himself," Maria said, her voice strained. "If I had just told him to wait until morning..." Her own health had deteriorated since—the doctors said it was stress, but I knew it was heartbreak.

The motorcycle shop—Clark's Custom Cycles—had been my childhood playground. I'd learned to change oil before I could drive. But medical bills had piled up, and the shop had been the first sacrifice. The "For Lease" sign still hung in the window, visible from the bus I took to work each morning.

"We'll get another shop someday," I promised. "Once Thomas is better."

Maria stroked my cheek. "You deserve so much more, sweetie."

I thought about the five thousand dollars in my backpack. About Ava Blackwood's offer—a hundred times that amount for something that felt impossible to give. About how one decision could solve all our financial problems.

But I also thought about Thomas, who taught me that integrity wasn't for sale. Who picked me up from school on his motorcycle until I could ride my own. Who never once made me feel like I wasn't his real daughter, even when kids at school teased me about being adopted.

"I'm not going anywhere," I said, squeezing his hand. "We're family. And family doesn't give up on each other."

I watched Mom stifle a cough, her face pale with exhaustion. The doctors had warned that her blood pressure was dangerously high. Another hospital bed might be in our future if things didn't change.

"Eat your sandwich," I told her, trying to sound lighter than I felt. "I'll stay with him tonight. You need to rest."

Even if sometimes it felt like the whole world was trying to tear us apart.