CEO And The Cinderella Of The Community Center

I jolted awake to the sound of my mother shouting and cursing. It was never a good sign. I dressed silently, terrified of letting her know I was awake, even more terrified of seeing the liquor bottle clenched in her hand.

Mom wasn't always like this.

She came from a Catholic family. She never laid a finger on me until I turned thirteen.

That was the year I started frequenting the city library. There, amid dusty newspaper archives and internet searches, I pieced together a hazy image of the man—my father. A playboy, now a real estate mogul. He slept with her once, vanished without a trace when she got pregnant, leaving her utterly alone.

She was a talented pianist once, full of promise. How she failed to see the unbridgeable class chasm between them, I still couldn't fathom.

The only silver lining was that after that hard lesson, she never mentioned him when sober, and forbade me from doing the same.

We lived in a shabby little house, its location painfully "strategic"—right next to the city's most expensive, modern riverside district, separated only by a river. There stood the glass-walled headquarters of ThreadLink, and its founder and CEO—his smile, omnipresent on screens 24/7, was the thing I clung to for survival. He was my lifeline.

He knew nothing about it, and I had absolutely no intention of letting him know anytime soon.

His name was Wesley Jones. He was like a god from another galaxy.

The archetypal American Dream tech wunderkind, gracing the covers of finance and tech magazines while still young, always pictured alongside the impeccably bred, elegant Paige Amorta. Every time a news feed showed them side-by-side at a charity gala or industry summit, my heart felt pricked by a thousand tiny needles. But thank God, the tabloids had never dug up anything more concrete.

I felt myself sinking slowly into the mire of my life, and I could not, would not, drag him into my filthy quagmire. Even if it was just the unrealistic fantasy I indulged in before sleep.

My name is Emilia. A silly name for a silly girl. At least, that's what my mom says.

Ever since John Green wrote that book, the name's been everywhere. People would always ask, half-joking, if my mom named me after it, completely ignoring the fact I was born years before it was published.

I ride my motorcycle too fast, and I'm far too sharp-tongued with my colleagues at the community center. It's not entirely my fault—some of them can be insufferably stuffy—but my inability to hold my tongue definitely is.

Okay, I'm a community worker. Though most of the time, I suspect I got this job because my mom was genuinely worried she'd end up killing me in a drunken rage at home. This way, it's just easier.

But this job forces me to work hard at concealing the bruises my mother leaves on my arms, and the shadows that lurk in my eyes when my mind occasionally drifts.

It's another reason why there can be no real intersection with Wesley. Even though his skyscraper and my community center face each other across the street. He can't be pulled into this. A mother who's an alcoholic, emotionally volatile mess would only hurt anyone who tried to get close to me. I used to have friends, but once Mom started spiraling, her midnight screams, the sound of shattering objects, and her vicious suspicions and curses directed at my friends drove them all away.

Let's just say they caught a whiff of the madness seeping from behind my front door, and afterwards, their eyes held only fear and distance whenever they saw me.

Mom detests any connection I might have with any man because it's a constant reminder of *him*. He was her dream, who then discarded her like trash upon waking, for a woman better suited to his status and class. It shattered her completely. And Mom, in turn, poured all her pain and hatred onto me.

On my way out, I caught a hurried glimpse in the cracked hallway mirror. A fresh bruise on my jawbone stubbornly announced its presence. Mom always hit with "precision." Even with my youth speeding recovery, it would be clearly visible for a while. I sighed in relief at having successfully slipped out this morning without triggering another storm, climbed onto my second-hand scooter, and sped towards the "community center" across the river.

The community center. My refuge in reality, and my personal "hell"—where I had to perpetually play the role of the positive, cheerful, can-handle-anything Emilia.

The Sunnyvale Community Center, nestled among slightly unkempt old houses in an aging neighborhood, was as ordinary as they come. A mix of volunteers, aid recipients, social workers—all sorts. But even here, invisible lines existed. A subtle glass wall separated the wealthy college kids from nearby universities, volunteering in their designer sneakers to pad their resumes, from the families truly struggling to make ends meet.

And I was the center's resident "girl with a past." Though I didn't touch a drop myself.

