Page 19 of The Silent Princess

Icy and sharp, the air is unforgiving tonight. My steps quicken toward the shelter of the Ashford entrance, the building so tall you would have to break your neck to see the top floor from the sidewalk.

“Miss Ella,” Ronny greets me from behind his desk, his worried gaze landing on my hand. I give him a thumbs-up, showing him the clean bandage I changed in Dad’s bedroom, since the nurse always leaves some there. “How are you feeling? Are you sure you’re up for it, young lady?” I nod several times, showing him that I can fold and unfold my hand easily.

“An-ja,” I mouth, exaggerating the syllables, which earns me a much more serious frown. I repeat it until he gasps.

“Oh, you mean, I wasn’t sure you’d… yes, she arrived ten minutes ago, but I’m afraid she’s already started. She told me to tell you she’d wait for you at one o’clock right here. Dare I say, and I quote her, ‘One o’clock sharp.’” I let out a chuckle, my vocal cords allowing a blur of breath to escape my mouth. At least I will see a friendly face soon.

I wave at Ronny, wondering how he doesn't end up bored to death after waiting all night. Perhaps he enjoys it. Working at night is different. Everyone seems more raw somehow, more vulnerable, as if darkness releases another version of ourselves, one we cannot let out in daylight. Feral, closer to who we are, the fight against our biological clock sharpening the traits we usually keep contained.

The thirty-second floor seems empty of human life, the city glowing in the distance, the same lamp as last night casting a coral shade over the lounge area. It may be a corporate place, but tonight there is a sense of shelter here, like a fireplace after a long day in the snow, or the flame of a candle during a power outage. I put on my audiobook and get to work, vacuuming, dusting, polishing. I try not to look too closely at my surroundings when I work, to avoid the risk of losing focus in my imagination, which happens far too often for my liking. Except I cannot help it, and so I notice family photos on desks, a signed baseball on someone’s shelf, a book of poetry on another. They wear suits, but that does not mean they lack complexity. Moving from one office to another, I hope to make a real difference for these people, so they can enter their offices tomorrow and find them clean, fresh, and ready for the day. Hours pass, and I am almost done. Only one office remains. The handle turns in my hand, his name shining bright silver on the door.

Tristan Ashford, CEO.

I try not to think of him, of the sound of his voice and the veins in his hands. I try not to think of the scent permeating the air, made of soap and aftershave and something indistinctly masculine, wrapping me in a cover made of comfort. Removing my earphones, I step into his sanctuary made of steel and sharp edges, empty of life, with a photograph of a sailboat cutting through the sea, white waves consuming most of the lower half. Not really above. Not really under. I pay more attention to every centimeter of his office, making sure it is spotless and ready. It’s past midnight when I’m done. Fatigue catches me, and I look at the buildings shining all around me, multicolored spots, billboards, and car lights. There is noise out there, and I kneel close to the window, sitting back on my thighs, watching it like a movie. Insignificant. Transparent. The world, oblivious to my existence. Was it the same for Mom? Did she ever feel as if her presence did not matter? Or is it a curse I’ve been plagued with?

My lips shake, and I have the distinct thought that if someone were to cover my mouth and nose, if someone were to stop me from breathing, I could die watching this view. That it might be peaceful.

I lied to Ronny earlier. My hand aches now that I am done, and I look down at my palm, at the slight line of red admitting the truth.

Five minutes.

I just need five minutes to remember I am still a person. That I get to witness the miracle of life. That there is more to it than what my reality has become. A noise startles me. I look behind me. No one. Five minutes have passed, and I have to go now if I do not want to miss Anja on my way out. Before leaving, I do the one thing I really came here for.

Why does seeing all that money in my bag twist something in my heart? Why did I hope he would understand me when we hardly know each other? I could have sworn he…saw me. Not a maid or a poorly dressed girl. Me. Someone who works hard too. Someone whose honor may be all she has left. And accepting this sort of help would feel like an irreversible red brushstroke across it.

Leaving the pile of cash on his desk, right in the middle, I add a note above it, one I wrote today between scrubbing floors and folding laundry. In another world, I would have accepted his money and helped Dad and me with it, but my parents taught me never to accept money from strangers and never to rely on pity to make it out.

Look, Mom. I am doing the right thing.

Something releases in my chest as I rid myself of the burden that has been sitting in my bag all day. How will he react? Don’t be stupid. You will never see him again.

I step into the elevator and press my back against the wall. Lying to yourself has a bitter taste, and my eyes betray me before I can stop them. A single tear rolls down my cheek. I wish things were different. With the back of my hand, I dry my tears and let out a long exhale.

Some of us are not meant for happy endings.

Some of us have it backward.

Girl meets boy, and boy forgets girl.

It is what it is.

Tristan

As far as I can recall, my father always brought me with him when he went hunting. I remember my mother pleading with him not to take me, since I was only three and could not walk for that long, let alone remain silent for an activity that required it. In those rare father-son moments, he’d point at me, telling me hunting was about preparation. That there was a proper way to do things. Learning about the animal days before, recognizing its tracks, patterns, and habits. Then observing it in its natural element, watching it evolve, until your heartbeat synchronized with its own.

Father never cared for men who spoke of hunting as leisure, who liked the good meal afterward, the beers, the stories, the embellished acts of courage. Pragmatic. One of the personality traits I’m not ashamed to share with him.

“Hunting isn’t natural to us men,” he told my six-year-old self once, placing my first knife in my hand, one he had taught me to use without hurting myself. “And still, we do it anyway, because everything in life is about natural selection. Here,” he said, pointing at the forest, “and here,” he added, pointing toward our house. “You’re too young right now to fully understand it, Tristan, but one day you’ll see. Everything in life is about hunting. Prey and predators simply have different names. What matters most is…” He rubbed my cheek, a slight wince of pain crossing his face.

“What matters most is for you to always be the hunter. You hear me, son? You’re a hunter. You’ll always be. Look at everything I show you and imprint it in your mind, and one day, you’ll do the exact same thing on your own. I’ll be there for your first kill, but one day, you’ll have to figure things out on your own. Do not disappoint me.”

I still remember his words.

Word for word.

And he was right. Everything I have taken from life, everything I have built, came from that mindset, from the same set of skills he taught me. I simply applied them to the business world, leaving the crumbs of my humanity reserved only for my family. Or what is left of it. Yet in all those years, I have never hunted this way.

Hidden behind a screen, watching through a camera as an angel kneels in my office and watches mere mortals with the stillness of a statue. I have been watching her for hours. Reading Brenton’s report on my phone while her petite silhouette moved across the monitors, cleaning every corner of the floor with diligence and precision. She stopped once to drink water. One single minute. If she were another businessman, I would call it discipline and respect it. Coming from her, my concern edges toward worry. My hand flexes repeatedly and I bite my fist, restraining every atom of my body from stepping into the room and betraying her peace.