Chapter 5 - The Knock on the DoorThe rain was coming down in sheets by the time I reached the small, modest apartment I rented above a bakery in downtown Stamford, a few miles from the Greenwich estate. My clothes were soaked through, my old leather bag was ruined, and my heart felt heavier than it had in years.
I had failed. I had let my temper get the better of me, and because of my pride, little Charlotte was left alone in that mausoleum with a father too proud to mourn.
I spent the evening sitting on the edge of my narrow bed, staring at the rain streaming down the glass, drinking cheap instant coffee, and trying to figure out how I was going to pay next month's rent.
At 9:30 p.m., a sharp, urgent knock rattled my apartment door.
I frowned, setting my mug down. Nobody knew where I lived except my landlord.
I walked over to the wooden door and pulled it open without checking the peephole.
I gasped.
Standing on the narrow, dimly lit landing, drenched to the skin, with his expensive charcoal suit ruined by the downpour and his hair plastered to his forehead, was Alexander Whitmore.
He didn't look like a billionaire tech tycoon or a ruthless corporate kingpin. He looked like a man who had lost his compass in the middle of a hurricane.
"Alexander?" I breathed, staring at him in utter disbelief. "What on earth are you doing here?"
He didn't answer right away. He stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, his dark eyes searching my face as if he were memorizing every line to ensure I was real.
"She won't stop crying," he finally said, his voice cracking with raw, unfiltered desperation.
My heart skipped a beat. "What? Is Charlotte okay?"
"She locked herself in her bedroom," Alexander said, running a wet hand through his hair, water dripping from his jawline onto his ruined silk tie. "She refused dinner. She threw her stuffed rabbit across the room and told me... she told me that I drove away the only person who brought the music back to the house."
He stepped closer, closing the distance between us on the tiny landing, ignoring the water pooling on my wooden floorboards.
"She asked for you, Emily," he whispered, his voice trembling for the first time in front of me. "And for the first time in four years... I didn't have an answer. I didn't have a strategy. I didn't have money to fix it."
I looked up at him, seeing past the arrogance, past the wealth, past the terrifying reputation that kept a whole city at bay. I saw a terrified father asking a twenty-six-year-old orphan for help.
"You fired me, Mr. Whitmore," I said quietly, testing him.
Alexander dropped his gaze to the floorboards, swallowed hard, and then slowly—painfully—dropped to one knee on my modest apartment floor.
"I was a coward," he said, looking up into my eyes with complete, devastating surrender. "Please... come back. Name your terms. Move into the master suite if you want. Just... please come back and save my daughter. Save us both."
The rain hammered against the windowpane, but inside the small room, the world had gone completely still.
May you like
I reached down, placed my hand gently on his wet shoulder, and smiled softly.
"Get up, Alexander," I said. "We have a house to warm up."
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