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The apartment felt unusually silent without her. The faint creak of the floorboards under his weight, the whistle of wind through the cracked window, even the smell of damp and old wood seemed amplified. Ryan leaned back, pulling the thin blanket around his shoulders.
He didn’t move toward the bed or attempt to make himself comfortable. Instead, he sat perfectly still, letting his mind run wild with possibilities.
Who is she?
Not just her name, not just the fact that she’d been to prison. Those were trivial. The real puzzle was everything else, the way she carried herself, the way she had stepped between him and those men without hesitation. The way she spoke, even when exhausted, with a quiet, stubborn authority that didn’t fit her tiny frame or ragged appearance.
Does she have an ulterior motive for approaching me?
Ryan traced the frayed edges of the blanket absentmindedly, his jaw tight. He had spent his life dealing with powerful people, ruthless competitors, even dangerous criminal networks, but this was fundamentally different. She hadn't just reached a part of him; she had shattered a layer of defense no one else had ever even touched. A place buried so deep he wasn't even sure, until tonight, that the capacity for feeling still existed.
He pulled the blanket closer, hiding his thoughts behind the calm, unreadable mask he always wore. But inside, his obsession had already begun. Every detail mattered, the worn dress, the tired eyes, the faint tremor in her hands when she thought he wasn't watching.
By the time she returned, Ryan had already made up his mind: he needed to know everything about her. Not for the sake of curiosity alone, but because she had inadvertently touched something he thought was long dead inside him.
And as he watched her from the chair, quiet and unreadable, he realized, he wouldn’t let the night, or her, go easily.
The game had begun.
RYAN
I woke before dawn, though "woke" implied sleep, which had been impossible. The room was still, quiet, and deeply cold, a relentless chill that seemed to seep straight into the bones. My body ached from the unnatural angle I had folded myself into, the unyielding stiffness of the worn sofa offering no comfort. I needed to move.
I stepped out, feigning a trip to the outhouse, but I had no intention of wasting precious time on anything so trivial. My mind, sharp and driven despite the lack of rest, was already focused on a single, urgent agenda.
I slipped into the pre-dawn darkness and walked quickly until I reached the designated corner where my contact waited in a nondescript, idling sedan.
He stepped out the moment he saw me and opened the back door without a word. The interior was warm, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of leather. He handed me a thick, plain brown envelope.
He knew better than to acknowledge the environment or the unusual request.
I tore the envelope open immediately, impatience pulling at me like a thread wound too tight.
I hadn’t slept, not even for a minute. My mind kept replaying every second of last night, her voice, her ridiculous bravery, her insistence on helping a stranger for no benefit of her own. It made no sense. People didn’t do that. Not without wanting something.
So I ordered everything on her.
On the first page, there was her name, staring back at me, accompanied by a stark, unflattering mugshot.
Claire McAvoy. I had never heard the name before, but I didn't skim for long.
A daughter, cast out, replaced, and utterly betrayed by her own blood. A familiar, dangerous muscle twitched in my jaw.
I kept reading, each line tightening a cold, suffocating knot in my chest. Three brutal years in prison for a crime she didn’t commit. A false allegation, fully supported and even manufactured by her own family. No investigation. No defense. Just a convenient, calculated sacrifice to protect someone.
By the time I reached the last page, I felt a slow burn of something under my ribs.
Anger. Not the clean, controlled kind I used in business. Something darker, and uglier.
I snapped the file shut. She had nothing, no one in her corner. And still she stepped into that alley and put herself between me and those idiots.
For nothing? No motives? Was it just… stupidity. Or courage. I wasn’t sure which was worse.
One thing was clear: she wasn’t lying or pretending. And I hated how that affected me.
I walked back to her apartment before the sun even touched the horizon. Stepped inside and sat down in the dark, waiting.
She dove headfirst into my business last night without permission.
Fine.
Now I was going to dive into hers. Whether she wanted me to or not.
“What took you so long?”
I froze. She was awake?
“I almost came to check on you,” she mumbled, reluctantly climbing out of the narrow cot. The cheap wood of the frame protested her movement with a long, uncomfortable groan, a noise she didn't even acknowledge.
“I almost came to check on you,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.
“Sorry?” The word came out sounding more like a question.
