Chapter 7
"Whoosh!"
At last, the rain came pouring down.
And with it—
"Waaaaah!"
Emma burst into tears.
The driver couldn't help glancing at her through the rearview mirror.
After a moment, he casually asked, "Young lady... did you just go through a breakup?"
Emma cried so hard that she actually blew a bubble with her nose.
The driver quickly handed her a tissue.
Emma took it, blew her nose, and answered in a muffled voice,
"Who said I'm dating anyone? Ugly people need relationships. I'm way too pretty for that."
Driver:
"......"
He stared at her through the mirror.
"Then why are you crying like somebody just died?"
Emma rested her head against the seat.
"My parents died a long time ago."
The driver froze.
A second later, he panicked.
"Wait—what? What?! Young lady, I was joking! I didn't mean to bring up something painful. I'm so sorry!"
Emma didn't answer.
She was still completely devastated over something far more important.
Her carefully packed pasta.
Her precious late-night snack.
She had left it at the hotel.
And now she couldn't even go back for it.
She couldn't even ask.
The contract with that particular client specifically prohibited her from contacting him first.
Damn it.
I should be allowed to punch myself for having such a terrible memory.
Seeing her miserable expression, the driver smacked himself lightly on the cheek.
"Look... I won't charge you for this ride. Consider it my apology. I really had no idea your parents had already..."
He trailed off.
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
Man, I'm an asshole.
Emma finally lifted her head.
Her eyes were red from crying, her beautiful face slightly pale.
She looked so heartbreakingly pitiful that even the driver felt terrible.
"You don't need to apologize," she said softly. "You didn't kill my parents."
Driver:
"............"
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"I mean... that's not what I—"
Every word he said seemed to make things worse.
Look at this poor kid.
She's even joking about it so I won't feel guilty.
She must be hurting like hell inside.
When they reached the destination, Emma opened her bag and took out an umbrella.
She always checked the weather before going out.
Not just for herself.
Mostly for her clients.
She couldn't let her precious clients get caught in the rain, after all.
The driver pulled over and waved her off.
"No charge! Seriously, no charge!"
Emma shook her head and scanned the payment code with her phone.
"No. You work hard for your money too."
If you want to make money, you earn it honestly.
Even when you're taking advantage of someone, only take what's actually yours.
The driver laughed and started the engine.
"Don't worry. I've got three apartment buildings bringing in rent at home. I just drive this cab when I'm bored."
Emma:
"......"
She suddenly remembered something she'd once read.
Apparently, the first great dividing line in life is the amniotic fluid you were born in.
For God's sake.
Who stole my rich-kid life?
Back at her tiny rented apartment, Emma took a shower.
She had started working part-time during her junior year of college, so she had moved out and rented a place of her own.
At first, she'd lived in a shared apartment.
She still remembered the landlord's introduction.
He'd told her that the two men she would be sharing the place with were fifty years old combined.
Emma had been thrilled.
She'd signed the lease without even looking.
Only after moving in did she discover the truth.
It was a forty-eight-year-old grandfather and his two-year-old grandson.
The grandfather was terrible at keeping the place clean.
And the little boy's favorite nighttime activity was screaming at the top of his lungs.
Emma hadn't even lasted a month before she was practically losing her mind.
So she had reluctantly spent a small fortune renting a studio apartment by herself.
After her shower, Emma had just climbed into bed when her phone rang.
At this hour?
Who is calling me now?
She picked up the phone.
Lawrence.
Emma frowned slightly and answered.
They had been working together for quite some time, and he had never called her this late at night.
She held the phone to her ear and immediately softened her voice.
"Hello, Mr. Vance."
A slightly hoarse voice came from the other end.
"Come to my house."
Emma glanced out the window.
It was still raining.
"What happened?"
"Just come."
His voice left no room for argument.
But Emma immediately noticed something.
He sounded weak.
Wait.
Does this man have a fear of thunderstorms?
That was practically a mandatory feature in billionaire romance novels.
A traumatized CEO who became unusually vulnerable whenever thunder and lightning showed up?
Classic.
Whether Lawrence had childhood trauma was none of Emma's business.
She only cared about one thing.
Does working overtime at one in the morning mean double pay?
And does he reimburse transportation costs?
Her salary was always transferred by his assistant once a month.
Even her appointments were arranged through the assistant.
After all, billionaires were busy people.
Surely they didn't have time to personally manage their hourly employees.
Emma didn't even have Lawrence's contact on social media.
They only communicated by phone.
She blinked.
Then quietly turned on call recording.
"Mr. Vance, you want me to come over right now, correct?"
Lawrence had clearly run out of patience.
"Yes."
Emma's voice suddenly became much more cheerful.
"Mr. Vance, it's one in the morning."
A beat.
"That's officially nighttime hours."
According to the contract, nighttime work meant double pay.
Inside his mansion, Lawrence was half-reclining against the headboard, his brows tightly drawn together.
She's that happy about coming over this late?
She's going to be disappointed.
She isn't getting what she wants.
"Yes."
Lawrence said the word coldly and hung up.
Emma immediately sent the recording to his assistant.
There was no reply.
Naturally.
At one in the morning, normal employees were asleep.
Emma wasn't normal.
She was a professional admirer.
As long as the money is right, I'm available 24/7.
She quickly touched up her makeup to recreate Isabelle's appearance.
Then she took off her SpongeBob pajamas and changed into a white dress.
There was no way Lawrence wanted to see her at one in the morning.
He obviously wanted to see his beloved untouchable ideal.
Then another thought crossed Emma's mind.
Wait.
It's the middle of the night.
Just me and a man alone in his house.
What if this CEO decides to stop pretending I'm Isabelle and gets some... inappropriate ideas?
Better safe than sorry.
Emma slipped a stun gun into her purse.
Emma knocked on the door.
No answer.
Did the housekeeper go to bed too?
The entire mansion was dark.
It looked like some enormous sleeping beast.
Emma took out her phone and called Lawrence.
"Mr. Vance, I'm here. I knocked, but nobody's answering."
Lawrence's voice sounded even weaker this time.
"Password's 123456. Just come in."
Emma blinked.
Are rich people's passwords really this simple?
Her own password protected barely a few hundred dollars, and she'd spent forever coming up with something no one could guess.
This man had apparently gone with:
The mansion wasn't particularly huge by billionaire standards.
There was a front yard, the main house, and a small backyard.
Emma had always visited during the day.
This was her first time coming at night.
She wasn't exactly afraid of the dark.
But she wasn't brave enough to pretend she wasn't either.
She had no idea where the light switches were, so she used the flashlight on her phone and slowly made her way upstairs.
She stepped into the main house and climbed the stairs.
Then—
At the corner of the staircase—
She suddenly bumped into someone.
Emma jumped.
Without thinking, she raised her hand like a gun.
"Reducto!"