Chapter 4 #2
“Just remember what is truly important, honey,” she says weakly.
“Money won’t hold your hand on your deathbed.
” For a second, her gaze meets mine, glassy and raw from the loss of her true love, a vulnerability contrasting with the inevitable wisdom burdening her.
I’ll never truly understand my parents’ marriage.
A twist in my gut answers her honesty, her words piercing straight through me to the only piece of my puzzle I cannot manage to find—that person who changes it all.
The one who makes shared silence feel like both privilege and necessity, who turns the air into an effervescence of desire and need.
The person who makes every moment spent without them feel like a waste of time.
I have seen characters in films experience it.
I have even read about it in books. Still, the four-letter word has never crossed my lips.
My skyscrapers, contracts, and appointments beat the rhythm of my life, with the occasional family time I manage to claim.
Feeling alive, alive like a storm has taken possession of you, has never happened.
Only…
The closest I have ever come to it was with her.
Ella.
This morning, when we talked and signed, all I could think about was the clock remaining pointed at the same number, pausing time, freezing me inside that one suspended moment where all I could see were her fearful, brave eyes daring to respond to my interrogation and sitting in my damn chair like an angel fallen from the sky into the hands of the devil himself.
If I could have caught her arm and asked her to stay, if only I could have allowed myself one more second of bliss, of talking to someone who was not trying to take anything from me except a crippled bag with broken earphones and a book that could barely hold itself together.
And those eyes.
Those brown eyes, wide and frightened, looking down, her body shivering at the sound of my voice yet still boldly signing back at my remarks.
I have always been one to plan, to weigh the pros and cons before acting, yet when I opened the vault, I slipped a handful of hundred-dollar bills into her bag.
Five thousand dollars, to be exact. Why did I?
I cannot find one logical answer to that question.
Perhaps a part of me wanted her to come back and return it, proving to me that she had no interest in my money, that the conversation we had was genuine, two people speaking to each other regardless of their backgrounds. Or perhaps I wanted to give her enough money to avoid coming back at all.
I am sure she has quit now that she has enough to avoid cleaning, since that is probably what she earns in months of evening shifts.
“No phones please, darling,” Mother says, sipping her martini, her eyes on Maddie as I send an email to Brenton.
From: Tristan Ashford
To: Brenton McHallord
Subject: Urgent Report
Please send me a detailed report on the cleaner responsible for last night’s shift. Her name is Ella.
I slide my phone back into the inside pocket of my suit. “I should get back.”
“Back? To the office? Darling, it’s eight o’clock. Go home.” Nate remains silent, gathering Maddie’s coat and signing to her that it is time to leave. She rushes to her grandmother and hugs her tightly, and my mother closes her eyes for a second, breathing in Maddie’s cookie-sweet scent.
“Promise me you’ll keep an eye on him,” she asks Nate as he kisses her cheek.
“Everything works because of him,” he murmurs in a much more serious way.
“And you,” she adds, patting his hand. His lack of confidence on the matter alarms me, since there is very little I would do without him by my side as my only blindly trusted ally. I will need to remind him of that.
“We cannot have an empire and expect him to sleep soundly by nine every night,” Nate continues. “You know that, right? We hardly saw Father back when we were kids.”
“I know,” she murmurs. “I worry, that is all. A mother can worry, can’t she?”
“Don’t.” I nod, standing. “Did you get the ballet tickets you wanted, by the way?”
She sighs. “No, I forgot to ask what’s his name, Terrence. Yes, right. He’s Amalia’s assistant, and he was supposed to get us front row, but…”
“I’ll take care of it,” I state, knowing that even her rich friends with personal assistants are not as efficient as Kathy.
I lower myself to kiss her cheek while she remains seated, tired from the obvious amount of Xanax she must have consumed today.
I will find her ballet tickets, if only because it might bring a smile to her face.
“Let’s go, Mads,” I sign to her. She follows Nate and me while our mom calls after us, “Drive safe.” We leave our family home, Maddie trotting after us and mimicking a horse running.
