Chapter 1 - The Question that Changed Everything
The woman in the cream coat did not just look at Lily; she peered at her as if examining a stain on a carpet she intended to have replaced.
"You sell these here every day?" the woman asked, her voice sharp enough to draw blood.
Lily tightened her grip on the basket. "I do, ma'am. They’re fresh. I make them every morning."
The woman laughed, a sound devoid of mirth. "How quaint. Does it pay for the rent? Or just for the bus fare back to whatever slum you crawled out of?"
Passersby slowed. The mockery was audible. A group of teenagers nearby snickered, filming the interaction with their phones. Lily felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but she held her chin up, a habit forged in the fires of the Whitaker household.
"I make enough to get by," Lily said, her voice steady despite the trembling in her knees.
"You’re an eyesore," the woman said, stepping closer. "You're blocking the view of a world you don't belong in. Why don't you take your little basket and go play pretend somewhere else?"
Lily felt the tears she had been suppressing all morning prick her eyes. She turned to leave, her shoulders slumping, when a sleek, silver car—a vehicle that looked like it had been carved from moonlight—pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and a man stepped out.
He was tall, wearing a charcoal suit that fit him with architectural precision. His face was etched with the weariness of a man who owned the city but rarely saw it. He walked straight toward the woman, ignoring her entirely, and stopped right in front of Lily.
The crowd went silent. Even the teenagers stopped filming.
The man looked at the basket of caramels, then up at Lily’s face. He didn't look at her clothes, or her worn sneakers, or her messy hair. He looked at her eyes—those large, green, haunted eyes.
"What are you selling, really?" he asked.
The question was so odd that Lily blinked, momentarily forgetting the woman in the cream coat. "I... I'm selling caramels, sir. Homemade."
He shook his head slowly. "No. That’s the transaction. That’s not the product. What are you actually selling?"
May you like
Lily looked down at the basket. She thought of the early mornings, the smell of burnt sugar masking the smell of unhappiness, the hope she tucked into every wax-paper wrap. "I’m selling a moment," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "For five dollars, someone gets to taste something that wasn't made in a factory. They get to be taken care of, even if it's just for a minute."
The man smiled, and it transformed his face. "Victor Hale," he said, extending a hand. "And I think you’re in the wrong business, Lily Morgan."
