Chapter 3
Ryan
"For your own good, I won't be seeing you again."
One sentence. Clean. Final. No room for doubt.
I stared at those words until they blurred. Heat flared in my chest—sharp, sudden, furious. For my own good? Was he playing saint now? Confessing his sins at the altar?
What a joke.
I didn't cry. I hadn't cried since I was seven. I'd learned early how to shove everything down—the shame, the hurt, the weakness. Ryan, you knew better. How could you let a little warmth fool you?
I folded the note and shoved it into my wallet. I'd keep it close. A reminder. Don't be stupid again. Don't hand yourself over like that.
I stepped into the bathroom and turned the water cold. When I came back out to gather my clothes, I found my sweater torn, my jeans ruined. I had no choice but to wear what he'd left on the table. I hated owing him anything. I hated the thread still tying us together.
Leave. Work. Go home. Lie down. That's your life, isn't it?
I didn't lie there long before Lulu blew in like a storm. She kicked off her heels, shook out her rose-gold hair from under a beanie, and lit up the room like neon on a street corner.
"Hey, babe, starving?" She held up a takeout box. "Chicken wrap and pasta. Snagged it from work. The boss was flirting with me today, so I scored extra cheese packets. Pretty solid, right?"
"Stop bragging about your social superpowers."
I shoved some magazines aside and sat on the floor. She dropped down beside me.
"You're off today. All prickly. Like you want the world to end."
"It's nothing. Just school stuff." I shrugged, forced a grin. "The professor moved the deadline. Scarier than Lucifer showing up in person."
"Uh-huh." She stabbed at her pasta. "So it's really the professor?"
I dodged her eyes. "Let's talk about something else. Like how you scored two tiramisu from duplicate orders."
She rolled her eyes but let it go. She launched into a story about some nightmare customer at the fabric shop, talking nonstop. We sat there on the floor, eating, laughing here and there. The empty boxes piled up. I barely said a word. Just hummed along when she hit the funny parts.
After we cleaned up, we dragged ourselves to our rooms. I closed the door, pulled out my phone. The screen lit up. His name sat there in my call log, clear as day.
You're an idiot, Ryan.
I pressed delete. The system asked me to confirm. I closed my eyes. Pressed yes.
Life went back to normal after that. The day Mrs. Smith came home, I was on her terrace fixing a cushion Cleo had shredded. That beast still had my sock in her mouth, running laps. Took forever to get it back.
"Ryan, darling, you've taken such good care of things. Better than building security." She patted the sofa beside her. "Sit. Tea or coffee?"
"Tea. Thank you."
Mrs. Smith had that old-movie elegance. Grace in every gesture.
"I looked over the care log you left. Very thorough. You're so thoughtful."
"Thank you."
"What are you studying?"
"Psychology."
"Really? Have you worked with actual cases?"
"A few, with my advisor. Nothing dramatic, but some progress."
"You're honest. I like that."
As I stood to leave, she called after me. "Ryan, would you consider working here full-time? As a household manager?"
I declined. Not for any deep reason. I just didn't want to lose more socks.
"That's a shame." She shrugged.
I was helping an elderly man find sugar-free soda. He spoke with a heavy slur, barely able to string together a full sentence of thanks. I smiled softly.
"No need to thank me. Thank the clear labels on the products."
Then, my phone buzzed. Mrs. Smith. Why was she calling?
I pocketed my change and answered. "Hello, Mrs. Smith."
"Darling, I'm going to rescue you from that fryer grease. I know a single father with a seven-year-old daughter. She's on the spectrum. He's looking for a live-in companion therapist."
She paused. "The pay is excellent. He's in Riverdale. Not far from you. Interested?"
Good money. Close by. If I took it, I could pay off my loans. Stop juggling four jobs. Actually focus on school.
"I'm in. Thank you so much."
"Don't thank me yet." She laughed softly. "I'll text you the address. Report in three days. Don't forget."
A customer tapped the counter. "Miss? Can I check out?"
When my shift finally ended, I practically ran home.
Lulu and I tore through every halfway-decent piece of clothing we owned. She had a tape measure and pins in her mouth. "The black one fits your waist, but the shoulders are too tight. The gray one makes you look like a bank teller."
"Thanks for your honesty, Dr. Brown." I yanked up the zipper. "How about this?"
"Turn around." She pinned the waist tighter, stepped back, and nodded. "Now you look expensive."
"Seriously, Ryan, if you get this job, I'm burning our cots. We're moving somewhere that doesn't shake at night."
"Deal. Ready to break up with Line 7?"
"I've been cheating for months."
We both cracked up. Life felt possible again.
The night before the interview, I packed and repacked. I couldn't lose this. I emailed my professor for the day off, explaining why. He sent back a thumbs-up.
