Chapter 14 Anthony
Anthony
Ihaven’t invited a woman into my home in six years.
Not since the crash. Not since the press.
Not since I stood at the edge of the penthouse terrace with a glass of whisky and a chest full of rage while reporters plastered the literal wreckage of my marriage on every financial, fashion, and big-name blog and tabloid. And now she’s coming here.
I tell myself it’s because the hotel is no longer secure. Karen ruined it and the game has changed. The hotel is compromised, and the risk of being seen is too high. This is simple logistics, not sentiment. It has to be.
I dismiss my chef for the evening and tell him I’ll handle dinner myself. He raises an eyebrow and gives me a barely concealed smirk, but he leaves without comment. I appreciate that. The staff know better than to hang around when I don’t want them too.
At exactly seven, the elevator dings. I turn toward the door, adjusting my sleeves as I cross the living room. My heartbeat quickens. I’m nervous. I try to convince myself that I feel this way because I’m having a woman here, in my space, again. That’s all.
When I pull the door open, April stands there in an off-white blouse tucked into a short, flared brown skirt. A thick black belt with little ties cinches her waist, and the transparent tights she’s wearing make my mind stop functioning for a second.
Fuck.
Her hair’s pinned half up, hanging in soft curls around her cheeks and over her shoulders.
There is just a hint of red tinting her lips, and her glasses sit lower on her nose than usual.
She looks half like a librarian and half like the woman who was moaning my name in a hotel room yesterday afternoon. God, I’m going to ruin that shirt.
“Hi,” she says, her cheeks flushing just a tad, the way they do every goddamn time.
“Hi,” I answer, leaning on the door frame. “You were almost late.”
Her eyes narrow. “It’s not my fault; we live in Manhattan.”
My lips twitch at the corner. “Fair.” I push off the door and gesture for her to come in, listening to each click of her heels as I turn and lead her toward the kitchen.
“Your place is…nice,” she says. The tone of her voice is mostly easy, but I can sense a faint nervousness in it. “A small upgrade from the Four Seasons.”
I stop, turning back to look at her. “Karen doesn’t have surveillance of my building. At least, not the inside of it. Who fucking knows if she’s camped out across the street.”
April shivers dramatically, glancing toward the massive window across the space. “She freaks me out.”
“Welcome to the club.”
She steps around me, taking in more of the space, and I let myself watch her.
Her eyes rake over the floor-to-ceiling windows, the clean lines, the crisp leather, and the dark wood.
Soft lighting and the skyline outside light up the room.
Everything is precise, nothing too soft, nothing that looks too lived-in.
She doesn’t say it, but I can see her questioning my living here. I can see her processing that this doesn’t feel like a home, and that’s by design.
“So…where’s the bedroom?” She asks, leaning to get a look down a hallway.
“We’re eating first.” I tilt my head toward the kitchen on the other side of the wall. “Need my strength.” She raises her eyebrows and snaps back at me. “Your strength?”
“I’m not getting any younger,” I say, keeping my expression painfully neutral despite the fact that I want to laugh. “Sex takes energy, April, and I’ve been working all day.”
She laughs; a real, full laugh. She throws her head back, and the sound vibrating from her lights something in my chest like a struck match. “You have to stop trying to be funny. It’s starting to worry me.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
“Uh-huh.” She follows me toward the dining nook, still grinning. “Next thing I know you’ll be asking me to get you one of those little blue pills.”
I shoot her a look. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Sure, Grandpa.”
I suppress the urge to throw her over my shoulder and take her down the hallway right now. Her bratty streak is growing bolder by the day, and I don’t hate it.
Dinner’s simple: grilled salmon, wild rice, and sautéed greens. I plate it myself, get her a glass of water and myself a glass of wine, and sit across from her like this is something I do regularly. Like I’ve ever done it with anyone since Natalie died.
“What? I’m not allowed to have any of your fancy wine?” she pouts, looking up at me with those goddamn puppy eyes that make me reconsider every choice in my life.
