I feel every stare on me. People in the waiting area pretending not to listen; others blatantly watching.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, the heat crawling up my neck.
“Maya, please—”
“Please what?” I snap.
I can feel the tears burning behind my eyes, but I refuse to give them that satisfaction. I grab my bag tighter and take a step back.
“Tell your boss,” I say, my voice turning ice-cold, “that he doesn’t even have the decency to check to see if I’m still alive after I lostourbaby. Not a call. Not a text. Nothing. Two weeks. Two fucking weeks.”
Both receptionists’ eyes widen, and I swear I hear a gasp from across the lobby. The guard takes a cautious step toward me, but I’m already moving.
The lobby falls into a stunned hush. The only sound is the flat scuff of my shoes on the marble, the guard’s footsteps trailing behind me, and the thud of my heart in my ears.
When the doors slide open, the cold morning air hits me. It should feel good, but my blood is running too hot. I stop on the sidewalk, struggling to catch my breath.
I look up at the building. All glass and steel and power, towering as if it owns everything beneath it.
“Two weeks, Colin,” I whisper. “Two fucking weeks, and you couldn’t even call?”
My reflection stares back at me from the glass. Sad eyes, makeup still perfect—as if my world hasn’t just blown apart. I turn away before I break in front of these strangers.
And as I step into the crowd, the only thing I feel is rage.
The cab stops in front of my building—a sudden, jarring halt that yanks me out of the fog I’ve been drifting in since I left Montgomery Clifford.
I hand the driver the cash without even looking at him, my fingers still trembling.
By the time I climb out, my throat burns from holding it all in. The anger, the humiliation, and the disbelief that has become my only constant.
My building lobby is warm and far too bright for the way I feel. I just want to cross it, get upstairs, crawl into bed, and disappear for a few hours. Maybe a few days.
But then I see him. Philip.
He’s standing at the front desk, speaking to the doorman. His posture is as perfect and calm as ever.
My mind can’t process the sight of him here. In my building.
He turns before I can move. And when our eyes lock, something deep inside me caves in on itself.
The expression on his face isn’t surprise. It’s revulsion.
He doesn’t speak at first. He just turns fully toward me, his gaze sliding over me from head to toe with clinical detachment. For a second, I wonder if he even recognizes me. If he can seeherin me.
Hislittle Maya.
I have the same eyes as my mother—the ones he used to say reminded him of spring mornings. How can he not see it? How can he look at me and see a stranger?
“You,” he says finally, his voice low. Too smooth. Too even. “You’re going to stay the hell away from my daughter. From my family. You and your sick plan won’t tear us apart.”
The doorman shifts awkwardly, glancing between us. A few people turn: the two older women who are always gossiping in the lobby; a couple with their kid, who rushes toward the elevator as if I’m contagious; and the guy from two floors below who never misses a chance to flirt with me, even though I shut him down every single time.
I take a slow step forward, my voice shaking.
“What are you doing here? How did you even get my address?”
“You think you’re so clever… worming your way into my son-in-law’s life in the most twisted way imaginable. And you can’t make a simple deduction about how I found out where you live?”
