“That’s not what fine looks like.”
Lily tugged on my hand. “Can we come in? Dad made chicken noodle soup—it’s really good.”
I wanted to say no, wanted to tell them to leave and never come back because I didn’t deserve their kindness or their concern or their presence in my apartment.
But Lily was already moving inside, still holding my hand and pulling me along like she belonged here.
Hector followed with the bags of food, moving into my tiny kitchen and starting to unpack containers: soup and bread and what looked like homemade everything. My counter disappeared under the spread.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I said, overwhelmed by the sight of my tiny kitchen overflowing with care.
“Lily insisted.” He pulled out a bottle of medicine. “And I thought you might need this.”
“I don’t have a fever.”
“You look like you do.”
Lily pulled me to the couch and sat close enough that our legs touched—she’d brought the stuffed elephant from her room.
“Ellie the elephant was worried about you,” she said. “So I brought him to help.”
My throat closed up completely. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t swallow, could barely breathe around the weight pressing on my chest.
Hector brought over bowls of soup and we ate in silence for a while, Lily chattering about her week: a book Mrs. Pearson had read to her, a game she’d played with Gianna, how much she missed our sessions.
“I wanted to tell you,” Hector said suddenly, “what happened at the ballet class wasn’t your fault.”
I set down my spoon.
“The reporters were the problem—not you, not the class, not anything else.” His eyes were serious. “Lily still wants to dance. She talks about you every day.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“It’s not nice, it’s true.” He paused. “When are you coming back?” His voice was steady, but something in it felt too careful.
Lily looked at me enthusiastically.
I couldn’t answer, couldn’t tell them I might never come back, that being near them felt like standing on glass and knowing any moment I’d fall through.
“Soon,” I managed. “Just… a few more days.”
Hector was watching me too closely, reading my face the way he always did—seeing past whatever mask I tried to wear, and far too close to the truth I couldn’t let him find.
CHAPTER 17
Hector
Sarah came backto work exactly seven days after she’d gotten sick.
I’d been counting.
She walked into the penthouse at precisely nine in the morning, her bag slung over one shoulder and her usual smile firmly in place. Everything about her appearance said “I’m fine, nothing to see here.” But I’d spent two years learning to read what people didn’t say—and Sarah was screaming.
She’d lost weight. Not dramatically, but enough that her clothes hung differently on her frame. Her face was thinner, the angles sharper. The dark circles under her eyes had faded slightly but were still visible if you knew where to look.
I knew where to look.
“Good morning,” she said, bright and professional. “How’s Lily been?”
