Homeless Heiress

Under the Bridge

The cold wind slithered through the cracks of the crumbling bridge, tugging at Ayla's threadbare sleeves as she crouched beside a rusted bucket of rainwater. She splashed it over her arms, gasping at the icy sting. There was no time to hesitate. The city above was already humming to life, and she was late again.

Her fingers, numb and clumsy, fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. It was the only decent top she owned, a pale blue one she had pulled from a donation bin weeks ago. It was too tight around the shoulders and had a small tear near the hem, but it would have to do. She smoothed her frizzy hair, tied it back, and slipped on her scuffed black flats.

Today's interview could change everything.

She whispered the words like a prayer, clutching the strap of her worn-out tote bag.

Then she saw it.

Just beyond the pile of cardboard she used as a bed... movement.

A flicker of fingers.

Her body froze. Her heartbeat skipped.

She turned slowly, her breath catching when her eyes landed on a man collapsed against the concrete wall under the bridge. His expensive-looking suit was stained with blood, the fabric shredded as though he had been mauled. One of his shoes was missing. His hair, thick and dark, clung to his sweat-drenched forehead. His skin was pale, lips cracked, and a deep gash crossed his ribs.

For a moment, she thought he was dead.

But then, faintly, his fingers twitched again.

Ayla staggered forward, torn between fear and instinct.

"H-Hey... sir?" she called, her voice trembling. "Can you hear me?"

No response.

She crouched beside him, gently placing her fingers against his neck.

A pulse.

Faint. Unsteady. But there.

"Oh my God..."

She looked around. No one. Just the quiet hum of early morning traffic far above. No one ever came down here. No one except her.

What should I do?

She had five minutes to make it across town. The café job paid minimum wage, but it came with a small room in the back. No more nights under the bridge. No more baths in rain buckets. It was her one shot at escaping this life.

But this man he needed help now.

Ayla bit her lip, panic rising in her throat. He could die. Right here. Right now.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to her dreams, grabbing the man's arm and looping it around her shoulder. "You better be worth this."

It took everything she had to drag him up the slope to the street. He was heavy taller and more muscular than he looked at first but adrenaline carried her.

A taxi nearly passed her by, but she leapt into the road, waving frantically.

The driver swore as he braked. "Lady, are you insane?!"

"He's dying," she panted, "please, help me get him to the hospital!"

With a groan, the driver jumped out and helped her load the unconscious man into the backseat.

The ER was chaos. Ayla stood covered in sweat and blood that wasn't hers, her cheeks flushed, her legs shaking as nurses rushed the man away on a gurney.

She watched as the double doors slammed shut behind him.

And just like that... she was forgotten.

An hour passed. Then two.

When the receptionist finally called her over, Ayla stepped forward eagerly.

"Is he okay?" she asked.

The woman frowned. "He's in critical condition. But stable, for now."

Ayla exhaled shakily. Relief bloomed in her chest followed by dread.

"We need his insurance information," the woman continued. "And someone has to take responsibility for the initial costs. Do you know him?"

Ayla blinked. "No... I mean I found him. Under the bridge."

The receptionist narrowed her eyes. "Then who's paying for this?"

"I... I don't know."

"Do you have a job?"

"I. I'm trying. I had an interview...

The receptionist sighed and slid a clipboard toward her.

"You'll need to fill this out. If no one claims him, you'll be listed as the Good Samaritan responsible for bringing him in. Which means, unless someone comes forward, you're liable for the cost."

Ayla stared at the paper.

It might as well have been a death sentence.

She left the hospital with no job, no money, and bloodstains on her blouse.

By the time she arrived at the café, the interview had long ended.

The manager an uptight woman with a sharp bob and sharper attitude took one look at her and sneered.

"You're two hours late."