Chapter 2 Borrowed Time

Chapter 2: Borrowed Time

The opposite of the gala's clink was the snip.

It was 11:00 AM the next day, and I was a statue. Madame Dubois, a woman composed entirely of measuring tape and judgmental gazes, circled me like a vulture. Snip. A thread. Snip. A pin.

"The shoulders, they are... acceptable," she conceded, which in her language was a rave review.

I was at the fitting for the equestrian gala, encased in a tweed-and-suede monstrosity that was supposed to make me look "sporty" and "demure." I looked, I thought, like a very expensive, very unhappy sofa.

My mother, Isabella Vance, sat in a velvet armchair, sipping tea. She wasn't watching me. She was reading a report from one of her charities. My mother didn't need to watch me; she operated under the correct assumption that I was too well-trained to misbehave.

"Isabella," Madame Dubois said, "the hemline. We said a modest tea-length. But with the boot..."

"Keep it," my mother said, not looking up. "A Vances does not follow a trend, Madame. She sets the standard others fail to meet."

Snip. Snip. Snip.

My mind was a million miles away, standing on a cold terrace. Tomorrow. Around three.

It was a preposterous, impossible idea. A daydream. A line from a movie, not an actual invitation. Three o'clock. I had a lunch with the Junior League at one, followed by my French tutoring at four. The window wasn't just small; it was welded shut.

And yet, my heart was doing a strange, frantic tap-dance against my ribs.

"Elara, stand up straight, darling," my mother murmured. "You're slouching. Only the newly-rich slouch."

I straightened my spine, the tweed biting into my collar. The image of Kai, sitting on that balustrade, legs dangling over the abyss, flashed in my mind. He was the slouchiest person I had ever met. He looked like he'd never had a posture-related thought in his entire life. It was magnificent.

The park. The one with the broken fountain.

It was madness. A fantasy. I would go from this fitting, to my lunch, to my tutoring. I would smile. I would be the metric. That was the plan. That was always the plan.

At 2:37 PM, I was sitting in my town car, the smooth leather cool against my skin. The lunch had been, as predicted, a pastel-colored hell. Three hours of women twice my age discussing flower arrangements and "the unfortunate state of the downtown arts district."

"Downtown" was code. It was where people like Kai lived.

My driver, Arthur, was a quiet man who had worked for my family since before I was born. He was as much a fixture of the house as the marble floors.

"The Toussaint Academy, Miss Vance?" he asked, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. For French.

My hands were clammy. I could feel the silk of my blouse sticking to my back. My heart was no longer tap-dancing; it was full-on, heavy-metal drumming.

Just Kai.

You just look like you want to flip the whole board over.

The lie was sudden. It didn't form slowly. It erupted from me, fully formed and terrifying.

"Actually, Arthur, I... I have the most blinding headache."

His eyes in the mirror held a flicker of... nothing. He was a professional. "Ma'am?"

"A migraine," I said, pressing my fingers to my temple. I was a good actress. My entire life was a performance. "It's one of the bad ones. The kind I get from the... the lighting." I motioned vaguely. "It was so bright at the luncheon."

"I see, Miss Vance. Shall I take you home?"

This was the moment. The precipice.

"No," I said, my voice a convincing, frail whisper. "Mother will fuss. And I need to pick up a new textbook for my French supplemental. I promised Monsieur Toussaint." Lie number two. It was easier, like a second step.

"The bookshop on Elm?" I asked. Elm Street was three blocks from the park. A different world.

"That's... not our usual area, miss," Arthur said, his brow furrowing. It was the first time I'd ever seen him break professional-nothing.

"I know," I said, leaning forward, injecting a note of pleading. "But they're the only ones who have it. It's an old edition. Please, Arthur? You can just... wait for me. I'll be ten minutes."

He paused, probably calculating the risk. A Vance, unescorted, on Elm Street. It was a security breach. But a migraine... a migraine was a known, acceptable vulnerability.

"Very well, Miss Vance," he said, and the car signaled, making a left turn.

