9. Elisa
ELISA
The heavy metallic clank of the deadbolt sliding backward echoes like a gunshot in the pitch-black vault.
A blinding vertical slice of fluorescent light cuts through the darkness. The heavy stainless-steel door swings wide open. The suffocating isolation shatters, bringing the noise of the warehouse and a rush of humid Brooklyn air.
Louisa stands on the threshold, her hand still resting on the exterior latch. "Elisa, I noticed your phone on the desk—" she starts, her voice trailing off as the bright warehouse halogens illuminate the narrow aisle.
Donovan’s forearms are still locked tightly around my waist. The heavy, charcoal-gray wool of his suit jacket swallows my small frame. My hands grip the fine cotton of his rolled-up sleeves, my knuckles stark white.
My words—I never saw a dime. I never even saw you, you bastard.—still vibrate in the freezing air between us.
Donovan is frozen. He stares down at me, the irises of his green eyes blown wide, tracking the truth in my expression. He looks as if his reality is fracturing, the collision of the million-dollar ledger and the woman shivering in his arms breaking whatever truth he believed.
I break the paralysis first.
I shove my hands hard against his chest, tearing myself out of his grip. I pull the jacket off my shoulders and shove the expensive fabric back at him.
He takes the jacket reflexively, his large hands gripping the wool, but he doesn't take a single step back. He simply stares at me, the jagged silver scar on his jawline prominent against the sudden ash-gray pallor of his skin.
"The overnight loading crew needs my authorization at the front bay," I say, my tone devoid of inflection.
I brush past him, my shoulder bumping his solid frame as I squeeze through the narrow opening between him and the steel racks.
Louisa steps aside, her eyebrows practically merging with her hairline. She tracks the tension radiating off Donovan, then looks at my shaking hands. She asks zero questions.
I walk out of the cooler and do not look back.
The rhythmic, mechanical hiss of the cool-mist humidifier fills the dim nursery.
Afternoon sunlight filters through the heavy blackout curtains of my Brooklyn brownstone, casting long, muted shadows across the hardwood floor. The air smells of eucalyptus and baby detergent.
Derick sleeps in his toddler bed, his small chest rising and falling in a steady, unbroken rhythm. He is finally breathing easily. His dark, thick curls are plastered to his forehead.
I stand over the railing, looking down at my son. My blood. I recall our conversation last night in that dark freezer.
I softly rub my son’s face, and I look around.
I bought this brownstone with a commercial loan backed by three years of grueling, eighty-hour weeks.
Every brick, every floorboard, every breath my son takes in this house is paid for by Fleming Botanicals & Events.
The company I built from dirt and sheer, unapologetic grit.
No Swanson money. No million-dollar payout. I don't care what the hell he meant by that accusation in the vault. They are out of my life, and that money doesn't exist.
But there is an acute pain in my chest that lingers because of his words, and I bury it all away.
I step backward out of the nursery, leaving the door cracked two inches.
I walk downstairs, heading for the kitchen.
Heavy footsteps pound against the hardwood floors of the hallway, shattering the quiet of the house.
Hector pushes through the swinging door of the kitchen, stopping dead in his tracks. He still wears his dirt-stained work boots and a faded Fleming Botanicals t-shirt.
He crosses his massive arms over his chest, his dark eyes narrowing as he studies my face. "Louisa said you practically ran out of the warehouse yesterday after Swanson cornered you in the cooler. She said you looked like you saw a ghost."
I lean back against the marble counter, closing my eyes. "He accused me of taking a million-dollar payout from his family to leave him."
"And?" Hector spits the word out like a curse. "Does that change the fact that his mother is a sociopath? Does that change the fact that his family's empire operates by crushing people like us into the pavement?"
"He accused me of taking a million dollars from his family." The words scrape out of my dry throat. "He thinks I took a payoff to leave him five years ago."
Hector’s jaw flexes, his entire posture instantly radiating combative hostility. "He sent his mother to throw you away like trash. Now he’s accusing you of extortion?"
"He actually believes it, Hector. He asked if he was just a paycheck to me. It didn't sound like a threat. He sounded..." I swallow hard, the memory of his raspy voice in the dark making my chest ache. "Why would Catherine tell him I took money? Why would she make him believe that?"
I told myself there is no point learning the truth, but there’s a part of me craving for the truth. The clarification. What truly happened? But I am scared of learning the truth.
"I don't give a damn what Catherine told him!" Hector interrupts my thoughts.
He moves in front of me. His large hands grip my shoulders.
The grip is punishing, anchoring me back to the present.
"You start digging into whatever sick game his family is playing, Elisa, and they will destroy you.
You start asking questions, you invite him back in to clear your name, and what happens next?
He realizes he has a four-year-old son."
The mention of Derick is a bucket of ice water straight to my nervous system.
Hector is the only person who knows how I survived those first two years. Even Louisa didn’t know the extent. He let me make my own choices. He didn't even argue when I accepted the Swanson contract, because he knows I am fighting for Derick's future.
"The Swansons do not share, El," Hector warns, his dark eyes devoid of mercy.
"They conquer. They acquire. You give Donovan Swanson a single thread to pull, he will unravel your entire life.
He will use his armada of corporate lawyers to take Derick.
Catherine will mold that boy into the exact same icy machine they turned Donovan into. "
I swallow hard, my throat tight.
"You keep your mouth shut," Hector demands softly. "You finish the gala. You take the money for your business, and you walk away."
He releases my shoulders, stepping back. "Do not let him back in," he says, delivering the final verdict before turning and walking out of the kitchen.
11:00 PM.
The brownstone is silent. Derick sleeps soundly upstairs.
I pace the length of the downstairs living room. Bare feet against cold hardwood. The amber light of the streetlamps bleeds through the front windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the walls.
The manic energy burning in my limbs demands motion.
The heat of Donovan's body still scorches the skin along my spine. The memory of his chin resting on my head in that freezing vault, the raw devastation in his voice when he asked if he was just a paycheck.
Then, Hector’s words echo in my mind after.
The contradiction makes my head pound. He discarded me. He sent Catherine like an attack dog to humiliate me. Yet he stood in that cooler looking at me like I was the one who destroyed him.
But Hector is right. Whatever twisted, high-stakes reality the Swanson dynasty operates in, I cannot be a part of it.
Donovan is ruthless. If I start asking questions, if I try to clear my name and let him back into my life for even a second, I risk exposing Derick.
I will endure the false accusations. I will remain the cold, distant vendor until the gala is perfectly executed.
A massive, heavy thud shakes the brownstone.
I freeze. My pacing stops instantly.
A violent knock rattles the reinforced wood of my front door. The vibrations shudder through the floorboards beneath my bare feet.
11:04 PM.
Nobody knocks on a Brooklyn door this late unless the building is on fire or someone is dead.
I step silently into the foyer, pressing my spine against the wall beside the heavy door. I lean toward the peephole, the cool brass brushing against my eyebrow.
Broad shoulders block the view .
Donovan.