I guess showing up a few times with a black eye, or the lingering scent of cheap liquor on my clothes (which I had no time or means to fully wash off), started the rumors. Rumors of a wild, drinking lifestyle. The center nearly fired me over it. In reality, it was just my out-of-control mother hitting me with the bottle again. If I was late for work… let's just say the "punishment" at home would be worse.

I wobbled my scooter into its spot in the bike shed, sighed, and my gaze involuntarily drifted across the street to the glass giant gleaming in the morning sun—ThreadLink Headquarters. My heart gave a violent lurch. Because there, right outside the imposing main entrance, I saw him. Wesley Jones in the flesh. He didn't even glance at this insignificant corner across the street. Those famously cool blue eyes, which often looked detached in magazine photos, now held a rare, soft warmth as they looked at the girl on his arm.

Paige Amorta.

Breathtakingly beautiful, with that bone-deep elegance money and good breeding provide. And, by all accounts, kind, charitable, flawless.

She probably wasn't the type to lose her composure if you just talked to Wesley. Rumor had it they'd known each other since childhood, their families old friends. When the time was right, and both families deemed it suitable, she would be the obvious "Mrs. Jones" in everyone's eyes. It didn't matter to me, though a pathetic corner of my heart still fluttered for him.

*'Hey, if you didn't skulk around like a damn shadow, maybe he'd notice an actual living person.'* The more impulsive voice in my head piped up again. She surfaced every time I saw him, even though she understood the hopelessness of our situation. She was the one screaming and recoiling in my mind whenever we even fantasized about dragging him into our real-life picture.

She couldn't even imagine the hysterical reaction my mother would have to him, to everything he represented. A man from the rich lists, a young king of a tech empire! It would absolutely make her think of my father.

I quickened my pace past the community center entrance, forcing myself not to throw another glance across the street. My worn-out Doc Martens made a firm *clack* on the concrete. My perpetually unruly black hair was tied in a simple ponytail. I could almost smell his cologne—ocean breeze, crisp mint, a hint of morning coffee beans—a hallucination, of course, born from magazine interviews and a busy street between us.

I could picture his low laugh, blending seamlessly with the efficient, clean world around him. A familiar, sharp ache twisted in my chest as I pushed open the community center's somewhat heavy glass door.

A world that had nothing to do with me.

Yet its gravitational pull felt utterly real.

I walked down the slightly noisy hallway, shoved my backpack into my tiny assigned locker, slammed it shut, and headed for my first task: assisting the after-school teen program. I habitually took a seat in the corner by the window in the activity room, closed my eyes, and let the morning sunlight filter through the grimy windowpane onto my face. Long after the signal for the session to start had sounded, I remained in that position, not even noticing Lisa, the supervising social worker, had begun roll call.

"Emilia? Sweetie, care to join us and share that community mural idea you mentioned last week with the kids?" I opened one eye to find about a dozen children, and Lisa, all looking at me.

"Doesn't have to be me," I forced my usual easygoing smile. "But if you're really interested, I can ramble a bit." The kids gave a good-natured chuckle. Even the quiet boy in the corner, newly arrived, head perpetually bowed, suspected of being abused—the corner of his mouth twitched. God, that tiny crack in his facade made my heart soften instantly.

"We're discussing using art to express community spirit for the upcoming street art festival. If you were to lead a project, what theme would you want to express? Or, beyond the usual 'unity' or 'hope,' do you have any… bolder ideas?" Lisa looked at me encouragingly.

I pressed my lips together, my thoughts drifting for a second. "Maybe… 'camouflage'?" The words slipped out, surprising even me, my voice rising unconsciously. "Or 'resilience.' Or, hell, 'a silent scream'!"

My tone turned sharp on the last few words, edged with an aggression I hadn't intended. Lisa's eyes widened in surprise. I snapped back to reality, realizing I'd let my real emotions slip. I scrambled up from the floor, grabbed my canvas backpack, muttered a hurried "Sorry, need air," and practically fled the activity room.

I leaned against the cool metal lockers in the hallway, my fingertips trembling slightly. Less than ten minutes in, and I'd messed up again, almost exposing the fragile facade in front of the kids.

I slid down the locker door to sit on the floor, letting the back of my head gently thump against the hard metal surface.