Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
T hree years later…
Georgia’s fingers guided the worn denim under the presser foot, the familiar hum of the sewing machine filling the cramped back room of Stitch a lifetime ago she’d been Georgia Adler, every movement scrutinized, every choice weighted with consequence. The ghost of Adrian still clung to her skin sometimes, an unseen burden of his watchful eyes and iron will that had once ruled her every breath.
The first months after leaving had felt like learning to breathe again. No photographers tracking her steps, no social obligations suffocating her schedule, no careful calculations behind every word she spoke. She’d thought simple anonymity would be enough, that she could piece together something real from the fragments of her old life.
Then came the morning sickness, the missed period, the drugstore test that changed everything. Georgia’s hands stilled on the fabric as she remembered that moment: staring at those two pink lines, understanding that freedom wasn’t just about her anymore. Her child needed more than just his mother’s desperate bid for independence.
Georgia’s hands smoothed the denim as Theo’s face flashed in her mind; his bright smile, those eyes that looked so much like Adrian’s it hurt sometimes. Everything had shifted the moment she’d held him in her arms that first time. Her world narrowed to a single purpose: keeping him safe, protected from the sharks that circled the Adler name.
The familiar panic crept up her spine whenever she thought about being discovered. One photo, one wrong move, and everything she’d built would crumble. No official employment records, no credit cards, no social media. She’d erased herself as thoroughly as she could. Each under-the-table job felt like another layer of protection, another degree of separation between her son and the world she’d left.
The life in Adrian’s penthouse felt like a fever dream now. Sometimes she caught herself staring at her callused hands, remembering how they once sketched designs for thousand-dollar dresses instead of patching worn jeans. The whisper of silk against her skin, the burst of camera lights, Adrian’s domineering shadow—it all felt like scenes from another woman’s life.
A nagging thought interrupted her stitching. Theo had complained about his shoes pinching during dinner, trying to hide his discomfort behind a brave smile. She’d noticed him walking on the sides of his feet, the soles flapping loose at the edges. Her stomach clenched as she mentally counted the cash hidden in various spots around their apartment. Thirty behind the loose bathroom tile, forty-five tucked into an old coffee tin, maybe twenty in her work apron.
The thrift store had a decent children’s section. If she was lucky, she might find something that would last more than a few months. But the rent was due next week, and the grocery money was already stretched thin. She’d have to cut back somewhere, maybe skip lunch for a few days, water down the milk a little more.
The thud of fabric hitting her workstation startled Georgia from her calculations. Doris dropped a pile of clothes beside her.
“These need hemming by tomorrow.” Doris’s voice carried its usual gruffness. “The blue dress has a tear in the sleeve too.”
Georgia forced her lips into a smile, gathering the clothes into her to-do pile. “I’ll take care of it.”
Her hands found their rhythm again, the needle piercing fabric in steady beats. A torn seam here, a loose button there. The work required just enough focus to keep her hands busy while leaving her mind free to plan her afternoon shift at the diner. Table five always tipped well if she remembered extra napkins. Table twelve liked their coffee topped off without asking.
The bell above the shop door chimed, followed by the soft thud of it closing. Georgia barely registered the sound anymore, just another note in the daily symphony. She guided another pair of pants through the machine, the steady whir drowning out everything else.
Her fingers moved automatically to tie off the final stitch, muscle memory taking over. Every long hour, every aching muscle served a purpose. Theo needed new shoes. He needed food, clothes, a safe place to sleep. The thought of his smile, the way his eyes lit up when she tucked him in at night, made the endless work bearable. Worth it. She’d do anything to keep him safe, to give him the childhood he deserved, even if it meant spending her days breathing in fabric dust and her nights carrying plates of greasy food.
That evening, Georgia balanced three empty glasses on her tray, weaving between the crowded tables at Murphy’s Bar. The familiar scent of stale beer and fried food clung to her uniform, mixing with the low hum of conversations and country music from the ancient jukebox. Her feet ached in her worn sneakers, each step a reminder of the double shift she’d pulled at the thrift shop earlier.
A burst of laughter erupted from the corner booth where the Thursday night regulars gathered. She kept her eyes down, focused on collecting empties from table six. The less attention she drew, the better. After three months of serving drinks here, she’d mastered the art of being forgettable.
“Hey, sweetheart, another round over here.” The man at table four raised his hand without looking up from his phone.
“Right away.” Georgia’s voice stayed neutral, professional. She’d learned to make herself sound pleasant, but unmemorable.
The sharp tap of glass on wood cut through the bar’s noise. Another customer, another empty drink demanding attention. She added it to her tray, careful to keep her movements efficient. No wasted steps, no lingering conversations.