If she’d actually stepped outside, if she’d gone to the outhouse, she would’ve known instantly I wasn’t there. And I had no explanation that wouldn’t unravel last night’s lie. I was supposed to be stranded. Lost. Pathetic.
She waved dismissively. “It’s fine.”
Claire dug into the small, battered cupboard beside the bed, rummaging past a pile of mismatched items until she pulled something free.
“Here, it’s new,” she said, handing me a cheap toothbrush and a half-used tube of toothpaste.
I didn’t recognize the brand. I wasn’t even sure it was a brand.
Before I could speak, she grabbed her own toothbrush and a threadbare towel, then hurried out of the room, clearly giving me privacy, completely unaware of the fact that I had already crossed every line she thought existed.
She returned about half an hour later, now dressed in a different set of worn but clean clothes, an oversized, faded denim and shirt. She gave me a brief look, calculating, hesitant, as if weighing what to do with the stranger occupying her tiny living space.
Then she crossed to another cupboard.
I watched as she reached for a small jar. It rattled with the unmistakable jingle of coins.
No… she’s not—
But she was.
She opened the jar, counted a few bills and coins with careful fingers, and then pressed them into my palm. Money. Actual money. From a woman who barely had any.
“Here,” she said, almost briskly. “I don’t have time to make breakfast, so buy something. And go find your friend. Maybe they’re already worried about you.”
I stared at her. Then at the cash.
Like I’d never seen currency before.
She must’ve taken my silence the wrong way.
“I know it isn’t much,” she added quietly, “but I don’t have any more to spare.”
Then she grabbed her bag, clearly preparing to leave. “Also… I’m heading out, so if you don’t mind…”
I cleared my throat. So that was it. She was chasing me out—politely. The money… was that supposed to be compensation? A farewell gift? A pity offering?
“Why…?” The word caught in my throat, not from emotion, but from the sheer absurdity of the situation. Why give me anything at all?
She misunderstood instantly.
“It’s okay,” she said gently, almost consoling. “And if you can’t find your friend, try going home. It’s better than wandering around aimlessly.”
Her sincerity hit harder than any insult could have. She was giving me permission to escape. Giving up her only lead on the identity of the man she saved. She truly expects nothing in return.
I quickly pocketed the small amount of cash, mumbling my thanks, gave a final, tight nod and walked out of the apartment, stepping out into the pale morning light. The streets were waking slowly, vendors dragging out crates, distant engines coughing to life, the city stretching itself awake.
A moment later, I heard the soft click of her door locking, but didn’t look back immediately. I just walked, slow, measured steps, my mind running far faster than my feet. I had a major board meeting at nine. A high-stakes acquisition. The kind of deal that would normally have me reviewing contracts over a perfectly plated breakfast in my penthouse.
But instead, I was miles from my home, miles from my office… miles from the version of myself the world recognized.
And for the first time in years, I felt no urgency to return.
I watched her from a distance, careful not to be visible, she walked with the tired efficiency of someone who’d done the same routine for months, head lowered, shoulders slightly hunched, bag clutched tightly. I observed, analysing her movement until she finally disappeared into the crowd waiting for the groaning morning bus.
I waited until she got on the bus, exhaled slowly, then turned and headed for the spot where I’d parked my car the night before. The engine hummed to life as if nothing unusual had happened.
I drove home.
The moment the mansion gates opened, I saw them, staff gathered outside, jittery and pale. The butler, Wayne, clutched his phone like it was a lifeline, pacing near the steps with uncharacteristic agitation.
They all froze when my car rolled to a stop.
“What’s going on?” I asked, stepping out.
“Mr. Pierce, thank God you’re alright,” Wayne breathed, his voice cracking, something I hadn’t heard in years. “You didn’t return last night. No calls. No messages. We feared the worst…”
He paused, swallowing whatever grim scenario had played through their minds.
My brief disappearance had sent the entire household spiraling.
I shrugged out of my jacket, face unreadable. “I’m here.”
But internally? My mind wasn’t in that grand courtyard, or in the mansion, or anywhere familiar.
It was still in a cramped, dimly lit apartment…with a woman who had offered me shelter without hesitation,
pressed coins into my hand, and worried about a stranger more than anyone had ever worried about me.
And for the first time in years, being “home” didn’t feel like coming home at all.
- Writer
