Single Dad Janitor Kissed A Billionaire To Save Her Life — And Then Everything Changed
The key stuck in the lock.
It always did.
Tom had to jiggle it left, pull it out a fraction of an inch, and twist hard.
The door clicked open.
The apartment smelled like old radiator heat and the cheap lavender soap Mrs. Higgins liked to use.
The old woman was asleep on the lumpy sofa, a knitting magazine resting on her chest.
Tom touched her shoulder gently.
“Mrs. Higgins. I’m back.”
She snorted, blinking awake.
“Oh. Thomas. Good morning.” She gathered her things slowly.
“Lily slept fine after the inhaler. Just a little wheeze. Make sure she drinks warm water.”
“Thank you,” Tom said, pressing two twenty-dollar bills into her hand.
It physically hurt to part with the cash, but he couldn’t afford to lose her.
“See you tomorrow.”
After she left, Tom stood in the quiet living room.
The adrenaline from the night before had completely burned off, leaving behind a hollow, aching exhaustion.
His ribs hurt.
His jaw felt tight.
He walked into the tiny bathroom and stared at the mirror.
There was a faint smear of dried blood at the corner of his mouth.
Camille Kensington’s blood.
He turned on the tap and scrubbed his face until the skin was raw.
He didn’t want to think about the 50th floor.
He didn’t want to think about the cold, terrifying weight of a dying woman in his arms.
He just needed to make oatmeal.
“Dad?”
Tom turned off the water.
Lily stood in the doorway.
She was seven, wearing oversized unicorn pajamas, rubbing her eyes.
Her dark hair was a bird’s nest of tangles.
“Hey, bug,” Tom said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his tired eyes.
He crouched down.
“How’s the chest feel?”
“A little tight,” she squeaked.
She coughed, a dry, rattling sound that made Tom’s heart drop.
“Alright. Warm water and oatmeal. Let’s go.”
For the next two hours, Tom played the role.
He was the invincible dad.
He made breakfast, packed a lunch of half a turkey sandwich and an apple, and braided her hair.
He walked her three blocks to the elementary school, holding her small hand.
He didn’t feel like a man who had saved a billionaire’s life.
He felt like a father trying to keep his kid breathing.
When he finally got back to the apartment, it was 9:00 AM.
He had six hours to sleep before he had to wake up, pick Lily up, make dinner, and go back to the tower.
He collapsed onto the unmade bed, barely managing to kick off his boots.
He reached for his phone to set his alarm.
There were forty-two missed calls.
Tom stared at the screen.
His brow furrowed.
Frank.
Frank again.
An unknown number.
Frank.
Another unknown number.
He unlocked the phone.
A text message from Frank sat at the top of his notifications.
HODGES.
TURN ON CHANNEL 5.
NOW.
A cold spike of dread nailed Tom to the mattress.
He grabbed the TV remote from the nightstand and clicked the power button.
The morning news anchor, a perfectly coiffed woman with a serious expression, was speaking over a graphic that read: VANGUARD CEO IN CRITICAL CONDITION.
“…rushed to Northwestern Memorial early this morning,” the anchor was saying.
“Sources say Camille Kensington suffered a severe allergic reaction. But what is truly shocking the financial world this morning is the leaked security footage from her private office.”
The screen cut.
It was black-and-white, grainy, high-angle footage from the security dome on the 50th floor.
There was no audio.