My stepmother and stepsister spent years mocking me, calling me useless, treating me like I was nothing. I scrubbed their floors, wore their cast-offs, stayed silent. But one night, in a room full of people, I finally made them regret every cruel word they had ever thrown at me.

I never imagined my life would turn into this. Growing up, I dreamed of becoming a fashion designer, of living in a small apartment filled with fabrics and coffee mugs, of waking up excited about my work.

Instead, I woke up to my stepmother banging on my door, yelling that I had forgotten to unload the dishwasher. Again.

“I swear, Emma, do you ever do anything right? You’re useless!” she barked from the kitchen, her voice slicing through the thin walls like a knife.
I sat up slowly, dragging myself out of the blanket I had wrapped like armor. My room barely fit a twin mattress and a wobbly dresser with one broken drawer.

Piles of laundry lined the floor like dull reminders of everything I didn’t have time or energy for. Meanwhile, Bella, my stepsister, had an entire floor to herself, with a private bathroom, a balcony, and a walk-in closet full of designer dresses my stepmother loved to brag about.

“I’ll do it now,” I called back, my voice raspy with exhaustion.

“You better. Bella needs the kitchen clean so she can steam her dress,” she snapped, like I was the maid and not the other daughter in the house.
“Nice shirt,” she muttered without looking up. “Vintage dumpster?”

“Good morning to you, too,” I murmured, moving toward the dishwasher.

“Mom, did you hear that?” Bella scoffed. “Emma thinks sarcasm makes her interesting.”

“Don’t start, Bella,” my stepmother said, still glued to her tablet. “Emma, after you finish, can you clean the bathroom? And the patio? Oh, and the laundry.”
“I have to leave for work soon,” I said quietly.

“Then you better hurry. We all have responsibilities.”

Responsibilities. Her word for my unpaid labor.

I clenched my jaw, finished my chores, and finally slipped out of the house.
By the time I made it to the bus stop, it had started to rain, soft and steady. I didn’t mind. Rain was honest. It didn’t pretend to like you.

That was the first time I saw him.

A man in a gray hoodie was crouched near a construction site fence, fiddling with a broken lock. At first, I thought he was breaking in, but then he turned around with a crooked grin and waved at the security guard. Not a thief. Just a worker.

We exchanged glances, just for a second.
The next day, I saw him again. And again the day after. Always near that site.

One afternoon, I passed by holding a box of donated clothes I picked up for myself. A guy in a gray hoodie crouched near the fence of a construction site, hauling thick planks of wood off a truck.

One of the boards started to slip. Before I knew what I was doing, I dropped the box of donated clothes I was carrying and rushed to help him brace it.

“Whoa,” he said, blinking as we steadied the wood together. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” I said, wiping my palms on my jeans. “But it looked like you needed help.”

“I’m Jake,” he offered, sticking out a hand.

“Emma.”

We stood there awkwardly for a beat, rain tapping gently against the metal siding of the truck.
I laughed—an honest, unexpected laugh that bubbled out before I could stop it. It had been days since I’d laughed.

We met again. And again. Over the next few days, I found myself timing my walks past the construction site, hoping I’d catch him on break.

Sometimes we talked about nothing—bad movies, pizza toppings, the best way to fix a leaky faucet.

But sometimes, he surprised me. He asked about my designs. Listened. And remembered.
“Emma?” she said, loud enough to turn heads. “With him?” Her gaze traveled over Jake like she was scanning for a discount tag.

“You’re here with… a construction worker?” she hissed. “Do you have any idea how pathetic that looks?”

I kept my expression neutral. “I’m happy with who I came with.”

“You’re about to regret that,” she said with a grin. “The real man of the evening is arriving soon. And when he does… well, I hope your little handyman doesn’t feel too out of place.”
Music swelled. A spotlight moved. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee announced, “please welcome the man of the hour—the city’s most influential entrepreneur and owner of one of the largest development firms—Jake.”

Gasps echoed around us. I stood frozen. Jake gently let go of my arm and walked toward the stage. The spotlight followed him.

I heard my stepmother whisper something sharp. Bella blinked like she’d been slapped. I stood still, heart thudding in disbelief. Jake—my Jake—was him?

He took the microphone and smiled politely. “Thank you all for being here. I’m honored to host such a wonderful evening. Let’s make it unforgettable.”
He ended his speech quickly and made his way back to me.

“You’re him?” I finally asked, stunned.

“I am,” he said quietly. “But I’m still just Jake.”

“You lied.”
He ended his speech quickly and made his way back to me.

“You’re him?” I finally asked, stunned.

“I am,” he said quietly. “But I’m still just Jake.”

“You lied.”
He smiled. “Deal.”

And then he kissed me, soft and certain, and the room faded. Until it didn’t.

“Emma!” my stepmother called, rushing over, voice syrupy. “Sweetheart, you look stunning. We had no idea you and Jake—well, we’re thrilled for you.”

Bella followed behind, her smile tight. “Honestly, I always said you had potential. Maybe we could come by sometime? Your new place must be huge.”