“Want me to go with you?” Nate signs, holding Maddie’s hand outside the front of the house, where freshly cut greenery frames the terracotta tiles, and our mother’s black sports car sits gleaming beneath the stars.
I sign back, “You’ve got better things to do. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
“Alright, but I’m here if you need me.”
“I know. I know. Alright.” I look down at Maddie, signing. “Bye, Mads. See you tomorrow, chipmunk.”
“You’re the chipmunk!” she signs back, sticking out her tongue.
Nate snaps aloud, “What did I say about doing that, Mads? That’s rude as hell.
We don’t do that.” I wink at her, and she offers me a wide grin before rolling her eyes.
We part ways, and for once, I carry the ghost of a smile on my face.
My world needs more of this. Lightness. But I cannot find it.
The skyscrapers are too high to let the light in.
Ignoring the lie I told everyone, I drive back to the Ashford Building, but I do not enter my office.
Instead, I go to the thirty-third floor, the IT department, and Rhys Calder’s office, my IT director.
His office is large and airy, smaller than mine, but sufficient.
I slide my pass through the reader, the only one granting me access to every computer in the building, and open the surveillance software.
Floor: 32nd
Cameras: CEO Office
Select: 4
The thirty-second-floor cameras are never used, but I had them installed in case of a hostage situation, which, statistically speaking, is not impossible.
I would hate myself for being unable to help the authorities because of such a careless, easily avoidable weakness in our security infrastructure.
I have never used them to surveil my associates.
Not once. But tonight, four rectangles appear before me, each showing my office from a different perspective, empty and dimly lit, waiting for her.
And so I wait. I wait through the dark hours of the night, hoping to see her, hoping for a glimpse of sweetness in my broken world.
Ella.
Let me look at you one last time.
Ella
“You forgot the syrup,” Valeria sneers, throwing the bowl of popcorn at my chest. Half of it falls onto the floor I vacuumed and cleaned only a few hours ago.
The twins came back from their private Pilates coaching session earlier this evening, the one they do every day of the week after Emily’s internship at Mara’s company and Valeria’s classes at university, where she studies fashion design.
They came home around seven in their sweatless gym sets, pastel pink for Valeria, baby blue for Emily, with high ponytails and even higher cheekbones since they already started baby Botox, which, according to Valeria, is a must in your early twenties.
I do not blame them. If I could afford it, there is no doubt that private coaching and treatments meant to make yourself even prettier would not be an issue.
Except we are not on the same floor of Maslow’s pyramid, so I can only look at them from below, keeping my focus on my reality and theirs far away, like a movie out of reach and unrealistic to my situation.
I have changed into jeans and a light blue wool sweater, so I am already ready to sneak out tonight and go to work.
A drop of dread covers my nape like a heavy hand.
There’s five thousand dollars in my bag upstairs. I am going to take the bus with all that cash. Exhale. Inhale. It will be okay. Nothing has ever happened to me after months of commuting by bus at night, so why would anything be different tonight?
The twins and Mara are all sprawled on the couch, watching a 2000s rom-com while I add more syrup to their popcorn. It must be nice to have a girls’ night. Instead, I bring them the bowl, still warm in my hands, while inhaling the tiny bits of flavor.
“Took you long enough,” Valeria snaps, eyes on the screen, her phone open to a photo of a model in a bikini.
“Is it her?” Emily asks, pointing one long pink coffin-shaped nail at the screen.
“I think so. Look, he liked her photos. Urgh.” Valeria groans as Mara shushes them.
“Go to bed, Ella. I don’t want to see you until morning.
” She motions the back of her hand at me, the signal for me to disappear.
One I have known for a decade now. And since I am used to the circus that is my home life, I sneak out and boldly take a small bowl of popcorn I had set aside from theirs, and escape the kitchen with it.
With light steps, I make my way to Dad’s room.
The TV is still on, but his face is turned into the pillow. My gaze focuses on his chest.
Up.
Down.
All good.