I end the call and send him my location before I can talk myself out of it. He sends his own right back to me, two little blue dots on a map halfway across Manhattan, but moving steadily closer.
Chapter 22
Anthony
The elevator glides up in silence. No rattling cables or unpleasant lurch, just a smooth ascent and a mirrored wall that forces me to watch the aftermath of my own choices. April stands beside me like she’s bracing for impact. Her eyes are raw from crying, her lashes are clumped, and her nose is pink. She’s holding herself together the way people do right before they can’t anymore. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her middle, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed on a point that isn’t there. She’s trying to look composed for me, and it makes something hot and ugly twist low in my chest. I key in. The doors open into the penthouse and warm light spills out, the quiet swallowing us whole.
“Shoes off,” I tell her, not harsh, just automatic. A small command to give her something to do that isn’t falling apart. “Coat too.” She hesitates, blinking at me like she’s not sure I’m real. I step in close to take her coat gently from her shoulders. My fingers brush her collarbone and she flinches, not from fear, just from being touched when she’s raw. I keep my hand there a beat longer than necessary, thumb steadying against her skin.
“Good,” I murmur, and guide her forward with light pressure at her back. “Come on. Sofa.”
She moves like she’s underwater. I shepherd her into the living room and sit her down. I position her on the corner where she can curl up if she wants, then place a throw blanket over her lap like I’m closing a door against the cold. She looks around the room at the glass and marble. The city spreads beyond the windows like a lit circuit board. She looks small against it, like she doesn’t belong here, even though she’s been here at least twenty times already.She belongs wherever I decide she belongs.The thought is possessive enough to make my jaw tighten. I pick up the remote from the coffee table and press it into her hand.
“Here.” My voice stays even. “TV. Netflix. Whatever you want. Don’t argue.”
A tiny tremor runs through her fingers as she takes it. I grab the spare laptop from the credenza, set it beside her like an offering.
“If you feel like working, you can. If you don’t, don’t. Rest is an order for the rest of today.”
Her mouth opens, probably to protest, and I cut it off before it can form.
“April.” I say her name as steadily as I can. “You’re safe here. You can breathe here.”
Her throat bobs. She nods once, like she’s afraid that if she doesn’t comply, I’ll disappear. I crouch in front of her, lowering myself so we’re eye level. I don’t touch her immediately. I let her see my face, let her see I’m not irritated or punishing her for having feelings like a human being.
“You did the right thing calling me,” I say quietly.
Her lashes flutter. “I ruined your day.”
“No.” The word comes out like steel. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
Her eyes are glossy again, tears threatening to come back. She swallows hard. “Angela thinks you’re…” She stops, as if the sentence itself could blow up in her mouth.
“I don’t care what Angela thinks,” I say, and I mean it more than I should. “I care what you need.”
She looks down at the remote like it’s complicated machinery. I reach forward and cup the side of her face, thumb brushing the damp track on her cheek. Her skin is warm under my palm. She leans into it before she can stop herself, and the movement lands in me like a punch.
I let the silence hang for a second, then I say the part I don’t want to say. “I can’t stay.”
Her head jerks up, panic flashing. “What?”
“Urgent board meeting.” My voice stays calm because I don’t want to stress her out more. “It was called while I was in the car with you. They’re already gathering.”
She looks like she’s about to bolt, insist on leaving, apologize, and make herself smaller so I can be bigger. I press my thumb gently against her cheekbone, soft enough that it’s care, not command. “You’re staying here,” I tell her. “You’re taking the rest of the day off.”
“I have work.”
“You have a blood test confirming you’re pregnant, you had a fight with your sister, and a panic attack on the street. You’re carrying my child.” My gaze holds hers, unblinking. “You’re not going to the office.”
Her lips part. The argument forms and dies.
“Good,” I say, and there’s warmth in it, the praise that makes her shoulders drop a fraction. I stand, then pause, thinking through contingencies. Food. Hydration. Comfort. Distractions. Control is my language. Caretaking is just control with a gentler grip.
“If you want food, text me,” I tell her. “If you want tea, text me. If you needanything, you call. I’ll answer.”
“I don’t want to bother you.”
“You won’t.” Another blunt, definite statement. “If you’re hungry, I can have staff come by. They can make something and stock the fridge. They can disappear before you even notice they were here.”
