Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MIREYA
“First and last month’s rent,” the landlord said, handing me the lease. His voice sounded tired like he had said those same words a thousand times already. He was old, with a shiny bald head and a polo shirt that had sweat marks under both arms. “Sign here. And here. Then put your initials there.”
The apartment smelled faintly of old carpet mixed with lemon cleaner. I stood in the middle of the empty living room and slowly turned, trying to take everything in.
It was tiny and a far cry from Riven’s perfect penthouse.
But this one belonged to me.
I signed without hesitation. My hand moved across the paper as though my body knew what to do even if my heart lagged behind.
“You get the keys now.” He dropped them into my palm, metal cold against my skin. “If you run into issues, call the number on the papers. Water is covered. Electricity is yours.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He didn’t linger. He walked out and shut the door, and his footsteps echoed down the hallway until I couldn’t hear him anymore.
I had saved for three long weeks and stacked every bit of my earnings from the hospital and from caring for Emma to make this happen.
The plan had been simple and sensible. Save money. Find a place. Move out. Rebuild my life into something normal again.
But why did my chest feel like it had been run over by a ten-wheeler truck?
I walked to the window and pressed my hand to the glass.
The alley outside looked gray and unfriendly.
I could see a rusted dumpster sitting crooked in the corner, a small bike was chained to a metal fence, wheels squeaking in the breeze, and someone had painted graffiti in wild colors on the opposite wall.
This was life. This was ordinary. This was what people could afford without trust funds and penthouses.
No panoramic views of the city. No marble countertops gleaming under designer lighting. No rooms larger than most people's entire apartments.
Just this.
I should’ve been proud, enjoyed my growth and independence. But there was only this strange emptiness settling in my stomach.
I slid down to the floor and rested my back against the wall. My legs stretched out across the laminate flooring as I stared at the small window.
The apartment had no sound to fill the space. No Emma's laughter echoing from down the hall. No steady rhythm of Riven's morning routine. No quiet hum of expensive appliances or the distant pulse of a city that felt close enough to touch.
The silence pressed heavy on my chest, concrete-thick, reminding me of everything I'd walked away from and everything I wasn't allowed to say out loud.
I watched the afternoon light shift across the floor and tried convincing myself this was what I wanted. This was part of the plan, the smart choice, the responsible path forward.
But none of it settled right.
Eventually I stood, locked the door behind me, and took a bus to the hospital for my afternoon shift.
I was walking in the hallway when someone called after me.
“Mireya.”
I turned. August Cross stood there in his usual expensive suit and polished shoes, wearing that practiced smile that always made me tense.
“Mr. Cross,” I said.
“August,” he corrected gently. “Please.”
He leaned against the doorframe like he owned the building. “Have you had time to consider my offer?”
“I’m still thinking about it,” I said.
“Good. That’s wise. No one should rush big decisions.” His arms crossed over his chest. “The position is yours whenever you want it. No deadlines. No pressure.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Someone with your talent shouldn’t feel limited by their current situation.” His tone stayed pleasant, but there was a thin edge under it that made my shoulders stiffen. “With the right environment, you could do much more.”
The words carried a shadow behind them. They didn’t mention Riven, but I could hear his name between the lines.
“I’m learning a lot where I am now,” I replied.
“Of course, you are.” August smiled again, but it didn’t warm his eyes. “But excellent surgeons don't always make the best employers. And certain arrangements can make professional boundaries messy.”
My stomach twisted. “I’m sorry?”
“All I’m saying is that living and working with the same person can create complications. It’s something you should think about.”
He knew.
Does he have someone watching Riven?
“Thank you for the advice,” I said coolly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Good.” He straightened and buttoned his suit jacket. “Call me when you decide. The offer doesn’t expire.”
With that, he walked away, leaving the air strangely static behind him.
I stood there gripping a box of surgical gloves, willing my hands steady, the hallway walls pressing closer.
August's words echoed through my mind as the rest of my shift blurred—surgeries, patient assessments, endless documentation all passing in a haze.
By the time I reached the penthouse, it was close to nine. The elevator ride up didn’t feel the same. It felt like visiting rather than returning home.
Because this had never been my home.
It belonged to Riven and I had only lived here because circumstances made it convenient for him.
I stepped inside. The lights glowed warmly in the kitchen, and I heard the soft mumble of Emma’s television from her room. I took a breath and walked straight to my own room, closing the door quietly behind me.
My laptop sat on the nightstand. I opened it and stared at a blank document for several seconds before beginning to type.
Dr. Cross,
I wanted to let you know that I’ve found an apartment and will be able to move out in two weeks.
I’m very grateful for the chance to care for Emma and for the housing you provided during a difficult period.
This arrangement has been extremely helpful, but I believe I need to return to living independently.
The words looked correct on the screen, but they pierced me in a way I couldn’t explain.
I kept typing anyway.
I will continue caring for Emma during this time and remain in my role until we’ve agreed on a transition plan that works best for your family. Please let me know what timeline makes the most sense for you.
Thank you for all your support.
Sincerely,
Mireya Rosen
My finger hovered above the send button. I couldn't press it.
I saved the draft instead and closed the laptop slowly.
