6. Cara
— ? —
Cara
One Week Later
The apartment above the laundromat is small.
Really small. A single room with a bed wedged into one corner and a kitchenette crammed into another. The bathroom is barely big enough to turn around in, and the only window looks out over an alley full of dumpsters.
But it’s clean. And it’s mine. And Marcus doesn’t know where it is.
Every morning, I wake to the smell of detergent drifting up from below. The rhythmic thump of dryers. The muffled conversations of people waiting for their clothes.
Every morning, I stand at my window with my coffee and watch the construction yard three blocks away. Watch Damien move through the chaos of lumber and machinery, shouting orders, hauling materials.
I tell myself it’s just habit. Something to look at while I figure out my next move.
I’m lying.
***
Damien’s office has become our strategy center.
Every surface is covered with documents. A whiteboard on the wall tracks our timeline - dates, names, amounts, connections. Photos are pinned to a corkboard: Marcus and Amanda at various locations, financial statements, screenshots of texts.
We work late into the night. Takeout containers pile up. Coffee goes cold.
“This one.” Damien slides a folder across the desk. “Three thousand dollars to something called ‘SunnyDay Consulting.’ Any idea what that is?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Neither has Google.” He frowns at his screen. “But the payments have been going out monthly for over a year.”
“A shell company?”
“Or a payoff. Someone he’s keeping quiet.”
Our knees bump under the desk. Neither of us mentions it.
I’ve started to notice things I shouldn’t. The way his forearms flex when he moves heavy equipment. The tattoo that disappears under his collar. I still don’t know what it is. The way he looks at me sometimes when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
Stop. Focus. This isn’t about him.
But it’s getting harder to remember that.
***
It’s past midnight. We’ve been staring at documents for six hours straight.
“I need a break.” I push back from the desk, rubbing my eyes. “My brain is turning to mush.”
“There’s roof access.” Damien stands, stretches. His shirt rides up, revealing a strip of tattooed skin. I look away too fast. “View’s not bad, if you don’t mind heights.”
We climb a metal ladder through a hatch in the ceiling. The warehouse roof is flat, covered in gravel, surrounded by a low wall. The city spreads out below us, lights glittering against the dark.
“I used to come up here when I first started the company,” Damien says. “When I couldn’t sleep. When everything felt impossible.”
“Does it still feel impossible?”
“Sometimes.” He glances at me. “Less now.”
We sit on the edge, legs dangling. The night is cool. Quiet. For the first time in weeks, I’m not thinking about Marcus or lawyers or all the ways my life has fallen apart.
“Can I ask you something?” I say. “Something not about Marcus?”
“That would be refreshing.”
“Why construction? After everything - the money, the privilege, the family - you could have done anything. Why this?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Staring out at the city.
“Because it’s real,” he says finally. “You build something, it exists. You can touch it, stand in it, watch people live their lives in it.” He picks up a piece of gravel, turns it over in his fingers.
“After years of my family’s bullshit - the lies, the manipulation, the way nothing was ever what it seemed - I needed something solid.
Something that couldn’t be spun or reframed or made to disappear. ”
“That makes sense.”
“What about you? Why nursing?”
“I wanted to help people.” I shrug. “Sounds naive, I know-”
“It doesn’t sound naive. It sounds good.”
I look at him. Really look. The sharp jaw. The dark eyes. The way the city lights cast shadows across his face.
“You’re not what I expected,” I say.
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Another Thorne. Polished. Calculating. Playing some angle I couldn’t see.”
“And now?”
“Now I think maybe you’re just… you.” I pause. “I’m still not sure I trust you. But I’m starting to think I might want to.”
Something shifts in his expression. Softens.
“That’s enough,” he says quietly. “For now, that’s enough.”
We sit in comfortable silence, watching the city lights, and I realize something has changed. I’m not just working with him anymore. I’m starting to actually see him.
And that terrifies me more than Marcus ever could.
***
The knock comes three days later.
I’m in Damien’s office, cross-referencing bank statements, when someone pounds on my apartment door upstairs.
I check the security camera Damien installed. My stomach drops.
Amanda.
I could ignore her. Pretend I’m not here. Call the police.
Instead, I walk upstairs and open the door.
“We need to talk.” Amanda pushes past me before I can stop her.
“Get out.”
“Not until you hear what I have to say.” She spins to face me. Her face is twisted with fury, but underneath it I see something else. Desperation. Fear. “You ruined everything. We were happy. He was going to leave you-”
“He was never going to leave me for you.” I keep my voice calm. “He was going to leave me when he was ready. You were just the exit strategy.”
“You don’t know anything about us-”
“I know he called you ‘a fun distraction’ in a group chat with his friends. I know he said you were ‘good for now’ and ‘not smart enough to be a problem.’”
She goes pale. “That’s not-”
“I have screenshots.” I pull out my phone. Show her. “This is what he really thinks of you, Amanda. This is what he says when you’re not around.”
She reads the messages. I watch the color drain from her face. Her hand moves to her stomach - protective, instinctive.
“No.” Her voice is thin. “He wouldn’t-”
“He would. He did.” I put the phone away. “You’re not special, Amanda. I wasn’t special either. We’re both just… useful. Until we’re not.”
“He said he loved me.”
“He says a lot of things.” I look at her belly. “Does he even know about the baby?”
Her face crumples.
“I was waiting for the right time.”
“And when is that? After his lawyers have destroyed my reputation? After he doesn’t need you anymore?”
“Shut up.” Her voice is louder now. Desperate. “You’re just jealous-”
She lunges at me.
I don’t think. Just react. Sidestep her clumsy swing, grab the glass of water from my nightstand, and throw it in her face.
“Get out of my apartment.” My voice is ice. “And when he gets bored of you - and he will - remember I tried to warn you.”
Amanda is sputtering, water dripping down her face, when footsteps sound on the stairs.
Damien appears in the doorway. His face is stone.
He doesn’t say a word. Just stares at Amanda until she scrambles past him and runs.
Her footsteps echo through the building. A door slams.
Silence.
“You okay?” Damien’s voice is rough.
“Yeah.” My heart is pounding. “Yeah, I think so.”
“She came at you?”
“She tried. Didn’t get very far.”
Something like a smile tugs at his mouth. “That was impressive.”
The tension in the room shifts. Changes into something else. I’m suddenly very aware of how close he’s standing. How small this apartment is. How his eyes keep dropping to my mouth.
“I should clean up this water,” I say.
“I’ll help.”
We kneel together, mopping up the spill with paper towels. Our hands brush. He looks up.
Our faces are inches apart.
“Cara…”
“Don’t.” I pull back. Stand up too fast. “I can’t. Not yet. Not while everything is still-”
“I know.” His voice is rough. “I just wanted you to know that when you’re ready… I’ll be here.”
“And if I’m never ready?”
“Then I’ll still be here.” He holds my gaze. “As your friend. Your ally. Whatever you need.”
I stare at him. This man who keeps giving me choices I never had with Marcus.
“I should go back to work,” I say. “We still have those bank records to go through.”
“Yeah.” He steps back. Creates distance. “We do.”
But as I follow him down the stairs, I can still feel it. That pull. That gravity.
I’m not sure how much longer I can pretend I don’t want him.