Away from my life.

The car didn't belong here. It was a sleek, black, futuristic spaceship gliding through a world of brick, faded murals, and neon signs that buzzed even in the daylight. Arthur pulled up in front of "The Page & The Poet," a bookstore that looked like it was one strong sneeze away from collapsing.

"Ten minutes, miss. Please," Arthur said, his voice tight.

"I promise," I lied, and slid out of the car.

The air hit me. It wasn't the sterile, filtered air of my home or the car. It was thick. It smelled like roasting coffee, car exhaust, and... garlic? My silk blouse and tailored slacks, so appropriate for a Junior League luncheon, were a costume. I was an alien.

I didn't go into the bookstore.

I walked. My heart hammered. Every person I passed, I was sure they knew. They knew I was an imposter, a girl in a cage who had just picked the lock for the first time.

I turned the corner. And there it was.

The park.

It wasn't beautiful, not in the way my family's gardens were. The grass was patchy. The "broken fountain" was a large, concrete doughnut covered in graffiti. But it was alive. Two old men played chess on a concrete table. A group of kids was shouting, kicking a soccer ball. A woman was laughing, loud and bright, on a bench.

It was 2:57 PM.

My legs felt like they were made of stone. This was insane. I was insane. He wouldn't even be here. It was a line. A joke. He'd seen me as a joke. "Look at the rich girl, so easy to fool."

I almost turned back.

Then I saw him.

He was sitting on a bench, not far from the fountain, his back to me. A battered guitar case was at his feet. He was wearing the same dark hoodie from last night and a pair of torn jeans. He was eating a sandwich out of a brown paper bag.

He was just a guy. Eating a sandwich.

I stood there. I don't know for how long. The world stopped. The shouting, the traffic, it all faded.

Finally, as if he sensed me, he turned.

He didn't look surprised. He just... smiled. A slow, easy smile that did not, in any way, belong in my world.

"Look at that," Kai said, his voice just loud enough to carry. "3:02 PM. Her Highness is, in fact, capable of being punctual."

I walked toward him, my shoes sinking slightly into the soft grass. "You called me Your Highness last night."

"You were wearing a tiara," he said.

"It was a headband."

"Close enough." He wadded up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it perfectly into a bin ten feet away. He didn't move to stand up. He just looked at me. "You look... different."

"So do you," I said, gesturing to his hoodie. "Your swan-critiquing uniform is gone."

"Yeah, well, this is my 'critiquing the entire universe' uniform. Much more comfortable." He patted the bench next to him. "Have a seat, Vance. Unless you're afraid you'll get commoner on your pants."

I sat. The bench was wood, and a little bit splintered. I sat, in my thousand-dollar silk blouse, on a splintered park bench.

"My driver thinks I'm in a bookstore," I said, the words tumbling out. "He thinks I have a migraine. My mother thinks I'm... I don't even know."

"A metric," he supplied.

"A metric," I agreed.

We sat in silence for a moment. It wasn't the cold, calculating silence of my home. It was just... quiet.

"So," he said, "what's the verdict?"

"On what?"

"This." He gestured to the park. "The real world. The broken fountain. The distinct lack of tiny quiche. You horrified?"

"No," I said, and the honesty of it shocked me. "I'm... not."

He turned to look at me fully. His eyes were, I realized, an even brighter green in the daylight. "You're a very good liar, Elara."

"I am," I whispered. "It's the only thing I'm really good at."

"I doubt that." He reached into his paper bag and pulled out another, smaller bag. "Chip?"

He offered it. It was a tiny, greasy bag of salt and vinegar chips.

"I can't," I said automatically. "I just... I don't."

"You don't eat chips?" he asked, his eyebrow raised.

"Not... not these. My mother... they're not..."

"On the approved menu," he finished, his voice dry. "Got it." He opened the bag for himself, and the sharp, acidic smell of vinegar hit me. "Go on. One chip. Flip the board over."

He held the bag out.

