Chapter 2: The Scarred Hero
"Those hands," Alexander said, his voice ringing through the hall, "pulled me out of a burning car when the rest of the world watched from the sidelines."
The room seemed to tilt on its axis. Vanessa’s fork clattered to her plate. The blood drained from her face, leaving her looking as pale as the tablecloth.
"What... what are you talking about?" Vanessa stammered, her arrogance momentarily eclipsed by confusion.
Alexander didn't look at the socialite; he looked at Maya with a reverence that shocked every witness in the room. "Three years ago. A wreck on the I-95. A luxury sedan upside down, fuel lines ruptured, fire spreading to the engine block. Everyone ran away. Everyone except for a young woman who didn't care about her own skin, who didn't care about the risk. She reached through the broken window, she gripped the burning metal frame, and she hauled me out seconds before the tank exploded."
He gently lifted Maya’s hand. The scar tissue was the map of his salvation.
"These hands aren't 'dirty,' Vanessa," Alexander turned to face her, his eyes now cold, devoid of the social grace he usually afforded her. "These hands are heroic. They are worth more than every diamond you own, every fundraiser you’ve ever faked, and every ounce of your vapid, performative soul."
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Vanessa stood up, her dress rustling in the sudden vacuum of sound. "Alexander, I... I didn't know. It was just a joke, a way to keep standards—"
"You have no standards," Alexander cut her off. "You have a price tag. And right now, the cost of your arrogance is your reputation."
