Chapter 3
The day Jack showed up, he rolled into town behind the wheel of a big blue semi-truck.
The rig was caked in road grime, with a jagged crack slicing straight across the windshield.
When he hopped down from the driver's cab, I sized him up in one glance. He stood around six-feet-one, tanned from head to toe, built solid as a brick wall, his face weathered and rugged from years working out in the open sun.
He wore a faded gray tee and a pair of beat-up work boots with peeling soles.
He was forty, but he looked easily closer to forty-five.
"Leah?" he called out in a low, gravelly voice.
"Yep, that's me," I answered.
He glanced at the rolling suitcase I was dragging, then jerked his chin toward his massive rig.
"Climb on in. Toss your bag in the bed—don't worry, it's tough enough to take a beating."
My suitcase was actually a luxury piece James had gifted me before we got divorced.
I handed it over, and he caught it one-handed, then heaved it carelessly into the truck bed without a second thought.
True to his word, the luggage landed amid a jumble of heavy cargo straps and a frayed tarp, bounced once or twice, and settled into place.
"Cab's up high. Grab the handle on the right to haul yourself up," Jack said.
The cab sat ridiculously tall off the ground. Dressed in a dress and heels, I tried hoisting myself up twice, but I couldn't manage it.
Jack stood there watching for a beat, then slid one firm hand around my waist and lifted me up into the passenger seat like I weighed nothing.
"Hold on tight. The ride's gonna be bumpy," he warned.
He circled around to the driver's side, climbed in, and fired up the engine. The semi rumbled to life with a deep roar, the whole vehicle vibrating under us.
It was my first time riding in a big rig cab. Sitting that high up, I could look down over the rooftops of every regular car on the highway.
A frayed decorative ribbon was tied around the air vent, and the faint smell of diesel lingered in the cool air blowing through the vents.
We drove for half an hour in total silence. Jack kept his full attention on the road, not bothering with small talk.
I stayed quiet too, just watching the countryside scenery blur past the window.
The live commentary kept scrolling across my screen: [Jack Evans, male, 40. In the original novel, he barely gets two hundred lines. He's just the rough, blue-collar trucker Leah settles for once she hits rock bottom.]
[Readers only ever mention him once: "Even a gold-digger like Leah ends up stuck with a freight driver. Total joke."]
[But this man? He's the biggest game-changer in the entire plot.]
Eventually, we pulled into a run-down old freight yard.
The lot was pockmarked with potholes, dotted with rust-streaked corrugated metal warehouses. Jack parked the semi at the very back, in front of a row of shabby single-story units.
"We're home," Jack said.
This was his place.
Three small, run-down trailer homes with flaking, peeling exterior paint, old discarded tires piled haphazardly by the entrance. Next door sat an abandoned lot overgrown with waist-high weeds.
The front door swung open right away.
A young girl stood in the doorway, around twelve or thirteen, hair tied back in a neat ponytail, wearing her school uniform and clutching her backpack tight to her chest. Her expression was guarded, cold and uninviting.
"Dad, did you bring her here?" she asked bluntly.
"Yeah," Jack replied, plain and simple.
The girl looked me up and down slowly, her gaze lingering pointedly on my high heels.
"So are you here to leech off my dad's money or what?" Emily asked, straight to the point with no filter.
Jack frowned sharply. "Emily, watch your tone."
Emily ignored him entirely, holding my gaze without backing down. "Dad makes thirty grand a year hauling freight, but after fuel, tolls, and constant truck repairs, he's lucky to clear twenty. If you're only here for money, you might as well leave right now."
She was only twelve, yet she rattled off his yearly finances like a seasoned accountant—calm and matter-of-fact.
I crouched down to meet her eye level, speaking gently but firmly.
"I'm not here for his money at all."
"Then what are you here for?" Emily pressed, still unsmiling and skeptical.
"I'm here to help him make more money. Think you can live with that?" I asked.
Emily narrowed her eyes at me, her expression unreadable, and stayed quiet—neither agreeing nor arguing.
New comments popped up instantly: [This kid will become your most loyal ally later on. Win her over first, and you'll have a solid partner.]
Jack cooked us dinner himself.
He whipped up a sizzling pepper pork skillet, scrambled tomatoes with eggs, and handed me a heaping plate of buttery mashed potatoes.
"Eat up. Tomorrow I'm driving you to the county clerk's office to get married," Jack said plainly.
I froze before I even took a bite, completely caught off guard.
"That soon?" I blurted out, surprised.
Jack took a bite of his dinner, unfazed. "Your grandma called me before she passed away, asked me to take care of you. I don't see any reason to put it off—not after her last wish."
Emily let out a loud, dismissive huff, shoveling food into her mouth and refusing to say another word.
The live feed kept rolling: [Once you get your marriage license tomorrow, you'll have a 72-day window. You have to renew all the land lease contracts along his old logistics route within this period.]
[Once the government announces the new development zone, land prices will skyrocket a hundredfold. Miss this window, and you'll lose the entire million-dollar windfall.]
I picked up my fork and took my first bite.
Seventy-two days, I thought to myself.
That was more than enough time.