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“She thinks I have an angle,” I grunted out with each lift, “like everything I do is part of some grand scheme.”
“Isn’t it usually?” Stuart asked pointedly.
“Not this time.” I racked the weights with finality and exhaled sharply. “This time it’s different.”
“How so?”
I took a moment to gather my thoughts, feeling the echo of truth in what I was about to admit. “I want to help her because she deserves it—because her family and that community center deserve it.”
Stuart looked at me with an eyebrow raised. “You’re serious about this.”
“Yeah,” I replied quietly, a hint of vulnerability creeping into my voice. “I am.”
He nodded slowly as if acknowledging a shift he saw within me. “Then show her that. And make sure you’re doing this for yourself too.”
I knew he was right; actions would always speak louder than words or checks signed off to silence opposition or ease guilt. Mila needed more than just grand gestures; she needed sincerity—something real.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mila
I had been stacking chairs when Cassius Portman strode into the community center, his presence as commanding as ever. He wore a casual ensemble that somehow still screamed expensive. His eyes found mine across the room, and he gave a nod, signaling he needed to speak with me. I set the chair down and met him halfway.
“Cassius,” I greeted, my tone more formal than I intended.
“Mila, I’ve got an idea for a new fundraiser that could really boost—”
His words cut off as a cluster of kids burst into the room. They gasped for breath, faces flushed with panic.
“Mr. Cass! Miss Mila!” one of them cried out, tugging at Cass’s sleeve. “The basement… it’s all flooded!”
Without hesitation, Cass switched gears. “Show me,” he said with authority that brooked no argument.
We trailed after the children, leading us down to the basement. The sight that greeted us was grim: water pooled around our ankles as we descended the last few steps.
Cass pulled out his phone and dialed swiftly. “I need repairmen at the Wintertide Community Center—yes, now! And bring pumps. We have a flood.”
“Is it bad?” I asked Cass.
“We’ll manage,” he assured me with a confidence I envied. “Kids, go fetch someone from the administration, and tell them to bring a maintenance man.”
As the children ran away, he turned to me with that perfect smile of his.
“Let’s find that valve before this gets any worse,” he said. We sloshed down into the water, my breath catching as the cold seeped through my shoes and up my legs.
“There!” I pointed toward a corner where water spewed like a miniature geyser, an iron wheel just visible above the torrent.
Cass splashed through the water ahead of me, moving with a purpose I envied. My limbs felt sluggish, heavy with dread. We reached the valve together; it stood defiant, as if mocking our efforts to contain it.
“On three,” he said, gripping one side of the wheel. “One… two… three!”
We pushed against it, muscles straining with effort. The valve didn’t budge. My hands slipped against wet metal; frustration flared hot inside me.
“Again!” Cass grunted, resetting his grip.
Our shoulders brushed in our struggle; close enough that I could feel his tension mirroring mine. With a grunt of exertion that seemed to echo off every submerged surface, we pushed once more. This time it gave way—a reluctant turn that felt like victory.
Until we released it and the valve opened again.
