Emily had lost her cashier job the week before after missing shifts when Noah developed a fever. His father had disappeared the moment she told him she was pregnant.
She was alone.
The pediatrician had insisted Noah needed a special high-calorie formula to gain weight. It cost nearly what she used to earn in two days.
Emily opened her wallet.
$6.73.
Not enough for anything.
A neighbor had once given her a phone number—“A woman who sometimes helps single moms. Only in emergencies.”
Emily stared at her cracked phone screen. Pride is a luxury when your baby is hungry.
Her fingers trembled as she typed:
“I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m desperate. My baby needs special formula and I don’t have money. I can pay you back. I just need $20 so he doesn’t go hungry tonight. Please.”
Her hands slipped.
One digit wrong.
She pressed send and closed her eyes.
Across Manhattan, Daniel’s phone buzzed.
He frowned. A business emergency at midnight?
He opened the message.
Read it once.
Then again.
It didn’t feel like a scam. The spelling mistakes. The urgency. The simplicity of the request.
Twenty dollars.
He could ignore it. Block the number. Go back to his quiet penthouse.