After an argument, my husband abandoned me at a bus stop with nothing but the rain for company. Nearby, an elderly blind woman whispered, “Pretend you’re my granddaughter—my driver will be here soon. Your husband will regret leaving you beside the richest woman in town.” I had no idea then… she wasn’t joking.
By the time her husband, Ryan, slammed the car door and sped off, the cold rain had already seeped through Emily Carter’s coat.
His final words still rang in her ears: “You’re nothing without me.”
She stood alone at the deserted bus stop, mascara streaking down her cheeks, her heart thudding in her chest. Her phone and wallet were still in the car—abandoned when he’d driven off after yet another fight about her supposed “lack of ambition.”
Then, a gentle voice broke the downpour’s rhythm.
“Child, you look like a ghost left out in the rain.”
Emily turned to see an elderly woman sitting quietly under the shelter. A folded white cane rested by her side, and a silk scarf framed her pale face.
Behind her tinted glasses, her sightless eyes gazed softly into the storm.
“I’m fine,” Emily muttered, hugging herself. “You’re not,” the woman replied softly. “Pretend you’re my granddaughter.
My driver’s coming soon.”
Before Emily could ask why, a sleek black Cadillac pulled up.
A man in a suit stepped out, holding an umbrella. “There you are, Mrs.
Whitmore,” he said. “And this must be—?”
“My granddaughter,” the woman interrupted smoothly.
“Emily.”
Emily froze, startled.
The man smiled politely and opened the door. The elderly woman reached for Emily’s hand with surprising firmness. “Come, dear,” she whispered.
“Your husband will regret leaving you by the richest woman in town.”
Emily thought it was a strange joke—perhaps an old woman’s eccentricity—but she obeyed.
Inside the warm car, Mrs. Whitmore ordered the driver to take them to her home in the hills overlooking Seattle.
By the time they arrived, Emily had learned that the woman’s name was Eleanor Whitmore, widow of a banking magnate, known in the community for her charitable foundations. Eleanor dismissed the staff with a wave.
“You can stay the night,” she said simply.
“We’ll talk in the morning.”
Emily stared around at the marble floors and oil portraits. “Mrs. Whitmore, I can’t—”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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