Chapter 3: Tiny Stranger

The car glides through the rainy streets, the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers filling the silence. I sink back into the plush leather seat, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my knee and the rising panic in my chest. What the fuck am I doing? Getting into a car with a stranger, even a rich and famous one, goes against every survival instinct I have.

Taylor's phone buzzes again and I can't resist sneaking a peek at the screen.

Mom: Honey, are you okay? I just got off the phone with Tree.

Mom: Is the girl okay?? Do you need me to come over?

I snort. Great, now I've got more people involved. This keeps getting better and better.

Taylor glances over at me, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "That's my mom. She's a bit of a worrier."

"Can't imagine why," I mutter, shifting in my seat and wincing as pain shoots through my knee. "It's not like her daughter just picked up a random street rat or anything."

Taylor's smile widens. "I prefer the term 'surprise rescue.'"

I shoot her a glare. "I'm not a puppy."

"No, you're definitely more of a porcupine. All prickly and defensive on the outside, but probably soft and cuddly once you let your guard down."

I flip her off, making her chuckle, and go back to staring out the window.

Taylor sighs, "You know, most people are a little more... intimidated when they meet me."

"Yeah, well, most people probably weren't raised by nuns with rage issues." I shift, wincing as my knee throbs. "Plus, you're wearing cat socks. Hard to be intimidated by someone in cat socks."

"They're limited edition Meredith Grey socks, thank you very much."

"You named your socks?"

"I named my cat. The socks are merch."

"You're so weird," I mutter, but my panic is fading slightly.

The SUV glides into what looks like a private garage, all gleaming concrete and security cameras. Mark pulls into a spot marked 'TS' and I grip the phone tighter, suddenly unsure. Taylor must notice because she makes no move to get out.

"We can stay in the car as long as you need," she says quietly.

My knee screams as I try to stand, but I flinch away when Taylor moves to help.

"I got it," I snap, then wince at my tone. But she just nods, keeping her distance as I hobble toward the elevator. Mark stays by the car, giving us space while still watching the entrance. Professional, like Taylor said.

The elevator is all mirrors and gold trim. I catch glimpses of myself - dirty clothes, tangled hair, dark circles under my eyes. Next to Taylor's designer coat and perfect makeup, I look even more like something the cat dragged in.

We step out into a hallway with only two doors. Taylor unlocks one and gestures for me to go first.

"Holy fucking shit."

The place is massive. Like, literally massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city, artwork that probably costs more than every foster home I've been in combined, a grand piano that looks like it was carved by angels, and-

"Is that a fucking cat tree palace?"

In the corner stands what can only be described as the Taj Mahal of cat furniture. Three stories high, with tunnels and platforms and little curtained areas. A grey cat peers down at us imperiously from the top level.

"That's Meredith," Taylor says. "The other two are around here somewhere. Probably plotting world domination."

"This is..." I spin slowly, trying to take it all in, forgetting to pretend I'm not impressed. "This is actually insane. Like, crazy person rich. Like, eat-the-rich revolution starting right here rich."

"Please don't start a revolution in my living room. The insurance paperwork would be a nightmare."

"No promises. I'm feeling very eat-the-rich motivated right now." I pause at a massive painting. "Is that... is that just a giant portrait of your cat?"

"Which one?"

"Jesus Christ, there's more than one?"

She laughs, still supporting most of my weight as we make our way to the couch. It looks like it costs more than my entire life. "Just wait till you see the cat bathroom."

"The what now?"

"I'm kidding. Mostly." She helps me sit, propping my leg up on what's probably a thousand-dollar ottoman. "Although Olivia did once pee in my Louboutins, so maybe we should consider it."

I sink into the obscenely comfortable couch, trying not to groan in relief as my knee finally stops screaming. "Your life is so weird."

Tree: Is she okay or do I need to have the whole medical team on standby?

Taylor chuckles as she looks at the phone, still in my hands. Adults are so attached to their phones I find it suspicious how she doesn't care.

"You can text her back if you want. She probably wants to hear from you more than me," Taylor stands up. "I'll go make some food, okay?"

I nod, staring at the phone. I start typing.

Me: I'm okay. She's making me food. No doctors or I'll break your nose.

Tree: OH THANK GOD

Tree: Hi tiny stranger!

I shift on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn't make my knee scream. The enormity of the situation is starting to sink in, now that the adrenaline is fading. I'm in Taylor Swift's apartment. Taylor fucking Swift. And she's making me food.

I can hear her banging around in the kitchen, humming softly to herself. It's surreal. I keep waiting for the camera crew to pop out, for this all to be some kind of prank or publicity stunt. But the pain in my knee is real. The growl in my stomach is real.

Taylor comes back balancing a tray with a massive sandwich, a bowl of soup, a huge glass of orange juice, and an ice pack. How she manages it in heels, I have no clue.

"Sustenance!" she announces, setting the tray down on the coffee table in front of me. "Grilled cheese, tomato soup, juice for the blood sugar, and ice for the war wound."

I stare at the food, my mouth watering. I can't remember the last time I had a proper meal. The meager portions at the orphanage were barely enough to keep a bird alive, let alone a growing teenager. I'd gotten used to the constant gnaw of hunger, the dizziness that came with skipped meals. But this... this is a feast.

My hands shake as I reach for the sandwich, my eyes never leaving the tray. I'm half afraid it will disappear, that this is all some cruel trick. But my fingers close around warm, buttery bread and I nearly whimper.