“About time,” the man muttered as she lifted his glass. “Service here gets worse every week.”
The words rolled off her like water. She’d heard worse, dealt with ruder customers.
Tom, the bartender, gave her a quick nod as she approached. He lined up fresh drinks without conversation, their routine well established by now. The ice clinked against glass, a steady rhythm beneath the bar’s chaos.
While wiping down table eight, fragments of conversation drifted from the booth beside her. Two women, probably in their mid-twenties, leaned close over their cocktails.
“So then Mike says we should look at getting a place of our own,” one said, twirling her straw. “Can you believe it? Like we’ve got that kind of money just lying around.”
Her friend laughed. “God, at least he’s thinking about the future. Jason still can’t commit to dinner plans more than two days ahead.”
Georgia’s hand stilled on the sticky table surface. Their voices painted pictures of normal lives: weekend plans, relationship drama, dreams of settling down and building something lasting. Futures that felt within reach, not distant dreams. She forced her fingers to move again, scrubbing harder at a stubborn ring mark.
Georgia’s shoulders burned as she stacked the last of the dirty glasses into the dishwasher. Hours on her feet had turned her muscles to concrete, each movement a negotiation with her exhausted body. She pressed her palm against her lower back, trying to ease the ache that had become her constant companion. The familiar motions of wiping tables and restocking napkins required little thought, just the hypnotic flow of hands drifting back and forth, of time trickling away moment by moment.
The late-night crowd had thinned to a few stragglers nursing their final drinks. The jukebox played something soft and country, nearly drowned out by the clinking of glasses and murmured conversations. She’d learned to find comfort in the predictability of it all. No surprises, no expectations beyond keeping drinks full and tables clean.
Tom caught her eye from behind the bar and jerked his chin toward the door. “Get out of here, Georgia. We’re dead anyway.”
She nodded, already untying her apron. The back room smelled of bleach and old mop water, but her worn canvas jacket hung exactly where she’d left it, a small mercy in a long day. The faded fabric was fraying at the cuffs, and the lining had gone thin from years of use, but it was better than nothing against the night air.
The cold hit her like a physical force as she stepped outside, seeping through the gaps in her clothes. She tugged the jacket tighter, ducking her head against the wind. Her steps quickened automatically, body moving on autopilot toward home.
Theo’s sniffling face from that morning flashed in her mind. He’d tried to hide it, brave little soldier that he was, but she’d seen him wiping his nose on his sleeve when he thought she wasn’t looking. The apartment’s ancient heating system barely functioned, leaving their rooms perpetually chilled. The blankets from the discount store were thin, barely adequate for autumn, let alone the approaching winter. She’d planned to save up for a warmer comforter, but the colder weather had arrived faster than expected, catching her off guard.
New shoes had been on her mental list for weeks, right alongside warmer blankets and proper cold medicine. But the tips had been getting lighter as the weather turned colder, people holding tighter to their cash with the holidays approaching.
The worry sat heavy between her shoulder blades, a familiar weight she’d learned to carry. Each step brought her closer to home, past the darkened storefronts and empty sidewalks. The streetlights cast long shadows, but she barely noticed them anymore, focused only on moving forward.
The sight of their building made her steps quicken. A faint glow filtered through the thin curtain of their studio window, a beacon drawing her home. The stairs creaked under her feet as she climbed, each sound echoing in the quiet hallway.
Georgia pushed open the apartment door. Mrs. Miller stood in their tiny kitchen, wringing her hands. The older woman’s usual calm demeanor had cracked, worry lines creasing her forehead.
“He’s not well, Georgia. Started running a fever a few hours ago.”
Georgia’s stomach dropped. She brushed past Mrs. Miller, her exhaustion forgotten as she rushed to the twin bed tucked in the corner of their studio apartment. Theo lay curled beneath the thin blankets, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.
“I tried to get him to eat the pasta you left,” Mrs. Miller’s voice followed her. “But he wouldn’t touch it. Just kept whimpering in his sleep.”
Georgia’s hands shook as she dug through her apron pocket, pulling out crumpled bills. “Thank you for staying late.” She pressed the money into Mrs. Miller’s palm, barely registering the woman’s quiet departure.
The door clicked shut, leaving Georgia alone with the sound of Theo’s labored breathing. She knelt beside the bed, her fingers gentle as she brushed damp strands from his face. His skin burned against her palm.
“Hey, baby,” she whispered, fighting to keep her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her chest. “Mommy’s here now.”
