But Henry was hard to handle. Too angry. Too hurt.
When she died two years ago, she left the house to me. Just me. Not both of us.
The will was clear. Specific. Deliberate. She loved Henry. I know she did. But she didn't trust him. Didn't trust that he wouldn't gamble the house away the first time someone offered him the wrong kind of deal. The first time he needed money and didn't have another option.
So she left it to me. Put it in my name. Made sure he couldn't touch it.
Henry pretended it didn't bother him. But I saw the hurt in his eyes when the lawyer read the will. The shame. The feeling of being judged and found wanting by the one person who raised us. The one person who was supposed to believe in him.
I felt guilty then. I feel guilty now.
So I'm giving him the house. Because he needs it more than I do. Because he's starting a family. Because maybe this time, maybe with a baby on the way, he'll finally have a reason to get his life together.
The elevator passes the fortieth floor.
My heart is hammering against my ribs. Too fast. Too hard. Like it's trying to break through bone and escape my chest entirely.
The forty-first floor.
I take a breath. Try to steady myself. It doesn't work.
The forty-second floor.
Almost there.
The elevator dings. The sound is too loud in the enclosed space. Sharp. Final.
The doors slide open.
I step out into the hallway. My legs feel unsteady beneath me. Like I'm walking on a ship deck during a storm. Everything tilting and swaying even though the floor is perfectly level.
I walk to the door. Each step feels deliberate. Forced. Like my body doesn't want to carry me forward but my brain is overriding the instinct to run.
I raise my hand. Knock. Three times. The sound echoes in the quiet hallway.
Footsteps approach from inside. Heavy. Measured. Deliberate.
The door opens.
One of the men from the other night stands there.
He's tall. Maybe six foot one. I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Broad through the shoulders and chest in a way that speaks of strength. Real strength. Not the kind you get from a gym. The kind you earn through years of hard work. His face is weathered. Lined in ways that suggest he's spent time in hardplaces doing hard things. Light brown hair going silver at the temples. Stubble along his jaw. Brown eyes, steady and watchful.
His face is unreadable. Stone. No warmth. No welcome. No hint about what's coming.
"Come in."
His voice is low. Controlled. An instruction, not an invitation.
My stomach drops. But I step inside anyway. The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds louder than it should. Final. Trapping me here.
"I'm so sorry about the other night." The words spill out before I can stop them. Fast. Frantic. Tripping over themselves. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I thought no one was home. The agency told me the apartment would be empty. I should have double-checked before I just walked in. I'm really, really sorry. If there's anything I can do to make it right, I will—"
His hand lands on my shoulder.
I freeze. Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
The touch is firm. Steady. Not rough, but deliberate. His hand is large enough that it covers my entire shoulder, and I'm not a petite woman. The pressure is grounding, pulling me out of the spiral I was disappearing into. Anchoring me to the present moment.
