April
The penthouse is too quiet after he leaves. Not empty, never empty. The city is always there, humming through the glass. The refrigerator purrs. Somewhere deep in the walls, vents circulate air and heat like a slow breath. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own thoughts and turns your heartbeat into a metronome. I drift from room to room like I’m trespassing in a museum. Every surface pristine, every line deliberate. Even the light feels curated. It’s odd being here in the daytime.
My phone buzzes.
Anthony Voss:
Delores is stopping by for a bit to water the plants. You don’t have to speak to her if you don’t want to.
She’s nice. You’re safe. Promise.
My throat tightens on that last part. As if he has to remind me. As if he has to remind himself.
Me:
Okay. Hope everything’s all right
I put the phone down and pace anyway, nerves looking for something to snag on.
A soft chime sounds from the private elevator, followed by measured footsteps, not at all like a stranger trying not to be noticed. I hover at the edge of the living room, unsure whether to make myself scarce like Anthony offered or prove to myself I’m not hiding.
Curiosity wins. I follow the sound through the sliding doors to the terrace, and then up to the rooftop garden area I hadn’t even realized existed. Delores is there, kneeling beside a long row of planters. Her hair is gray and coiled into a neat bun, her hands in thin gloves, a small watering can balanced beside her like an old friend. She doesn’t jump when she senses me. She turns her head slowly and looks right at me.
“You must be April,” she grins, like she’s been expecting me.
“I—Hi.” My voice comes out smaller than I intend.She knows my name?“Anthony said you’d be here. For the plants.”
Delores’s mouth curves gently. Not quite a smile, but something warmer. “He worries about his plants,” she says, “almost as much as he worries about other things.”
Heat creeps up my neck. I step closer, the cold air biting at my cheeks. “You don’t have to—I mean, I won’t get in your way.”
“You aren’t in my way,” she says, and goes back to tending a leaf with careful fingers, pinching off something brown and dead. “You’re allowed to be here.”
Allowed. The word lands with weight in a place like this.
I hover by the railing, looking out over the city. From up here, Manhattan looks unreal, like someone painted it with lights. The wind tugs at my hair and my sweater, trying to pull me apart at the seams.
Delores waters slowly, methodically, like time belongs to her. “He told me you might not want to speak.”
“Been a bit of a rough day,” I admit. “But I wanted to say hi, at least. I didn’t know if you’d mind.”
Delores hums softly. “I don’t mind. I’ve been with him a long time. He’s not always very talkative, so it’s nice.”
That makes my stomach flip.With him a long time. As if she’s been there for all the versions of Anthony I’ve only glimpsed around the edges.
“He’s—” I start, then stop, because what am I even trying to say? He’s what? Cold? Complicated? Sweet when no one’s watching? A man who can leave a board meeting to pick a crying woman up off the street?
Delores finally looks at me again, and it’s unsettling how much she seems to see without asking a single question. “You’ve changed him,” she says gently.
I let out a sharp breath. “I don’t think I have that kind of power.”
Delores’s eyes soften. “Oh, it isn’t power,” she says. “Its presence. And until you arrived, he lived the last six years like no one would ever come home to him again.”
The words slip under my ribs, quiet and lethal.
I turn my face away quickly, as if the skyline is suddenly fascinating, because I don’t want her to see what that does to me.
“He has people,” I say, too fast. “Staff. Colleagues.”
