My new apartment wasn’t much to talk about. In truth, calling it an apartment felt generous—it was really just a cramped studio, barely large enough to fit my belongings. The bathroom’s reliability was questionable at best, and every time I turned on the light, cockroaches scattered, clearly annoyed by my presence, as if I was the one intruding on their territory.
The kitchen situation left much to be desired. There was no stove to speak of, and the only appliance was a refrigerator so old and rusted that it looked like it belonged to another era. It barelyworked, its metallic shell a constant reminder of better days long past.
Despite its shortcomings, this was all I could manage on such short notice. It wasn’t the home I’d once known, but for now, it was the only roof I could afford over my head.
In the days that followed, I lay awake listening to the steady drip of the leaky faucet, the city lights flickering through the dusty blinds. My savings dwindled with every rent payment, and my meals grew simpler—ramen noodles and canned soup, eaten standing by the window as I watched strangers hurry by below.
Each day blurred into the next, marked only by the monotony of routine and the persistent ache of uncertainty. I found myself searching job boards late into the night, hoping for something—anything—that might offer a sense of purpose or stability, when I heard my cellphone ring, bringing me out of my melancholy.
Seeing Oliver’s name flash across my phone screen, I couldn’t help but smile. I answered and tapped the video button, grateful for a friendly face. “Hey, you. Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for your trip to Vale with the family?” I asked, settling in for our conversation.
Oliver’s familiar laughter echoed through the phone. “Hell no. I’m staying in the city for the holidays. Speaking of which, do you have any plans tonight?”
I glanced around my small, cluttered apartment and chuckled. “Not sure, unless you call setting more roach traps plans.”
Oliver shuddered visibly. “That’s just nasty, woman. You should have moved in with me.”
I shook my head, smiling at his concern. “I love you, Oliver, but even I know you can’t survive without your trust fund. Your parents were crystal clear. Besides, I need to fix this on my own.”
He hesitated, then asked, “Any word from the DA?”
I sighed and slumped onto my couch. “No. It’s the holidays. I doubt I’ll hear anything until after the New Year. February, if I’m lucky.”
Oliver’s tone grew serious for a moment. “You know this shit blows, right?”
Trying to shift the mood, I forced a smile and changed the subject. “So, about your plans?”
Oliver’s grin returned, wider than before. “The university may have kicked you to the curb, but I haven’t. I have a reservation tonight atAlinea. Wanna be my hot date?”
I frowned, concern etching my features. “Thought you made those reservations for you and Kendrick.” I commented, my voice gentle.
Oliver’s gaze shifted away, his expression clouding. “We broke up,” he admitted quietly.
My heart went out to him. “Oh, Oli, I’m so sorry,” I said, wishing I could reach through the screen and give him a hug.
He shrugged, putting on a brave face. “It’s no big deal,” he insisted, trying to sound nonchalant. “His loss.”
“Damn straight it is,” I replied, offering him a supportive smile.
He brightened a little, his tone turning playful. “So what do you say? Wanna go with your broken-hearted bestie to the fanciest digs in Chicago and help me spend my trust fund?”
I laughed, unable to resist his infectious energy. “Fine, but I get to pick the wine.”
Oliver’s grin returned in full force. “Deal!”
Chapter Fourteen
Massimo
Leviticus Barbari’s eyes narrowed, his glare unwavering as he pinned me from across the table. The tension between us was palpable, thickening the air with every passing second. Then, in a voice sharp and cutting, he made his accusation clear. “My daughter is pregnant,” he announced, each syllable weighted with accusation and contempt. His words hung in the air, demanding a response, demanding action.
Unmoved by his outburst, I raised my wineglass with deliberate calm, refusing to be unsettled by his theatrics. I met his gaze head-on, a smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth as I leaned back in my seat. My posture radiated indifference, a silent message that his intimidation tactics had fallen flat.
“Demand?” I repeated, letting the word linger between us.
My tone was casual, almost bored, making it unmistakably clear that I would not be easily rattled by his attempt to exert control over the situation.
He drummed his fingers on the pristine white linen tablecloth between us, each tap echoing in the tense hush and vibrating through the chilled marble underneath. The faint scent of cigar smoke clung to the air, layered with the crisp tang of expensive cologne and the underlying musk of old money—a reminder that this restaurant had witnessed a hundred negotiations and threats before ours. Sweat pricked at my hairline despite the air being cool enough to raise goosebumps;the anticipation coiled in my gut, twisting with something restless and dark.