An hour later, I had the letter open again.
I sat cross-legged on the bed with the laptop warming my thighs, the screen casting pale light across my room. My eyes scanned each line, each sentence, looking for excuses to change something.
But I still couldn’t make myself press send.
My fingers hovered above the trackpad, frozen, until my hand dropped away. A quiet exhale slipped out of me.
I pushed myself up and left the room. Told myself I only needed water. I wasn’t avoiding anything. I wasn’t stalling. I was thirsty.
That was all.
The penthouse was dim except for the soft pool of light above the kitchen island. The fridge hummed quietly. The city glowed through the windows like embers in a fireplace—warm, soft, too pretty for how unsettled I felt.
Riven sat at the island surrounded by a neat spread of papers. His laptop sat open in front of him. And a pair of reading glasses rested on the bridge of his nose.
I stopped in the doorway. I'd never seen him wear glasses before. They made him look different—softer somehow, more approachable, devastatingly attractive.
My breath caught.
He looked up when he sensed movement.
“Hey,” he said, voice low.
“Hey.” I walked to the sink and filled a glass with water. “Working late?”
“Reviewing case files for tomorrow.” He took off the glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, thumb and forefinger pressing the spots tension liked to collect. “You just got back?”
“Yeah.” I drank. “Long shift.”
“How was it?”
“Fine.”
He gave me a knowing look that said he didn't believe me. But he didn't call me on the lie. Just studied me for a moment longer before putting his glasses back on and returning his attention to his laptop.
I stood there with my glass halfway to my lips, pretending to drink water I didn’t want just so I didn’t have to leave. I watched him scroll through a file. His dark hair fell forward and he pushed it back, the gesture was one I’d seen dozens of times already.
I’d learned the rhythm of him without trying.
The way he cracked his knuckles methodically before operating.
How his voice dropped lower when he talked to Emma.
How he ignored exhaustion until his body forced acknowledgment.
The faint scar on his left hand from a skiing accident Emma had mentioned.
The slight rasp in his voice after marathon surgical days.
His quiet habit of checking the apartment every night before bed—like he couldn't help ensuring everything and everyone was safe.
“Are you okay?” Riven asked suddenly.
I blinked. He was watching me with that unsettling steadiness, as if he didn't mind taking his time.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I am fine.”
He held my gaze for a few seconds then nodded, as if filing the answer away somewhere.
I set my empty glass in the sink. The metal clink was too loud in the quiet kitchen. I should’ve said goodnight and gone back to my room.
But I didn’t.
He returned to his laptop. Clicked. Scrolled. Adjusted his glasses. A breath of concentration left him as he scribbled a note on one of the papers.
Watching him work was frustratingly, dangerously attractive.
He didn't notice the effect he had. Or maybe he did and simply refused to acknowledge it—just like I did.
"Goodnight," I finally forced out, because staying longer felt reckless.
He looked up, those gray eyes meeting mine. "Goodnight, Mireya."
My heart plummeted at the sound of my own name in his voice.
I bit my lip and went back to my room before I could overthink it, closing the door to separate me from the unnamed emotions I was feeling.
I opened my laptop again and stared at the resignation letter. It looked exactly the same as it had an hour ago.
Except now I hated it.
My phone buzzed, startling me. Mom’s name lit up the screen.
I answered immediately. "Hey, Mom."
"Mireya! How are you, sweetheart?" Her voice bubbled with warmth through the phone.
“I’m good. How’s everything going?”
"Everything is wonderful. Evelyn has been so welcoming—I've really missed spending time with her."
"That's great, Mom."
"How are you? How's the live-in position?"
There it was. The question that made my throat dry. I picked at a loose thread on the blanket.
“Actually… I found an apartment.”
There was a small silence. “An apartment?”
“Yeah. I signed the lease today.” I sat straighter, forcing my voice steady. “It’s two bedrooms. Small, but affordable. We can move in anytime.”
“Oh, Mireya.” Her voice went soft with relief. “That’s wonderful! After everything that happened. Losing our place, and all that stress. You worked so hard for this.”
“We both did,” I said quietly.
“When were you thinking we’d move?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe two weeks? I need to give proper notice."
"I'll start packing our things from Evelyn's. She'll be relieved to have her space back." Mom laughed. "Three kids plus me crammed in there. Your aunt is a saint for putting up with us.”
“She loves having you there.”
"Maybe. But everyone's ready for their own space again. Including us."
We were both quiet for a heartbeat. “Are you sure you’re ready to leave the live-in position? Is everything alright with Dr. Cross?"
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. Another lie. Or maybe not a lie. Just not the truth. “It’s just time to move on.”
“Of course. You need your own space. Your own life.” She hesitated. “You sound tired, sweetheart.”
“Just a long day.”
We talked for a few more minutes. About therapy, Lyra’s classes, and mundane things that felt far away from the penthouse, from Riven and Emma, and everything that had quietly become part of my daily life.
When we hung up, I didn’t move right away. I stared at my phone, the screen dimming and then going dark in my hand.
Everyone was proud of me. They were happy I was moving forward and I’d clawed back stability after everything had unraveled.
So why did I feel like I was about to ruin something?