I shove half the sandwich in my mouth, barely chewing before swallowing. It's heaven, pure and simple. The cheese is gooey, the bread crisp, and is that bacon? Real, actual bacon? I can't remember the last time I tasted something so decadent.

I'm reaching for the other half before I realize what I'm doing, my body moving on autopilot. Rationing, hoarding, storing up for the inevitable moment when the food is taken away. It's instinct, honed by years of deprivation.

But then I catch Taylor's eye and freeze. She's watching me, a furrow between her brows, her lips pulled down at the corners. She looks... sad. Concerned. It's an expression I'm not used to seeing directed at me and I feel a hot flush of shame.

I lower the sandwich slowly, swallowing the massive bite with difficulty. "I, uh. Thanks. For the food."

Taylor's face softens. "Of course. There's plenty more where that came from."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak around the lump in my throat. I take a smaller bite this time, trying to savor it. The soup is next - rich and creamy, with chunks of tomato and a sprinkle of something green. Basil, maybe? It tastes like summer.

I drain the bowl quickly, chasing every last drop with my spoon. When I look up, Taylor is still watching me, that same concerned look on her face.

"When was the last time you ate?" she asks softly.

I shrug, avoiding her gaze. "Two days ago, I guess. They fed us at school."

"But not at the orphanage?"

I snort. "Only if you count stale bread and mystery meat as food."

Her frown deepens. "That's not enough. You're a growing kid, you need real meals."

I roll my eyes at the word 'kid', but bite back the sharp retort on my tongue. She's not wrong. I've always been small for my age. A stiff breeze could knock me over, the Sisters used to say. Unlucky for me, their fists usually did the trick.

"It's fine," I mutter, picking at a thread on a blanket. "I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't have to be." There's an edge to Taylor's voice now, a quiet fury that makes me look up. Her hands are clenched in her lap, knuckles white. "No child should ever have to go hungry."

I stare at her, something twisting in my chest. She cares. She actually, genuinely cares. Not because I'm a charity case, or a publicity stunt, but because she thinks it's wrong. That I deserve better.

It's a strange feeling, being cared about. Being seen. I don't know what to do with it, where to put it. So I do what I always do when emotions get too big, too real. I deflect.

"Good thing I'm not a child then," I say, forcing a smirk I don't feel. "I'm practically an adult. Fourteen is the new twenty-one, haven't you heard?"

Taylor's lips twitch, but the concern doesn't leave her eyes. "Is that so?"

"Yep. I've got it all figured out. Gonna get a job, an apartment, maybe a cat. Live that glamorous adult life."

"A cat, huh?"

"Sure. A mean one, to keep the riffraff away."

She laughs at that, a real laugh, and some of the tension leaves the room. "I might know a thing or two about mean cats."

I grin, relaxing back into the couch cushions. "Yeah, I saw your little feline palace over there. They're probably plotting your demise as we speak."

"Probably," she agrees, eyes sparkling. "I live in constant fear of their fuzzy little wrath."

I snicker, the sound foreign and rusty in my throat. When was the last time I laughed? I can't remember.

Taylor stands, collecting the empty dishes onto the tray. "There's more food in the kitchen if you get hungry again. Seriously, eat whatever you want."

I nod, the brief moment of adrenaline fading as exhaustion washes over me. Full belly, soft couch, it's a nice combination. One I'm not used to.

Taylor must see it on my face because her expression gentles. "Get some rest. I'll find you something clean to change into." And with that, she steps out.

I can barely keep my eyes open, the warmth of the apartment and the fullness of my belly conspiring to pull me under. I'm just drifting off when I hear the front door open, followed by the click of high heels on the hardwood floor.

"Taylor, what the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea the kind of media shitstorm this could-"

The clipped voice cuts off abruptly as a tall red-headed woman in a sleek business suit rounds the corner and spots me on the couch. Her perfectly maintained expression cracks for just a second before smoothing over.

"Oh. Hello there." She eyes my bandaged knee, the bruises on my arms, the way I'm curled defensively into the corner of the couch. Something shifts in her gaze. "I'm Tree."

"The constant texts lady," I mutter, fighting to keep my eyes open. The food and warmth are making me dangerously drowsy.

Her lips twitch. "Among other things." She turns as Taylor emerges from what I assume is her bedroom, carrying what looks like designer sweatpants and a soft t-shirt.

"Tree," Taylor says quietly, "not now."

"Taylor-"

"Not. Now." There's steel in her voice that makes both Tree and me straighten up. "She needs rest, food, and safety. Everything else can wait."

Tree sighs, pulling out her phone. "Fine. But we need a plan. The press will-"

"Will have to deal with it," Taylor cuts in. "I'm not throwing her back to the wolves just to avoid a PR headache."

I shrink deeper into the couch, guilt churning in my stomach. "I can go. I don't want to cause-"

"No." They say it in unison, which would be funny if I wasn't so exhausted.

"You're staying," Taylor says firmly, setting the clothes next to me. "Tree's just doing her job, which is worrying about everything."

"It's my spiritual gift," Tree deadpans, but her eyes are soft when they land on me. "How's the knee, kid?"

"Not a kid," I mumble, losing the battle with consciousness. "And it's fine. Had worse."

The last thing I hear before sleep claims me is Tree's quiet voice: "Oh, honey. We've got to do something about this."