The Apartment
The nursery lamp cast a soft golden circle on the crib, but the light felt cold tonight.
Christian sat in the rocking chair, Symphony cradled tightly against his chest. The baby was burning.
.. skin hot and flushed, tiny body restless, little fists clenching and unclenching in distress.
She had been like this since Melody left three days ago.
Feverish. Refusing to feed. Crying in short, exhausted bursts that broke his heart every time.
He didn’t understand.
She had only seen her mother for an hour a day... supervised, brief, never enough to form a real bond.
Yet she had been fine before.
Now she was wasting away, refusing the bottle, turning her face away from formula like it was poison.
Christian rocked her slowly, one hand cradling her head, the other gently patting her back. Her temperature had climbed again,102.8 last check, and the pediatrician’s words kept echoing in his head: Stress can manifest physically in infants. Separation from the primary caregiver…
Primary caregiver.
Melody.
He swallowed hard and lifted the bottle again, warm formula dripping slightly from the nipple.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice low and pleading. “Just a little. Please, baby girl. Daddy needs you to eat. You have to try.”
He brushed the nipple against her lips.
Symphony turned her head sharply, small mouth pressing into a tight line. A weak, fussy whimper escaped her.
Christian’s throat tightened.
“Please… just a sip. For me. For you. You need to get strong again.”
He tried once more. She refused again, lips sealed, tiny body arching away in protest.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
He hadn’t cried since Ashton's death.
But watching his daughter starve herself undid him.
He set the bottle aside and pulled her closer, cheek resting against her fever-hot forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, Symphony. I didn’t know… I didn’t understand what this would do to you.”
He rocked her slowly, humming the lullaby he’d heard Melody sing.
His voice was rough, unsteady, but he kept going.
Symphony’s cries softened.
Her small body relaxed against his chest.
Her breathing evened out, feverish but steady.
She fell asleep.
Hungry.
Christian stayed there for a long time... rocking, holding her, staring at the wall with wet eyes.
The nursery was quiet except for the soft creak of the chair and the baby’s shallow breaths.
He looked down at her tiny face, so much like Melody’s, and felt something inside him fracture.
She wasn’t just his daughter.
She was theirs.
A part of Melody’s body, her soul, her heart.
And he had torn that part away.
He pressed his lips to Symphony’s fever-damp forehead.
“Please, Symphony... Forgive Daddy.”
×××××××
The apartment was small, but it was hers again. Melody stood in the middle of the wreckage for a long moment, the framed photo still clutched against her chest like a shield.
Then she moved.
Slowly.
Carefully.
One small task at a time.
She righted the overturned coffee table first, wincing as the motion pulled at her healing thigh.
She swept the broken glass into a pile with her hands, ignoring the tiny cuts on her palms. She folded the torn throw blanket and placed it back on the couch, even though the cushions were slashed.
She gathered the scattered books and stacked them neatly on the shelf, spines facing out like soldiers standing at attention despite their wounds.
Every action was deliberate.
Every movement a promise.
She spoke to Symphony as she worked, voice soft, trembling, but steady.
“I’m cleaning up, baby,” she whispered, kneeling to pick up a cracked mug she used to love.
“See? Mama’s making it nice again. Just like before.
You’ll have your own little corner when you come home.
I’ll get you a crib right here by the window so you can see the rain.
You love the rain, don’t you? Just like Daddy. ”
She paused, throat closing.
“I’m going to get you back soon, my love. I promise. I don’t know how yet… but I will. I’ll fight. I’ll work. I’ll do whatever it takes. You’re mine. You’re part of me. And nothing can keep us apart forever.”
She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweater, smearing dust and tears together.
“I miss you so much it hurts here—” she pressed a hand to her chest “—but I’m not giving up. Not ever. I’m going to make this place safe. Warm. Ready for you. And when I bring you home, we’ll never be apart again. I swear it, Symphony. Mama swears.”
She stood, legs shaky, and moved to the kitchen. She wiped the counter with a damp rag she found under the sink, scrubbed the dust from the sink, even though the faucet sputtered rusty water at first.
She talked the whole time.
“You’ll have your own little blanket. We’ll read stories every night. I’ll sing you the lullaby you like, the one about the moon and the stars. And when it rains, we’ll sit by the window together and watch it fall. Just like I used to dream about.”
Her voice cracked again.
“I know you’re with Daddy right now. I know he loves you. But you need me too, baby. You need your mama. And I need you more than anything in the world.”
She finished wiping the counter, folded the rag, and placed it neatly beside the sink.
Then she walked back to the couch, sank down among the torn cushions, and pulled her knees to her chest.
The framed photo, her old, laughing self, sat beside her on the floor.