“Don’t want to risk it in case you’re already pregnant,” I answer as I hand her the glass of water. She has the audacity to poke out her lower lip at me. I hook a finger under her jaw and smooth my thumb over her lip. “Hey. Don’t pout at me.”
“I want wine.”
“I know you do.” I can feel my eyes rolling. “Doesn’t mean you’re getting it.”
“Fine,” she huffs.
She doesn’t comment on the food while we eat.
I’m not entirely sure if that’s mercy or a compliment, but I’m absolutely positive I overcooked the salmon.
For a few minutes, we eat in silence, and the clink of forks on plates is the only sound between us.
But then she breaks it, like she always does.
“So, have you always lived here?”
I nod once. “Since I was thirty. Bought the building, gutted the penthouse, rebuilt it, sold off the units below.”
Her eyes widen. “You own the entire building?”
“Yes.”
She lets out a low whistle and shoves a bite of salmon into her mouth, chews, and swallows. “Of course you do.”
“Surprised?” I ask, taking a sip of wine.
“The opposite.”
Our conversation develops slowly. She asks me how my father and I built the company, why it includes the Bartley’s when I’m no longer married to one, and other family questions, including how I am the last Voss.
I give her brief, factual answers, sticking to safe ground.
I do not mention the history with my ex-wife or the coffin with two names from one flight manifest.
“I was considering quitting,” she says quietly, “before all this.”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “Why?”
Her lips quirk at the side. “You,” she says plainly, as if that explains everything. “I couldn’t have, though. Not really.”
“Why?” I find myself asking again. The part of me that shouldn’t pry or care starts flaring to life. “If I’m honest, April, you’re well-qualified and have plenty of experience. You could have gone somewhere else.”
She shakes her head, chewing. “You pay more than most in the city.” She shrugs. “And I don’t have any savings. Well, at least I didn’t before now…so I wouldn’t have been able to handle the interim between jobs.”
My eyes narrow. “You’re twenty-eight. You don’t have savings? Is it because of student loans, or…?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Okay, first, it’s not that crazy for someone my age not to have been able to save money nowadays,” she says, pointing her fork at me accusingly. “And second, no. My student loans aren’t too bad. Most of my money was going to my sister. Still is.”
My brows lift. “Why?”
April shrugs, her blouse shifting. “Her daughter’s sick.
Like, really sick. Cancer-adjacent. Histiocytosis.
Angela’s basically been drowning in medical bills for the last year.
She can’t really work while taking care of Ava, so I’ve been giving her almost half of my paychecks.
” She pushes the food around on her plate.
“Her insurance barely covers anything. I didn’t know how I was going to keep helping since things were just going up in price. ”
I set my fork down, my throat suddenly too tight to eat anything.
“But then I sent that stupid text to you by mistake, and you offered…this,” she says, her gaze meeting mine again.
“Don’t get me wrong, I did it partly for myself, and I don’t think I’d have been able to resist even if circumstances were different.
But mostly, it wasn’t about wanting to sleep with you.
I’m giving Angela as much as she needs from what you’re paying me. It’s about them.”
The words hit harder than they should, and a pulse of something sharp radiates through my chest. Of course she’s doing this for someone else; of course she’s that kind of woman.
I’ve no idea what to say to that. I take a breath and force the emotion down, fast and deep.
I can’t afford to sit in it, not when this was never meant to be personal.
“My driver will take you home once we’re finished,” I say instead, entirely changing the subject.
I can not engage with what she has just confessed to me.
I can’t get involved. So, I say something bland and off-topic.
“Moving forward, you can use him instead of the subway.”
She flinches a little. It’s subtle, but I catch it. “Okay.”
I set my napkin down on the table and chug the last few dregs of wine. Then I push my chair back and stand up. Nodding toward the hallway, I say, “Come on.”
She blinks at me, but she gets up and follows. No arguments, no jokes, no deflection.
I can still feel the ache in my chest when I get her to the bedroom.
I can still hear her words replaying in my head when I’m inside her.
And I know, deep down, it’ll stick with me, and I won’t be able to forget about that.
I’ll carry it in silence because that’s the deal.
Whatever this is, it doesn’t get to be more than that, for both our sakes.