Single Dad Janitor Kissed A Billionaire To Save Her Life — And Then Everything Changed
“Okay,” Tom said quietly.
He pushed the bag back toward the pharmacist.
“Never mind. Thank you.”
He took Lily’s hand and walked out of the store.
The Houston wind hit them immediately, biting through Tom’s thin denim jacket.
It was a bleak, overcast afternoon.
“I’m sorry, dad,” Lily mumbled, pulling her knit hat down over her ears.
Tom stopped.
He knelt on the concrete, ignoring the cold seeping through his jeans.
He grabbed her shoulders gently.
“Hey. Look at me.”
She looked up.
Her eyes were wide, anxious.
She knew the math didn’t work.
Kids always knew when the math didn’t work.
“You don’t apologize for breathing, bug. You hear me? Never.” Tom forced a smile.
He smoothed her tangled hair.
“We’ll get it tomorrow. I’ll ask Frank for an advance. We have enough in the old inhaler to get through tonight.”
It was a lie.
The old inhaler was sputtering.
But he needed her to stop looking so terrified.
They walked the remaining four blocks to their apartment building.
The neighborhood was a patchwork of crumbling brick facades and overgrown lots.
The lobby smelled like boiled cabbage and damp dog.
Tom checked his phone as they walked up the three flights of stairs.
Frank hadn’t texted back.
Tom had tried to call Vanguard HR twice.
Both times, he was transferred to a generic voicemail.
He was locked out of the employee portal.
He didn’t exist anymore.
The system had swallowed him whole and spat out the bones.
He unlocked the apartment door, ushered Lily inside, and locked the deadbolt behind them.
“Go wash your hands,” Tom said, stripping off his jacket.
“I’ll make some pasta.”
He walked into the tiny kitchen.
He opened the fridge.
Half a carton of milk, a jar of cheap mustard, and a brick of cheddar cheese.
He closed it.
He leaned his forehead against the cool, dented metal of the door.
He had nothing left to sell.
He had pawned his late wife’s wedding band three years ago to pay for Lily’s hospital stay when the asthma first manifested.
He drove a car with a cracked engine block.
He scrubbed toilets for a company that had just erased him to save face.
A sharp knock on the front door made him jump.
Tom froze.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
Cops, he thought.
Frank said they were looking for me.
They think I assaulted her.
He moved silently down the narrow hallway.
Lily peaked her head out of the bathroom.
Tom held a finger to his lips.
He pressed his eye against the peephole.
It wasn’t the police.
Standing in the dim, flickering light of the hallway was a woman.
She was wearing a tailored charcoal overcoat.
Her dark hair was pulled back sharply.
Even through the distorted glass of the peephole, Tom recognized the icy, uncompromising eyes.
Camille Kensington.
Tom didn’t move.
He held his breath.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
It wasn’t a frantic knock.
It was measured.
Deliberate.
The knock of someone who owned the door and the building it was attached to.
“I know you’re in there, Mr. Hodges,” a voice called out.
It was raspy, strained, completely devoid of the usual corporate polish.
“My security team tracked your license plate. Open the door.”
Tom unfastened the deadbolt.
He turned the knob and pulled the door open just enough to block the entryway with his body.
Camille stood there.
Up close, the damage was obvious.
A dark, ugly bruise was blooming along her jawline.
Her neck was red and irritated.
She looked exhausted, pale, and entirely out of place in a hallway that smelled of garbage and old fry grease.