She picked it up again.
“I’m coming for you, Symphony,” she whispered to the empty room. “Soon. I promise.”
Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent.
Inside the tiny, broken apartment, Melody sat in the wreckage she had begun to mend, holding the promise of her daughter like the only light left in the dark.
And for the first time since she’d signed those papers, she let herself believe that she might still win her back.
×××××××
The city lights streamed past the tinted windows of the executive floor, a blur of gold and white against the dark sky.
Christian sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, staring at the stack of reports he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes.
Marcus leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, still wearing the same easy grin he’d had since the Tokyo trip.
“She’s back at that old apartment,” Marcus said casually, breaking the silence.
“The cramped one downtown. I followed her like you asked. She unlocked the door herself, went in, and… yeah. It’s still a wreck.
Wallpaper hanging in strips, furniture flipped, broken glass everywhere.
Looked like a tornado hit it and no one bothered to clean up. ”
Christian’s hand stilled on the pen he’d been turning over and over.
He didn’t look up.
“That place was wrecked,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “How will she live there? What will she eat? She didn’t even take the money.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow, smirk widening.
“No offense, boss, but you should’ve thought about that when you divorced her and threw her out with nothing.”
Christian exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration carving lines around his mouth.
“She isn’t my concern now,” he said, voice hard. “She can go fuck herself.”
Marcus let out a low, amused scoff. “Yeah, right.”
Christian’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “Marcus. Behave.”
Marcus raised both hands in mock surrender, grin still in place. “Apologies.”
Christian shook his head and leaned back in the leather chair, gaze drifting to the window again. The city lights reflected in his hazel eyes, distant and unreadable.
“She deserves worse,” he muttered. “For killing my brother.” He let out a bitter scoff. “And she keeps making up stories.”
Marcus didn’t reply this time. He just watched his boss stare out at the passing city, the silence stretching between them.
Christian’s fingers tightened around the pen until the plastic creaked.
He didn’t say anything else.
But the doubt, the one he’d tried so hard to bury, flickered again in the quiet.
And for the first time, he didn’t push it away.
×××××××
It was late... almost midnight.
I’d just gotten home from the office, exhausted, hair still damp from the rain.
I had barely locked the door when someone started pounding on it.
Heavy, insistent knocks that made my stomach drop.
I opened the door a crack, chain still on, and saw Ashton.
Drunk.
Shirt untucked, eyes bloodshot, reeking of whiskey and expensive cologne.
“Open the door, Melody,” he slurred, leaning against the frame. “We need to talk.”
I kept the chain on. “It’s late. Go home, Ashton.”
He laughed, low and ugly. “You don’t tell me what to do.”
Before I could close the door, he shoved it hard.
The chain snapped.
He stumbled inside, slamming the door behind him.
I backed up, heart slamming against my ribs.
He locked eyes with me and smiled, slow and predatory.
“You’ve been teasing me for months,” he said, advancing. “All those little looks. All that playing hard to get. You think I don’t see it?”
“I’ve never teased you,” I said, voice shaking but loud. “I’ve said no. Every time. Leave.”
He kept coming.
His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, yanking me toward him.
I smelled the alcohol on his breath, felt the heat of him pressing in.
“Come on,” he murmured, voice thick. “One night. That’s all I want. Then you can go back to pretending you’re too good for me.”
I tried to pull away.
He tightened his grip, other hand sliding to my waist, fingers digging in.
I panicked.
I slapped him hard. Ppen palm across his face.
The sound cracked through the apartment like thunder.
He staggered back, cheek blooming red, eyes wide with shock.
I shoved him, both hands against his chest, using every ounce of strength I had.
He stumbled toward the door.
“Get out,” I said, voice shaking but clear. “Get the hell out of my apartment.”
He stared at me, hand to his face, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth where my ring had cut him.
“You’ll regret this,” he said quietly, but the drunken haze had cleared a little.
He looked… surprised. Like he hadn’t expected me to fight.
I didn’t wait.
I pushed him again, harder.
He stumbled over the threshold.
I slammed the door.
Locked it.
Bolted it.
Leaned against it, sliding down to the floor, shaking so violently my teeth chattered.
I heard him curse outside.
He pounded twice, then the footsteps retreated down the hall.
I stayed there on the floor for hours.
Curled up, arms around my knees, crying silently until the shaking stopped.
The memory of his hands on me, the taste of his breath, the way he looked at me like I was something he could own, it haunted me.
I changed the locks the next day.
I started carrying a small knife in my bag.
I never opened the door without checking the peephole.
I decided to complain in the HR. No one would believe me, but I decided I'll still try.
—Melody
×××××××