Chapter 2 Nathaniel #2
The apartment complex was worse than I'd imagined: crumbling brick, windows like missing teeth, graffiti crawling up the walls. The black M5 Touring I drove there looked obscene parked on the street. A group of teenagers on the corner eyed it with open calculation.
I didn't care about the car. I didn't care about anything except the fourth floor, apartment 4B.
The stairwell smelled of mildew and old cooking oil. I took the steps two at a time, my heart pounding against my chest. Fourth floor. End of the hall. A door with peeling paint and a yellow notice laid at its feet.
NOTICE TO VACATE.
I knocked. Three sharp raps.
The door opened.
She was younger than I'd expected. Mid-twenties, maybe. Auburn hair escaping a messy bun. Eyes that were more blue than hazel in this light, holding a worry that seemed too deep for tonight alone. Mended jeans. An oversized cardigan that had seen better years. She looked exhausted. She looked kind.
"She's safe," she said simply, and stepped back.
I pushed past her. Scanned the room, it was small and dim, with sparse furniture that looked like it might collapse under a strong opinion. And there, on a sagging couch wrapped in a faded fleece blanket, was my daughter.
My Millie.
The sound that escaped me wasn't dignified. It was somewhere between a gasp and a sob, ripped from a place I usually kept locked. I crossed the room in two strides, dropped to my knees before her, and pulled her into my arms.
"Daddy," she whispered.
"I'm here." My voice cracked. "I'm here, sweetheart. I've got you."
She burrowed into my chest, small arms wrapping around my neck with surprising strength. I could feel her heartbeat against mine, quick but steady. Alive. Safe. And here with me.
"I'm sorry I ran away," she said, her voice muffled against my shirt. "I just thought… I thought you didn’t want… I didn't want to scare you."
"Don't apologize." I pulled back just enough to look at her face, to catalog every feature, to confirm she was really okay. "Are you hurt? Did anyone—"
"Miss Claire took care of me." Millie's eyes flickered to the woman hovering near the door. "She gave me soup and her blanket and let me watch TV. She was really nice, Daddy."
I followed her gaze to ‘Miss Claire’, who was standing with her arms wrapped around herself, watching us with an expression I couldn't quite read.
Behind her, I could see the kitchen through an open doorway, cupboards hanging open, revealing bare shelves.
On the coffee table: two empty soup cans. Two spoons.
The clues and small pieces of evidence clicked in my head. This woman had nothing. And she'd given my daughter the last of her food.
I stood slowly, Millie's hand clasped in mine. "The reward," I said to Claire. "Ten million dollars. I announced it publicly. It's yours."
Her reaction was not what I expected. She actually flinched, taking a step backward like I'd raised a hand to her.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"The reward. For finding my daughter. I'll have my lawyer transfer it immediately."
"I didn't—" She shook her head, a crease forming between her brows. "No. I don't want that."
"It's not a question of wanting. It's what I offered. It's what you've earned."
"I haven't earned anything." Her voice was firmer now, her chin lifting. "She showed up at my door, soaking wet and terrified. I gave her soup. That's not something you pay people for."
"You gave her your last food." I gestured toward the empty cans. "You're being evicted. You clearly need—"
"Don't." Her words came out sharp. Her eyes flashed with something that looked like offense, maybe even anger. "Don't tell me what I need. I helped her because she was a scared child. Not because I wanted anything from you."
I stared at her, genuinely baffled. In my world, everything was transactional. Favors created debts. Services required payment. That was how systems functioned. That was how people functioned.
"It's ten million dollars," I said, as if she hadn't understood the number.
"I don't care if it's a hundred million." She crossed her arms over her chest, that oversized cardigan making her look smaller than she probably was. "I'm not taking it."
"That's..." I searched for the right word. "Irrational."
Something flickered across her face—amusement, maybe, buried under the exhaustion and the pride. "Probably," she agreed. "But it's also my decision."
I didn't know what to do with that. I was a man who solved problems with resources; usually, they moved people, and given enough of it, they even moved mountains.
But she’d just taken away every tool from my hands and was steadier than nature as she stood at her doorway, rejecting me.
"Daddy?" Millie tugged at my sleeve. "Can we go home now?"
"Yes." I refocused on what mattered. "Yes, sweetheart. Let's go home."
I helped Millie into her jacket, still slightly damp, and shouldered the backpack that seemed absurdly large for her small frame. At the door, I paused.
"Thank you," I said. The words felt inadequate. "Miss...?"
"Cross. Claire Cross." She offered a small, tired smile. "And you're welcome. She's a good kid, Mr. Sterling. Whoever made her run…" She hesitated, seemed to think better of finishing the sentence. "Just... take care of her."
"I intend to."
I walked out into the dim hallway, Millie's hand warm in mine. Behind me, I heard the door close softly. The eviction notice fluttered in the draft.
The drive home took longer. I drove carefully now, Millie was precious cargo in the backseat. She was quiet at first, watching the city lights blur past the window. Then, slowly, she began to talk.