She crossed to their kitchenette, grabbing a clean dishcloth from the drawer. The tap water ran cold over her trembling hands as she soaked the fabric. Water dripped down her wrists as she wrung it out, her movements quick.
Back at his bedside, she pressed the cool cloth to his forehead. “Remember the story about the brave knight?” Her voice filled the quiet room, desperate to drown out the sound of his shallow breathing. “The one who fought the dragon to protect his village?” She kept talking, weaving tales of heroes and adventures, anything to keep the panic at bay.
The last time he’d been this sick flashed through her mind. That endless night of fever dreams, his small body racked with coughs. She’d held him then too, helpless without insurance or the means to get him proper medical care.
Georgia settled on the edge of the mattress, gathering Theo into her arms. His head lolled against her shoulder, heat radiating through his pajamas. She pressed her cheek to his forehead, whispering soothing words as his fever ebbed and surged.
A thought crept in, unbidden and bitter—if Adrian knew… would he even want to know? Would he care about the boy he never asked for, never even knew existed? Would he see Theo as a problem to be managed, something that didn’t fit into his carefully controlled world? Or would he resent her for making the choice alone, for keeping their son out of his reach?
She shook her head, forcing the thoughts away. That life was long behind her, a life full of power games and calculated moves. She’d chosen to protect Theo from that, to keep him safe from the tangled web of ambition and dominance that surrounded Adrian. This was their reality, just the two of them, getting through each challenge together.
The hours crawled by. Georgia hummed softly, old lullabies her mother used to sing, while Theo’s fever rose and fell like the tide. Exhaustion pulled at her bones, but she kept watch, monitoring each labored breath, each shift in his temperature.
Dawn’s first gray light filtered through their cracked window when she felt the change. The burning heat finally began to fade from his skin. Georgia sagged against the headboard, relief flooding through her tired body. Her fingers threaded through his hair, now merely damp instead of soaked with fever sweat.
“We made it, baby,” she murmured against his temple. “We made it through.”
A soft knock at the door shattered the morning quiet. Her heart jumped into her throat as she glanced at Theo, but he didn’t stir. She rose and crossed the worn floorboards on silent feet, careful to avoid the spots that creaked.
The door hinges protested as she cracked it open. Mr. Peterson stood in the hallway, his jacket hanging loose on his frame, deep lines etched around his mouth.
“Miss Phillips.” He kept his voice low, matching her careful silence. “We need to discuss the rent situation.”
Her stomach clenched. “Is something wrong?”
“You’re still paying the old rate. Rent went up two months ago.” He shifted his weight, hands tucked into his pockets. “You’re behind by about four hundred.”
Georgia’s mind raced through a blur of bills and late notices. Had she missed something in the stack of mail she barely had time to sort?
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize.” She gripped the doorframe, steadying herself. “Could I have a little more time? Just until my next paycheck?—”
Mr. Peterson rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze drifting down the empty hallway. “Look, you’re usually good about paying on time. But I can’t keep making exceptions. Property taxes are killing me this year.”
“Please.” The word caught in her throat. “I’ll figure something out.”
“One week.” He met her eyes, his expression tired but firm. “That’s all I can give you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Peterson.” Georgia’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “I appreciate the extra time.”
She closed the door with a gentle click, her forehead dropping against the cool wood as tremors ran through her hands. The knot in her stomach twisted tighter, each breath a battle to keep quiet, to stay calm. Theo needed her strong, not falling apart.
Another soft knock made her jump. Mrs. Miller stood in the hallway, her silver hair tied back in a loose bun, worry lines creasing her face.
“I couldn’t help but overhear.” Mrs. Miller stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “I have some money saved up. Let me help with the rent, just this once.”
Georgia shook her head. “I can’t accept that.”
“Please, dear. I know what it’s like, trying to make it on your own.” Mrs. Miller’s eyes held a familiar weariness. Georgia had seen the prescription bottles lined up on her neighbor’s kitchen counter, had noticed how she counted pennies for her cancer treatments.
“We’ll figure something out.” Georgia managed a small smile, though it felt brittle on her face. “But thank you, really.”
Mrs. Miller hesitated, her hand reaching out to squeeze Georgia’s arm. The touch held more comfort than words could express. With a final concerned look, she retreated to her apartment.
Georgia locked the door and slid down against it, her legs giving out. The panic clawed at her chest, threatening to overwhelm her. She forced herself to breathe, counting each inhale until the worst of it passed.
Later that night, the apartment fell silent except for Theo’s soft breathing beside her. Her empty stomach cramped, but she ignored it, focusing instead on her son’s peaceful face. The warmth of his small body pressed against hers filled her chest with fierce determination. They would survive this, like everything else.