The Puck’s Bunny

Ch.7

CLAIRE

One single word. Just a faint whisper. So soft that if the room hadn't been utterly still, if the penthouse wasn't enveloped in its usual luxurious silence,

I might have completely overlooked it. But I caught it. I heard it distinctly, every letter, every syllable, articulated in a tiny, rusty voice that seemed

like it hadn't been used in ages.

My throat tightened. My eyes stung. Every fiber of my being wanted to respond, to gasp, to weep, to take this little girl in my arms and tell her that

her voice was the most exquisite sound I've ever encountered. But I held back. Because I instinctively knew, deep down, that if I made a fuss about it,

she would withdraw. If I turned this into a significant moment, she would hide that voice away once more, and I might not hear it for weeks.

So I simply smiled. Settled back down. Opened the book to the first page. Chloe nestled against my arm. I started reading.

When I completed the task for the second time, she had fallen asleep, her head resting heavily on my shoulder, the bear nestled between us. I gently laid her down on the pillow, pulled the blanket up around her, and positioned the bear in the crook of her arm. I switched on the nightlight, checked the monitor, and left the door ajar by exactly six inches, just as I had observed Eros always did.

After that, I made my way to my room, shut the door behind me, sat on the edge of the bed, and covered my mouth with both hands to stifle my cries.

She spoke. She spoke to me.

I remained seated for ten minutes, allowing the emotions to envelop me, permitting the tears to flow freely without resistance. After that, I cleaned my face, blew my nose, and called my mom.

She answered on the second ring. "Baby girl! How's the new job? Share everything with me."

I reclined against the headboard and gazed at the ceiling. "It's good, Mom. Really good."

"Oh really? How's the little girl doing?"

"She's perfect. So intelligent, Mom. You would adore her."

"And what about the father? Is he hard to deal with?"

"He's doing well. Quite professional, actually. I hardly ever see him."

"Are they taking care of you? You sound exhausted."

"I'm dining like royalty. Seriously, Mom, this place is amazing. The room they provided is larger than our entire kitchen."

"Mmm." She wasn't convinced. Mom had an uncanny ability to sense when I was putting on a show. After twenty-five years of raising me alone, she had earned a PhD in Claire Dawson's evasion tactics. "And how are you, really? Not about the job, but you."

I gazed at the picture in the frame on the nightstand. It captured Mom and Sarah at her high school graduation, both beaming with joy. Sarah wore a cap that was oversized for her head, while Mom donned the blue dress she had purchased on sale just for this special day. Even in the photograph, I could see the fatigue etched on her face. The weight she had lost was evident. Her smile, despite being radiant, couldn't completely mask the underlying shadows.

"I'm okay, Mom. Honestly. I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Well, you’re hearing it now. And I’m advising you to drink some water and get some rest. You always neglect both when you’re feeling overwhelmed."

"I’m not overwhelmed."

"Mmhmm."

"Mom, I love you."

"I love you even more, baby girl. Make sure to call me tomorrow."

After hanging up, my phone vibrated with a new notification from the FeelMe app, sent by Love-my pulse stutters.

Love. The one individual who calms my breath rather than constricting it. Despite our identities remaining unknown, I crave a friend tonight—some small fragment of normalcy to prevent the panic from engulfing me completely.

Love: You disappeared. I was beginning to think you found out who I really am and took off.

A strangled laugh escapes me, a mix of sob and relief. I curl up on the bed, blanket draped over my legs, and start typing.

Bright: Apologies. It’s been a long day. I’ve moved. New place. Everything feels chaotic.

He responds immediately.

Love: Was the move the tough part, or is it that you’re not fond of your neighborhood?

In spite of everything, I can’t help but smile.

Bright: Can I say both and act like that’s a valid response?

Three dots appear.

Love: If someone bothered you, let me know who it was. I’m in the mood and could use someone to verbally annihilate.

A warmth spreads in my chest. He doesn’t know me, and somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.

Bright: Maybe not annihilation. But a distraction would be nice.

Love: Do you want to vent, or should I share something absurd?

My vision becomes hazy, and I quickly blink to clear it. For the first time that night, I no longer feel isolated, and that realization is far more perilous than the surrounding quiet.

The penthouse enveloped me in silence. Eros's conference call had concluded at some point, leaving the third floor shrouded in darkness. Chloe was peacefully asleep with her teddy bear. Mrs. Parker had gone home for the evening. Here I was, alone in a billionaire's Manhattan apartment, with just two hundred and fourteen dollars in my bank account, a tuition bill for my sister looming in three weeks, and a heart medication refill for my mother that would set me back four hundred dollars, even with insurance.

And down the hall, a little girl just softly uttered her first word to me.I grabbed the forty-seven rules from my bedside table and turned to Rule #14. No singing in shared spaces during work hours.

I took a pen and wrote below it, in tiny, precise letters: She said "again."

After that, I switched off the light and lay in the darkness, absorbing the quiet of a penthouse that was gradually, unbelievably, beginning to feel less vacant.