He names a figure.
I go completely still. My breath catches in my throat. Stops entirely for several heartbeats.
That's enough for a deposit on a studio apartment. Enough to help Henry with the remaining gambling debts. Enough to put some aside for the baby. Enough to breathe. To stop living paycheck to paycheck with nothing left over. To stop drowning. To stop feeling like I'm one unexpected expense away from complete disaster.
Enough to maybe, just maybe, start building something that resembles stability.
"We've already spoken to your boss," he says. Matter-of-fact. "She'll be compensated for your absence. And this is temporary. A few weeks at most. Then you return to your regular position."
I stare at him. Then at Luan, who hasn't moved. Hasn't reacted. Just sits there behind his dark lenses like a statue carved from ice.
Then back at Artan.
This is real. They're offering me a lifeline. A temporary one, yes. But still. A chance to stop barely surviving and start actually living. A chance to get ahead instead of constantly falling behind.
"When do you want me to start?" The words come out steadier than I feel.
Artan's expression doesn't change. Doesn't soften. But there's something in his eyes. A flicker. Relief, maybe. Or satisfaction that I said yes. That I didn't ask more questions. That I didn't push back.
"If you're available, you can start now." There's the faintest hint of something lighter in his tone. Not quite warmth. But close. Like he's offering me a way to ease into this. To start with something simple and familiar. "It's almost lunch time."
I nod. "I can start now."
Artan stands. Luan doesn't move.
And suddenly I understand that whatever this is, whatever I've just agreed to, I've just stepped into something that doesn't follow the rules I know. Something that might not let me leave the same way I came in.
7
ARTAN
The food is exceptional.
I take another bite. The chicken is tender, practically dissolving against my tongue. Savory. Complex. The kind of flavor that builds with each bite.
Luan is eating with equal focus. His fork moves steadily from plate to mouth. No hesitation. No fumbling. No awkward pause while he searches for the next bite or tries to orient himself to where the food is on the plate.
The dish is designed for ease. Small pieces of chicken, already cut. Fork-friendly orzo that doesn't require precision or coordination. Nothing that needs a knife. Nothing that demands visual accuracy.
Lily must have done that deliberately. I'm certain of it.
That says something about her. Something important. Something that settles warm in my chest despite my best efforts to ignore it.
It also reminds me of this morning. Of the moment in the entryway when I put my hand on her shoulder.
I shouldn't have done that.
She was spiraling. Panicking. Words tumbling out too fast, apologies stacking on top of apologies for things that weren't her fault. Her voice pitched high with anxiety. Her hands shaking as she clutched her phone.
And I wanted to calm her. Needed to calm her. The distress in her voice felt wrong. Physically uncomfortable. Like nails scraping against something raw and exposed inside my chest.
So I touched her.
My hand on her shoulder. Firm. Steady. Grounding.
And my body reacted in ways I haven't felt in years.
Heat. Immediate and undeniable. Spreading from my palm through my arm and into my chest. Awareness of every point of contact. The softness of her shoulder under my palm. The warmth of her skin bleeding through the thin fabric of her shirt. The delicate bone structure beneath. How small she felt. How breakable.