"Miss Claire was really nice, Daddy."
"I know, sweetheart."
"She gave me her only blanket. And she said the soup was all she had, but she gave me most of it anyway."
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. "That was very kind of her."
"She has a picture of her mom in a necklace. Her mom is in heaven too, like mummy." Millie's voice was thoughtful. "She said people who love us are always watching, even when we can't see them. Do you think that's true?"
"I think..." I swallowed past the tightness in my throat. "I think your mother is always watching you, Millie. Always."
"Miss Claire doesn’t have much stuff." Millie was staring out the window again. "Her apartment is really small. And her TV only has one channel."
"I noticed."
"Can we help her, Daddy?"
I glanced in the rearview mirror. Millie's gray-blue eyes, Michaela's eyes, were fixed on me with an earnestness that cut right through my chest.
"I tried to help her, sweetheart. I offered her money. She didn't want it."
"Maybe she does not want money," Millie said to me as if it were obvious, like her father was missing something simple. "Maybe she wants something else."
I didn't have an answer for that. I pulled into our driveway, past the iron gates, past the security cameras, and parked in front of a house that suddenly felt too large and too empty despite all the people inside it.
James met us at the door. He crouched down to Millie's level, his face a mix of relief and poorly hidden emotion.
"Hey, peanut." His voice was gruff. "You scared us pretty good."
"I'm sorry, Uncle James."
"Don't be sorry. Just—" He pulled her into a hug. "Don't do it again, okay?"
Over Millie's head, his eyes met mine. A question in them. Later, I mouthed. He nodded.
Victoria emerged from the living room, her performance mask firmly in place. "Oh, thank goodness!" She moved toward Millie with arms outstretched. "Sweetheart, we were so worried—"
Millie stepped behind my legs.
Victoria's smile faltered. "Darling, what's wrong? Aren't you happy to see me?"
"I want to go to bed," Millie said quietly, her hand gripping my trousers. "Daddy, can you take me to bed?"
"Of course." I lifted her into my arms, ignoring Victoria's tight expression. "Say goodnight, Millie."
"Goodnight, Uncle James."
She didn't say anything to Victoria.
Later, after Millie was bathed and tucked in and sleeping with her stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest, I stood in my study with a glass of whiskey I hadn't touched.
James was sprawled in the leather chair across from me.
Victoria had retreated to her wing of the house, her fury palpable even through the walls.
"So," James said. "What happened?"
I told him. The woman in the crumbling apartment. The eviction notice. The empty cupboards. The two cans of soup. The refusal of ten million dollars.
James let out a low whistle. "She turned down ten million."
"Flat out refused. Said she didn't do it for money."
"People don't do that, Nate."
"She did." I was as dumbfounded as he was; neither of us saw this before.
He was quiet for a moment, studying me with the particular perception of a twenty-year friendship. "You're going to do something about this, aren't you?"
"She gave Millie her last meal. She's about to be homeless."
"And she told you she doesn't want your help."
"She told me she doesn't want my money." I finally took a sip of the whiskey. "That's not the same thing."
James shook his head slowly, but there was a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "You know, most people hear 'no' and accept it."
"I'm not most people."
"No." He stood, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You're definitely not. Just… be careful, Nate. She's not one of your acquisitions. You can't just buy your way into her good graces."
"I'm not trying to buy her good graces. I'm trying to repay a debt."
"Uh-huh." His tone was skeptical. "And it has nothing to do with the fact that she's apparently the first woman in years who's made your daughter light up like that?"
I didn't answer.
After James left, I sat alone in the dark, turning the whiskey glass in my hands.
I thought about Claire Cross in her threadbare apartment with her empty cupboards and her fierce, proud eyes.
I thought about how Millie had talked about her the whole drive home: the nice lady, the soup like Mama used to make it, the blanket that she gifted my daughter.
I thought about control, and how I'd built my entire life around maintaining it. How I'd failed to control the things that mattered most: My wife's illness, my daughter's safety, the poison slowly seeping into my home through Victoria's carefully constructed cruelty.
Claire had nothing. No money, no power, no leverage.
Maybe she doesn't want money. Maybe she wants something else.
I didn't know what else to offer. Money was the language I spoke, the tool I wielded, the solution to every problem I'd ever faced.
But as I sat there in the dark, I struggled and thought of something else. It couldn’t be a reward, she'd refused that. I was starting to understand that pushing it would only insult her. It had to be something different. Something she couldn't refuse because it wouldn't look like charity.
Her rent. Her student loans. A job offer she'd be crazy to turn down.
I'd give her back her stability, her security, her future. It was the only way I knew how to say thank you. The only currency I understood.
A small part of me wanted to see her again, wanted to understand how someone could have so little and still give so freely… well.
That was just curiosity. Nothing more.
I finished my whiskey and reached for my phone. It was about time to make some calls.
Claire Cross had no idea what was about to hit her. But she would, by morning.
And something told me she wasn't going to take it well.