Chapter 4 - The Billionaire's Secret Problem
I froze, shifting Sophie’s weight in my arms. The warmth of the penthouse was beginning to thaw my frozen limbs, but the chill of suspicion settled deep in my stomach.
"A problem?" I echoed, narrowing my eyes. "Mr. Vance, I sell custom embroidery on Etsy and clean corporate offices three nights a week. I don't solve corporate problems, and I certainly don't get involved with whatever billionaire games you play."
Julian walked over to a wet bar, poured a finger of amber liquid into a heavy crystal glass, but didn't drink it. He just swirled the ice around, the sharp clink sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
"It's not a corporate problem," Julian said, his gaze drifting toward the dark, starless expanse outside the glass. "It's a human one. And ironically, money is the one tool that is completely useless against it."
He walked toward a set of oversized white doors down a short hallway. "Put her down in the guest suite. There are clean clothes in the closet—oversized shirts and sweatpants from when my sister visited last year. They should fit you. I'll have someone bring up some hot soup and blankets."
Before I could argue, he disappeared down the hall.
Standing alone in the middle of a room that probably cost more than my entire extended family would earn in a lifetime, I felt a strange mixture of vertigo and profound exhaustion. I needed to protect Sophie. That was my only job. But looking at my daughter’s pale, sleeping face, I knew we couldn't go back out into that blizzard. Franklin Street was a dead end. Every shelter downtown was overflowing weeks ago.
I carried her down the hall to the guest suite. It was a sprawling room decorated in soothing shades of charcoal and cream, dominated by a king-sized bed that looked like a cloud. Gently, I laid Sophie down, peeling off her damp coat and boots. She sighed in her sleep, pulling a heavy down duvet up to her chin.
I found the clothes Julian mentioned in the walk-in closet. His sister's clothes—soft cotton sweatpants and an oversized cashmere sweater that smelled faintly of vanilla and rain. I stripped off my frozen, salt-stained clothes, pulling the warm fabric over my skin. It felt like armor, albeit a very comfortable one.
When I walked back out to the main living area, a steaming bowl of vegetable soup and a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches were waiting on a low marble table by the fireplace. Julian was nowhere in sight, but a small note rested beside the bowl, written in sharp, sloping handwriting: Eat. Both of you. We'll talk in the morning.
I ate. The soup was rich, hot, and tasted of real garlic and cream. For the first time in months, my stomach didn't knot with anxiety about how much the meal cost.
By three in the morning, the storm outside had grown ferocious, howling against the thick laminated glass like a trapped animal. I sat on the edge of the guest bed, watching Sophie sleep peacefully. Her breathing was steady, her feverish chill completely gone, warmed by the fire and the thick blankets.
I couldn't sleep. My mind raced through the events of the evening. The diner. The anonymous payment. The closed shelter. And Julian Vance.
Quietly, I slipped out of the bedroom and padded barefoot across the polished concrete floor toward the living area, looking for a glass of water. As I approached the floor-to-ceiling windows, I saw a shadow standing out on the wide glass balcony, braving the freezing wind without a jacket.
It was Julian.
He stood with his hands braced against the glass railing, his dark hair ruffled by the gale, staring down at the microscopic lights of the city far below.
I hesitated for a moment, then pushed the sliding glass door open just an inch. The bitter wind rushed in, carrying my voice across the terrace.
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"You're going to freeze out here, Mr. Vance," I called out. "And then who is going to explain your mysterious problem to me?"
Julian didn't turn around immediately. He slowly straightened up, exhaling a long plume of breath into the night, before turning his dark, haunted eyes toward me.