The car slowed at a private drive lined with tall cedars. Two iron gates stood silent. Cameras covered every inch of the wall. My skin crawled.
I clutched my portfolio and knocked on the guard booth. "Hi, I'm here for an interview—"
The gate opened before I finished. A guard stepped out, checked my ID twice, then waved me through. A woman in a maid's uniform appeared and motioned me to follow. The house was spotless. No toys. No crayon marks. It didn't feel like a child lived here.
"Miss Clark?" A cool voice came from the staircase. A thin man in silver-rimmed glasses descended. Early thirties. Sharp eyes.
"Hi. I'm Ryan." I stuck out my hand.
"Declan O'Sullivan." He shook it. "Good to meet you. Follow me."
I kept pace as he spoke. "Your student is Rose. Seven years old. After a severe traumatic event, she stopped speaking almost entirely. Avoids contact. We've tried systematic intervention, but her compliance is low—though it's not an intelligence issue."
"I understand. PTSD isn't related to intelligence."
"Your job isn't just to make her comfortable. We need someone who can build real trust with Rose. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Here." He stopped at a heavy wooden door, knocked twice, and pushed it open. "Go in."
I took a breath and stepped inside.
The study was quiet. Sunlight slanted through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a green lawn. A tall figure stood by the glass. Something about that silhouette felt familiar. Declan crossed to him, murmured something, then left. The man didn't turn. "Name?"
"Ryan Clark."
He turned.
I'd know that face anywhere. Even burned to ash.
I remembered his jacket on my shoulders. His voice reading my misfired text. His heat, his scent—patchouli and smoke. That night.
"Miss Clark." His tone was cold. Like we'd never met.
"Sir—" I started, but he cut me off.
"Sit." He gestured to the chair.
I sat. He moved behind the desk and opened my file.
"LaGuardia Community College. Adult program?"
"Yes." My palms were sweating. I pressed them to my knees. "My classes are in the mornings. I'm free the rest of the day to be with Rose. This isn't my first time with child psychology cases. I've worked several with my advisor. I have experience—"
He closed my portfolio. Pushed it back.
"We'll be in touch."
I froze. He'd asked one question. The whole thing lasted under two minutes. By the time I processed it, he was already looking at his papers. He didn't even glance up.
"You can go."
I stared at him. The lamplight caught his face, his lashes casting shadows—just like two weeks ago when they brushed my collarbone, when he whispered "don't move, let me remember your taste." Now he wouldn't even look at me.
"You serious?"
He looked up. "Any other questions?"
I stood. Everything I'd been holding broke loose. "This isn't an interview."
"I got all the information I needed."
My eyes burned. I forced the tears back. I would not cry in front of him.
"You don't have to hire me." I grabbed my folder. "You could've said 'sorry, not a fit, please leave' the second I walked in. But you can't—you can't disrespect my work just because we slept together!"
His fingers twitched. Tapped the desk once. Stopped.
"So what?" He met my eyes. "I won't let someone I've been with near my daughter."
The words hit like ice water. Doused everything. Left me cold.
"Right. Your call." I turned. "Goodbye, Mr. Valerius."
I opened the door, ready to slam it, when I heard soft footsteps down the hall.
A small figure stood there. Rose.
She was thinner than I'd imagined. Fragile. Like wind could knock her over. She didn't look seven. She wore a white nightgown, bare feet, dark hair loose on her shoulders. Her eyes were gray—like her father's, but different. Like curtains that wouldn't open. Hazy. Empty.
"Miss!" A maid hurried after her, voice low, reaching but hesitant. "Sweetheart, it's naptime."
Rose didn't move. Her gaze floated in nothing. Until it found me. Those hollow eyes locked on. Like she'd found something to hold onto.
My anger drained. Something soft and aching took its place.
I crouched. She moved closer. I smiled. "Baby, you need shoes out here. You'll catch a cold."
Rose just stared. I touched her arm gently. She didn't pull away. I lifted her—she weighed almost nothing.
I handed her to the maid. Her eyes stayed on me. "Be good and go to sleep, okay?" I stroked her hair. She was quiet for a moment, then slowly turned, letting the maid hold her.
"Thank you!" The maid bowed slightly, then hurried off with Rose. They disappeared around the corner. I stayed crouched there, hands cold.
Finally, I stood and looked back into the study. Ronan was still seated. Something had shifted in his expression—his jaw tight, his eyes unreadable. But I didn't care anymore. Even though I'd just sworn I'd never speak to him again.
"Please. Give me a chance."
He looked up.
"For Rose. She needs someone who can really see her. I think I saw her."
"You can fire me anytime. Three days. A week. If there's no progress, I'm gone. But let me try. I want to help her."
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