HATED FIRST

Chapter 5: The Apartment Visit

11:47pm in my Bronx apartment. Third floor. No elevator. Paint peeling. Smell of bleach and hospital in the hallway. I heard my doorbell ring, I opened the door and there he was.

Adrian Sterling. In a black suit at midnight. In the Bronx. Holding a bag from Lenox Hill Pharmacy.

He looked wrong here. Like a diamond in a junkyard. Like winter in July.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered. Mom was asleep in the next room. Chemo made her sleep 16 hours a day.

“Rule #6,” he said. No hello. No sorry. “Your assistant doesn’t lie to me.”

“I didn’t—”

“You said ‘I’m fine’ at dinner. You’re not fine, Esther.” He said my name. First name. Slipped out like he forgot the rules too. “You fainted in the bathroom 20 minutes ago. Security called me.”

My blood went cold. “How did you—”

“I put a tracker on your employee ID.” He said it like it was normal. Like CEOs track their assistants daily. “For safety. Sterling Tower policy.”

“That’s illegal.”

“So is skipping meals until you collapse.” He pushed past me into the apartment. Looked around. 2 bedrooms. Peeling paint. Couch with a blanket where I slept. Mom’s chemo pump beeping soft.

His face didn’t change. But his jaw ticked. Once.

“You live here,” he said. Not a question. Like he’d just done the math. Salary minus rent minus hospital bills = zero.

“Yes,” I said. Arms crossed. Defensive. “Not everyone has a penthouse, Mr. Sterling.”

He set the pharmacy bag on our tiny kitchen counter. Pulled out medicine. Anti-nausea. Vitamins. Electrolyte packs. Real food. Not protein bars.

“For your mother,” he said. “And you. Eat one of these every 3 hours. That’s an order.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“It’s not charity. It’s damage control. You collapse, I miss deadlines.” He turned. Gray eyes scanned the apartment again. Landed on the eviction notice on the fridge. $2,400. Friday.

“How much?” he asked.

“What?”

“To keep this place. How much do you need by Friday?”

“Not your business.”

“Wrong. My assistant’s housing situation is my business. If you’re homeless, you’re late. If you’re late, you’re fired.”

He pulled out his phone. Started typing.

“Don’t,” I said. Grabbed his wrist. Stupid. Rule #1: You don’t touch me.

He froze. Looked down at my hand on his wrist. Then up at my face.

For 3 seconds neither of us moved. His pulse jumped under my fingers. Fast. Not cold. Not ice. Human.

I dropped my hand like I’d been burned. “Sorry. Rule #1.”

“Rule #1 has exceptions,” he said quietly. “Emergencies.”

“This isn’t—”

“It is.” He put his phone away. Didn’t finish the transfer. “I’m not paying your rent, Esther. You’ll do that yourself. With the salary advance I already gave you.”

Relief and anger hit at the same time. He wasn’t buying me. But he’d still been here. At midnight. In the Bronx.

“Why are you here?” I asked. Voice smaller now. “Really.”

He looked at Mom’s room. Door cracked open. She looked so small in that bed. Too small for the cancer eating her.

“My father died of cancer,” he said. No emotion. Just fact. “Stage 4. Pancreatic. He refused treatment for 6 months because he ‘didn’t want to be a burden.’ Stupidest decision he ever made.”

Silence. The pump beeped.

“So when my assistant lies about eating and faints in bathrooms…” He trailed off. Cleared his throat. Wall back up. “It’s inefficient.”

“Right,” I said. “Inefficient.”

He moved to leave. Stopped at the door. Didn’t turn around.

“7am sharp tomorrow,” he said. “And Esther?”

“What?”

“Leave the tracker on your ID. Or I’ll put one on your phone next.”

Door closed. Soft.

I stood there shaking. Hating him for seeing my apartment. Hating him for seeing my mom. Hating him most for the way my chest hurt when he said my father died too.

I hated Adrian Sterling.

But I was starting to hate that I understood him.