Chapter 3 - The Monday Morning Commute
The alarm went off at 6:00 AM on Monday.
In the history of our household, Vanessa had never been awake at 6:00 AM unless she was returning from a late-night party or catching an early flight to Cabo.
When I tapped lightly on her bedroom door, there was no response. I pushed it open to find her still buried deep beneath the goose-down duvet, her breathing slow and even.
“Vanessa. Up.”
She groaned, rolling over and pulling a silk pillow over her face.
“Go away. I’m sick. I have a fever. I’m dying.”
“You were perfectly healthy five minutes ago when you were breathing. Get up. You have twenty minutes to get dressed and out the door, or I start selling your designer bags on eBay one by one.”
The pillow flew across the room, hitting the wall with a soft thud.
Vanessa sat up, her hair tangled in a wild, messy mane, her eyes red-rimmed and blazing with a pure, unadulterated hatred that could have melted steel.
“I hate you,” she whispered. “I genuinely, completely hate you.”
“I know,” I said calmly. “Get dressed. Wear something comfortable. You’ll be on your feet for eight hours.”
She didn't wear designer workwear. She wore a sullen, rebellious uniform of protest: a plain black hoodie, faded jeans with deliberate rips at the knees, and flat sneakers with no makeup and her hair tied back in a messy, aggressive bun. She looked like she was heading to a funeral—her own.
At 6:45 AM, I walked her down to the front door, handing her a Ventana Transit Card and a crisp twenty-dollar bill.
“What is this?” she asked, looking at the transit card as if it were a radioactive insect.
“Your transportation fare for the week. And lunch money. Spend it wisely.”
“You’re making me take the CTA?” she gasped, her voice echoing in the grand foyer. “Dad, the Brown Line is full of—of people!”
“Yes, Vanessa. That’s generally what public transportation is for—transporting the public. Marcus is not driving you. Your BMW is parked in the garage with the battery disconnected. Walk to the station at Wellington. Train arrives at 7:05. Don’t miss it, or you’ll be late on your very first day.”
She snatched the transit card out of my hand, her fingers trembling with suppressed rage, and stormed out the front door, slamming it so hard the decorative wreath rattled off its hook.
I watched her from the front window as she trudged down the steps, her shoulders hunched against the damp, biting Chicago autumn wind, her sneakers crunching on the fallen leaves. It was the first time in her nineteen years of life that she was stepping out into the city without a safety net, without a credit card, and without someone waiting to chauffeur her to her destination.
My heart ached—a sharp, parental pang of guilt and sorrow. I wanted to run out there, call Marcus back, tell her it was all a cruel joke, hand her the black cards back, and take her out for brunch at the Peninsula.
No, I told myself, gripping the wooden window frame. If I cave now, she’s ruined. I’m saving her life.
Meanwhile, across town on Oak Street, Bellamy and Row was just unlocking its heavy glass doors.
Sophie stood behind the polished marble counter, tying her dark hair back into a neat, professional knot. She wore a simple, tailored navy blazer over a white blouse—understated, elegant, and entirely appropriate. She was twenty-one, a junior at Loyola University, working three days a week to pay her tuition and help support her younger brother after their parents had both lost their jobs during the post-pandemic economic squeeze.
Sophie loved books, dreamed of working in museum curation, and possessed a quiet, resilient dignity that could not be shaken by entitled teenagers throwing cash on the floor.
At 8:55 AM, the boutique bell chimed softly.
Sophie looked up, expecting the morning delivery from the tailoring department.
Instead, pushing open the glass door with an expression of supreme martyrdom, came Vanessa.
She stood in the center of the pristine showroom, looking around the quiet, luxurious space with the heavy, reluctant air of a condemned prisoner walking into the execution chamber.
Sophie stepped out from behind the counter, her expression polite, professional, but carrying an unmistakable edge of cautious curiosity.
“Good morning,” Sophie said, her voice smooth and even. “Are you here to pick up a coat?”
May you like
Vanessa crossed her arms, glared at Sophie with undisguised venom, and tossed a manila folder onto the counter.
“No,” Vanessa spat out, her voice echoing off the limestone walls. “My dad says I work here now. Assign me whatever soul-crushing task you want, and let's just get this over with.”
