Chapter 2 - The Billionaire’s Table
Emma didn’t move at first. Survival instincts screamed at her to run, but the heavy scent of roasted chicken and warm bread anchoring the table paralyzed her feet.
“I’m not a charity case,” Emma whispered defensively, her chin lifting. “I just want the extra food. People waste so much here.”
William Parker watched her with a mixture of shock and profound curiosity. He motioned for her to take the seat opposite him. Slowly, awkwardly, Emma slid into the velvet armchair. Noah stirred against her chest, letting out a tiny whimper, and William instantly flagged down a terrified waiter.
“Warm milk, bottle temperature, and a plate of plain scrambled eggs. Quickly,” William instructed. Then, looking back at Emma, he asked gently, “What’s your name?”
“Emma.”
“And the little guy?”
“Noah.”
“Well, Emma and Noah,” William said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the linen tablecloth. “My name is William. You’re asking for leftovers in one of the most expensive zip codes in New York. Why?”
Emma looked down at her scuffed shoes. She didn’t want to cry; crying was a luxury she couldn't afford. But the warmth of the restaurant and the exhaustion in her bones were a dangerous combination.
“My grandma is sick,” Emma said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And our money got stolen. The formula ran out this morning. I couldn't just sit there.”
William felt a sharp pang in his chest—a sensation he hadn't experienced since the day he lost his own family to a tragic accident decades ago. He studied her closely, noticing the clever way she had fashioned the bedsheet carrier, the cleanliness of her frayed sweater, and the fierce intelligence burning behind her tired eyes.
“Where are your parents, Emma?”
“My mom left when I was four. My dad doesn't know we exist. It’s just me and Grandma Martha.”
Before William could ask another question, the waiter rushed back, placing a warm bottle and a plate of food in front of them. Noah began to root eagerly against Emma’s chest. With trembling hands, Emma pulled out the bottle and fed him, her eyes closing in sheer relief as the baby finally quieted down to drink.
William quietly slid his untouched basket of warm brioche rolls closer to her. “Eat, Emma. And while you do, tell me where you live.”
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“Why?” Emma asked, instantly suspicious.
“Because,” William said softly, signaling for his assistant who had been waiting anxiously by the door, “I think it’s time someone looked after you and your grandmother for a change.”
