Single Dad Janitor Kissed A Billionaire To Save Her Life — And Then Everything Changed
David hesitated.
He was twenty-eight, held a master’s degree from Wharton, and was currently terrified of a woman in a backless cotton gown.
He handed over the tablet.
Camille watched the grainy, black-and-white footage.
She watched herself collapse.
She watched the man in the gray jumpsuit slide into frame.
She didn’t see a lover.
She saw violence.
The desperate, mechanical violence of chest compressions.
She watched him force air into her lungs.
She remembered the sheer weight of him, the smell of industrial cleaner, the sheer terror that had gripped her right before the dark closed in.
The media was calling it a passionate embrace.
They were idiots.
He was keeping her from turning into a corpse on her Persian rug.
“The board convened an emergency session at seven this morning,” David said, his voice tight.
“They’re citing the morality clause in your contract. They’re saying you were intoxicated, engaging in inappropriate relations with a subordinate, and that it triggered a medical episode. They want a vote of no confidence.”
Camille handed the tablet back.
She didn’t blink.
“They’ve been waiting for an excuse to gut me since I fired Henderson last quarter. This is their leverage.”
“It’s working,” David said.
“Vanguard is down four percent in pre-market trading. The tabloids are running wild. We need a statement. We need to deny it, fire the employee, and threaten legal action.”
Camille looked up.
Her ice-blue eyes locked onto David, freezing him in place.
“Fire him,” she repeated.
The whisper made it sound infinitely more dangerous.
“Yes. It’s the standard crisis management protocol. We isolate the liability.”
“That ‘liability’ cracked three of my ribs keeping my heart beating until the paramedics arrived,” Camille said, standing up.
The room spun for a fraction of a second.
She grabbed the edge of the bed to steady herself.
“I was dead, David. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. He saved my life while security was busy checking IDs in the lobby.”
David swallowed.
“I understand that. But the optics—”
“I don’t care about the optics. I care about the fact that I owe him. And I don’t leave debts unpaid.” Camille walked to the small closet and pulled out the clothes David had brought her.
“Get HR on the phone. I want his name. I want his address. I want his employment file.”
“HR is refusing to release the file to my office,” David admitted, looking at the floor.
“They’re citing the active board investigation. They’ve locked his credentials.”
Camille stopped.
A cold, heavy silence filled the sterile hospital room.
“They locked him out,” she said.
“Standard protocol.”
Camille pulled her silk blouse over her shoulders, wincing as the fabric brushed against the raw skin of her neck.
“Get me my head of security. Bypass HR. Call Griggs. Tell him to track the keycard swipes on the 50th floor from last night. I want a name in ten minutes.”
Tom stood in the fluorescent glare of the neighborhood pharmacy.
The hum of the coolers behind him sounded like a dentist’s drill.
“Declined.”
The pharmacist, a tired-looking woman with thick glasses, slid the debit card back across the counter.
She didn’t make eye contact.
They never did.
Tom stared at the card.
It was a piece of cheap blue plastic.
It felt entirely useless.
He looked at the paper bag on the counter.
Inside was a generic albuterol inhaler.
Eighty-five dollars.
“Can you run it again?” Tom asked.
His voice sounded hollow.
“I ran it twice, sir. Insufficient funds.”
Tom closed his eyes.
The headache that had been building since he woke up finally cracked open behind his temples.
He had transferred his last fifty dollars to the checking account, hoping a pending charge hadn’t cleared.
It had.
He was overdrawn.
He looked down at Lily.
She was clinging to his pant leg, staring at the floor tiles.
She gave a small, dry cough.
The sound physically hurt him.