Who in this neighborhood would drive a vehicle like that? Microcars were expensive, a toy for the rich to ease their conscience after having spent a weekend on the Seychelles. The few people around here who had the money for pricey cars would opt for horsepower and testosterone, not for ecology.

Well, I did know someone who owned such a car. But she'd have no reason to be here.

Dismissing these thoughts with a shrug, I turned towards the entrance of the house and searched the pockets of my coat for the keys.

"Miss Anderson." Someone stood in the shadow between the door and the Chinese takeout next to it, a black-coated figure almost merging with the dark—a woman. She stepped into the light. Her head was covered by a hood, and it took me a moment to recognize her, and another one to come to grips with who she was.

"Theresa Thorne?"

She pushed back the hood. "Good evening."

I stood taller than her. She looked up at me, unsmiling.

Here was the woman who had framed me, tricked me into betraying company secrets, and made me lose my job and the life it had given me.

"What do you want?" I spoke the words slowly, one by one, icing them with cold bitterness.

She took a breath. "I... I need your help."

"Ha!" I couldn't believe she was serious. "You want my help... The last time I helped you, it got me fired."

"I know... and I'm sorry. That hadn't been my intention. It was my brother who ordered them to let you go." Mouth still open, she held up her hands, and her eyes glistened in the lamplight.

Puppy eyes, lips trembling. That woman knew her moves. But these weapons were wasted on me. I had had enough for one day. I had already hit rock bottom—there was no further way down. She couldn't hurt me any more.

Suppressing an urge to dig my fingernails into her face, I pushed past her and inserted my key into the lock. "Look, I had a bitch of a day, and I'm tired. I don't know what you want from me, nor do I care. I want to go to bed now. If you need to talk to me, call my assistant to make an appointment."

"Please." Her plea was loud and made me worry she'd wake up the neighbors. Not that this was a quiet neighborhood, but I wouldn't be surprised if one of them were to empty a bucket of water—or worse—on us.

"Keep your voice down," I hissed.

"Sorry." She whispered now. "Please believe me... I never wanted you to lose your job. I just did what my father had asked me to do."

The thought of her father angered me even more. "And now he's dead."

The words felt like stabbing a knife at her—but instead of a releasing my anger and pain, they only brought remorse.

I opened the door, then I looked back at her.

A tear was running down her cheek.

Damn that woman. I hated it when people were crying on me. Tears rendered me helpless.

And what did she want here?

I sighed and ushered her in. "The elevator's out of order." It had been so for more than a week now. Probably broke down in solidarity when I lost my job. "We've got to walk... three floors."

She nodded.

I took the lead, ascending in quick steps and leaving her in a wake of silence.

When we reached the door to my apartment, she was breathing hard. I opened and motioned her in. Then I followed and locked up.

She took off her coat and handed it to me.

It was heavy in my hand. Why did she take it off? Was she expecting an extended stay? And why did I take it? I wasn't her servant, yet there I stood with the thing. She'd expect me to get a hanger for it, but I just threw it on the sofa. That's how things were done here.

For a moment, we both looked at it, lying in a heap on the cheap second-hand piece of furniture that stood on an old, frayed carpet. In front of it was a low table, which in reality was a wooden crate I had nipped from a contractor's yard under cover of a drunk night long ago—an act instigated by an equally drunk, bygone love-interest of mine.

What would Theresa think of my apartment? She'd probably never seen a place like that.

She held her arms to her chest, hugging herself. There was a brownish stain on the collar of her white blouse. She wasn't perfect, either. Why should I care what my apartment looked like?

She now would expect me to offer her some coffee, tea, or drink. But I wasn't one of her jet-set friends. I dug my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and my heels into the floor. She was the one who had to explain herself.

Her cheeks were still wet. Her gaze wandered to my kitchen, to the dilapidated hardware that stood there, but I doubted that this woman could tell a microwave oven from a dishwasher, so maybe she did not see my appliances for the junk they were.

She took a breath and locked eyes with me. "If you help me, I'll pay you."

So, that was her conclusion. She had inspected my place and concluded that I was in need of money. And she thought I could be bought.

I took a deep breath, supressing the urge to scratch her face. "What would I need your father's money for? As you can see, I've got everything any reasonable human might need." And, on an afterthought: "I'm not as greedy as some others." I hoped that the woman would get the hint.

Her jaw tightened. "Look, I told you I'm sorry. But you despise me so much that you won't even listen."

Rage made me take a step towards her. Our noses almost touched. Her eyebrows were thick, black, unruly bristles, not as coiffed and tended as I would have expected. Her perfume carried a hint of lemon, and her mascara was losing its brave but hopeless fight against the tears.

But I wouldn't care if that woman spilled an ocean from these eyes that seemed to hold every hue of blue I'd ever seen. Whatever she wanted, she wouldn't get it from me. Bringing her upstairs had been a fat mistake, in perfect tune with the rest of this crappy day—the day that had left me with a messy apron, a shitty job, and a dying mother.

Heat rolled into my face, my arms, my chest, like molten rock pouring forth from the center of the earth. "You say I despise you?". I shook my head. "I treat everyone with the respect they deserve... but they have to deserve my respect. And anyone who has to fight to survive this world..." I gestured at the floor but meant the room, the house, the poor part of the city around us, and the people struggling within it. "Anyone able to live here... they deserve my respect. And those who work to make something more out of what fate has given them, using their hands and their mind... those like your father... they deserve even more respect. But if someone's born into glamor and wealth..." The spittle of my last words hit her face and made her flinch. "...yes, these people first have to prove themselves to me." I took an unsteady breath. "They have to prove that they deserve what they have... their expensive cars, their white yachts, their fancy clothes, their pampered lives."

A loud clap, and my cheek stung. This woman had slapped me. The surprise of the act and the unexpected pain left me baffled, unable to react. My ear was ringing.

"I'm so sick of people like you." Her voice was a hiss, and the squint in her eyes had gushed more water over her cheeks. "Just because my dad's rich, you think I'm... a Barbie, all glamor outside but empty within. That I don't feel... that I don't care... that I don't struggle. But you know what? My life's not as glamorous as you think. I know pain, I know tears." She waved an arm at my sofa. "Just because I don't live in a shithole like doesn't mean—"

I smacked her, a violent blow powered by hot rage and a need for revenge. It left my fingers tingling.

She raised a hand to her cheek, looked at me, and swallowed. Then she grabbed her coat and turned to the door.

I watched her as she grappled with my locks, unable to unhook the chain. Her body was shaking with sobs.

My mind was reeling. She had treated me like shit, and I'd happily smack her some more. I wasn't ashamed of what I had done, and I wouldn't be ashamed to kick her out, to send her and her green microcar packing.

Would I?

And what the hell did she want here?

"Wait," I said.

She stopped, her face on the door.

"I..." It was an effort to speak. "Look... I'm..." No, I wouldn't apologize to this woman. "This has gotten out of hands. Let's talk..."

She still just stood there, unmoving.

"Please."

Her shoulders sagged, and she turned.

————

A/N

This chapter was a bit of a challenge... How do you feel about Theresa at this point?