I looked at the bag. I looked at his face. He was challenging me. And he was right. It was a stupid, greasy, 99-cent bag of chips. It was the most rebellious thing I could possibly do.

I reached in and took one. It was... warm.

I put it in my mouth.

The flavor exploded. It was sharp and salty and so loud it made my eyes water. It was the most delicious, most defiant thing I had ever tasted.

Kai burst out laughing. A real, genuine laugh. "Your face! It's like you just discovered fire."

I laughed with him, my mouth full of potato. "It's... intense."

"It's just a chip, Elara."

"No," I said, swallowing. "It's not. It's really not."

We talked. Or rather, he talked, and I listened. He talked about his job at the music shop-"The Fret"-down the street. He talked about his sister, Maya, who was in her first year of college, studying to be an engineer. The textbooks he was paying for. He talked about his band, which was "currently terrible, but with potential for mediocrity."

He was... open. His life was an open book, and every page was messy and real and... his.

"What about you?" he asked, turning serious. "What's your major? What do you do, besides... this?" He gestured to my clothes.

"I... I'm supposed to take over the Foundation one day. The charity. The... the legacy."

"Okay," he said, drawing the word out. "But what do you like? When you're not being the metric, what do you do?"

I opened my mouth to answer. And... nothing came out.

What did I like? I liked reading, but all my books were pre-approved. I... I used to play the piano.

"I used to play the piano," I said, the words sounding small.

His face lit up. "Yeah? Classical?"

"Debussy. Chopin."

"The sad, dramatic stuff. Figures." He grinned. "I'm a guitar guy, myself. A little Hendrix, a little Stevie Ray. You know, the loud dramatic stuff." He tapped his guitar case. "Maybe I'll play for you sometime. If you're good."

"I have to go," I said, the words a sudden panic. I looked at my watch. 3:42 PM.

My ten minutes had turned into forty-five. Arthur would be frantic. My mother...

I stood up, brushing crumbs from my slacks. The anxiety was a cold wave, washing out the warmth of the chips.

"Right," Kai said. He stood up, too. He was taller than I'd realized. "Back to the castle."

"It's not a..." I started, then stopped. "Yes. It is."

"Hey." He stopped me, his voice softer. "You came. That's... not nothing."

"Kai..."

"I'll be here," he said, cutting off whatever panicked excuse I was about to make. "Most days. 3 PM. My break. You know, in case you develop another 'migraine'."

He smiled, and I knew he'd seen right through me. He'd known from the moment I showed up.

"It was just... chips, Kai."

"For now," he said.

I turned and walked away. I didn't run, though I wanted to. I walked, my back straight, my posture perfect, just as I'd been taught. I walked past the chess players and the laughing woman and the broken fountain.

I turned the corner. The sleek, black town car was exactly where I'd left it. Arthur was standing beside it, his face a mask of stone-cold terror.

"Miss Vance," he breathed, opening the door. "I was... moments from calling your father."

"The line was... very long," I said, the lie tasting like salt and vinegar. "I'm so sorry, Arthur. My head is splitting."

I got in the car. The door shut with a heavy, final thud.

Arthur got in, and we pulled away, the car gliding silently back toward my world. I looked back, but the park was already gone.

I got home. My mother was in the drawing room, arranging lilies.

"Elara, darling. You're flushed. The headache?"

"It was terrible, Mother," I said, my voice perfectly steady. "I got my book, and I'm just... I'm going to go lie down."

"Good," she said, not turning. "Jameson Davies's mother called. They'd like you to join them at the polo match on Saturday. I said yes. It will be lovely."

"Yes, Mother. Lovely."

I went up to my room. It was perfect, and pale blue, and silent. I sat on my bed, my heart still racing, my hands still shaking.

I had done it. I had lied. I had escaped.

And I had tasted a salt and vinegar chip.

I looked at my phone. No new messages. No alarms. Just the quiet, empty schedule of my life.

But I had a secret. I had 3 PM.

The borrowed time had begun. And I knew, with a terrifying, thrilling certainty, that I would be back.