Chapter 3 - The Bitter Taste of PrideMaya climbed onto the red vinyl chair, her legs dangling far above the floor. She stared at the towering slice of chocolate cake as if it were a treasure hauled up from the bottom of the sea. Without waiting for a fork, she used her small fingers to pinch off a corner covered in thick fudge frosting, popping it into her mouth. Her eyes widened in pure, unadulterated bliss.
Edward sat across from her, his hands clasped tightly together on the worn brass-edged table. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Every chew, every movement of her small hands, was a ghost of Claire at that exact age.
“Where is your mother, Maya?” Edward asked softly, keeping his voice carefully measured so as not to frighten her. “How did you get here alone?”
Maya swallowed her bite of cake, her mood suddenly shifting from joyful wonder to a heavy, adult-like solemnity. She set her sticky fingers down on the table.
“Mommy is sick,” Maya whispered, glancing nervously toward the fogged-out windows as if someone might be watching them from the rain-slicked street. “She’s been in bed for three days. She coughs a lot, and sometimes her hands shake so bad she can’t hold her coffee cup. Today she couldn’t get up. She tried to make me oatmeal, but the box was empty. She told me to stay under the blankets and lock the door, but my tummy hurt so bad, and I remembered this place from when she used to talk about it before we moved across town.”
Edward’s blood ran cold. Sick. Not just tired, not just estranged—genuinely, dangerously ill, living in poverty while he sat in a fifteen-room penthouse eating gourmet meals served on silver platters.
“Where do you live?” Edward demanded, his executive instincts roaring back to life, though this time fueled by terror instead of ambition. “Give me the address, Maya. Right now.”
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” Maya said stubbornly, taking another bite of cake. “Even if they have my mommy’s picture.”
Edward let out a breath that sounded like a dry sob. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a heavy gold-plated business card case, and tossed it onto the table alongside a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills. He didn't care about money anymore; money was the disease that had poisoned his bloodline.
“Listen to me, Maya,” Edward said, leaning forward, his voice fierce and pleading. “I am Edward Blake. Your grandfather. I am the man who broke your mother’s heart, and I will spend every remaining breath I have on this earth fixing it. But I need you to help me. If we don’t get to your mother right now, I might lose her forever—just like I almost lost you.”
Maya stared at the money, then up at the old man’s wet eyes. She saw the absolute, crushing desperation written in every wrinkle of his face. Slowly, grease-stained fingers reached into the pocket of her oversized raincoat and pulled out a crumpled, damp piece of notebook paper.
May you like
She pushed it across the table.
“We live on 4th and Elm,” Maya whispered. “Basement apartment B. The door sticks, so you have to kick it near the bottom to make it open.”
