16. Powerless
Chapter sixteen
Powerless
Ishifted my weight on the scuffed floorboards, my jeans grinding against my kneecaps.
I had spent fourteen days banished to Gemma’s back kitchen, plunging my hands into scalding dishwater just to earn the right to carry this flat-pack box up three flights of stairs.
The progress was slow, but I had finally made it inside her space.
All that manual labor had left my palms blistered and rough.
The new calluses caught on the edge of a slat as I gripped the Allen wrench. I pressed the screw into the designated hole and twisted. The threads ground against the cheap composite wood, refusing to sink into the pre-drilled opening. “Come on, catch the thread,” I muttered.
The head of the screw stripped. The wrench slipped from the screw head, driving my raw knuckles directly into the edge of the board.
A sharp sting flared across my hand as the broken skin left a small smear of blood on the white paint.
I dropped the tool onto the floor and grabbed the wood with both hands, attempting to force the pieces flush. The frame groaned but refused to align.
Across the small living room, Wren ignored my struggle.
She sat on the edge of her air mattress, pulling a sock over her foot.
She wore faded work jeans and a sweater, preparing for her afternoon shift at the bakery.
She grabbed her winter boots from the floor and slid her feet inside.
The rasp of the zippers cut through the quiet apartment, a sharp, efficient sound that made my own fumbling feel worse.
She reached for her canvas purse and began organizing her receipts.
She didn’t offer a single word of sympathy or move to hold the baseboard steady.
During our marriage in the city, a fleet of estate staff would have materialized to assemble this furniture before the delivery truck even left the driveway.
Here, in this freezing coastal town, my billions held zero influence.
She operated in her own self-contained bubble, proving minute by minute that she did not require my wealth or my help to function.
I swallowed my pride, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and pointed at the wooden dowel near her foot. “Can you hand me that?” I asked.
She paused her sorting and looked down. Instead of bending to pick it up, she nudged the small peg with her boot. It rolled over the uneven planks and bumped to a stop against my knee. “Just read the manual, Cassian,” she said.
I picked up the booklet and stared at the crude diagrams. The paper was flimsy, covered in arrows pointing in physically impossible directions.
None of the illustrated lines looked anything like the wooden slats scattered across the floorboards.
I leaned my weight against the assembled baseboard, trying to bend the frame into submission.
The cheap material merely bowed under the pressure, threatening to splinter.
I tossed the booklet to the floor. “This instruction manual is illogical. The pre-drilled holes on the baseboard don’t even align with the side rails.”
She stood up and slung the purse over her shoulder.
“Thousands of people build those exact cribs every day, Cassian.” She walked toward the front door, stopping just behind me.
She looked down at the chaotic mess of screws and scattered pieces.
“You just have to be patient and actually follow the diagrams instead of trying to force it.”
Her calm, practical logic grated against my bruised ego.
I had orchestrated massive corporate acquisitions and commanded entire executive floors, yet I was sitting in a drafty tenement, being defeated by a box of flat-pack furniture.
I refused to admit the failure was mine.
“I manage billion-dollar infrastructure projects, Wren. I promise you the engineering on this particleboard is structurally flawed.”
I reached for the dropped wrench, preparing to force the screw one more time. Before my fingers grazed the metal, the cast-iron radiator in the corner of the living room let out a violent clank.
I paused, my hand hovering inches above the floor. A second clank followed, louder this time, rattling the copper pipes bolted to the wall trim. The unit sputtered. Steam sprayed from the valve with a harsh hiss, curling into the air before dying out.
Then, nothing. The rhythmic hum of the boiler system beneath the floorboards abruptly ceased. Stillness claimed the room.
Without the rising heat to combat the draft from the windows, the freezing coastal air swept across the floor. It cut straight through my sweater, immediately chilling the sweat on the back of my neck.
“Son of a bitch,” I spat.
Panic instantly erased any lingering sting to my pride.
I had billions of dollars sitting in liquid accounts, and my pregnant wife was shivering in a broken-down walk-up.
It was a sick joke. I snatched the wrench off the floorboards and hurled it across the room.
It bounced against the far wall and clattered to a stop.
I surged to my feet, stepping over the scattered pieces of the crib. Wren remained near the door, unbothered by the sudden silence from the pipes. She stood perfectly still, waiting for me to finish my outburst.
“Did you feel that draft?” I asked.
She pulled her sweater tighter. “It’s just the wind off the coast.”
I pointed at the dead pipes in the corner. “Are you kidding me? The heat just died, Wren. This building is a hazard.”
She rolled her eyes, entirely unfazed by my rising alarm. “It happens sometimes when the basement boiler kicks into overdrive. It really isn’t a big deal, so go back to working on the crib.”
I stared at her, horrified that she had simply accepted this level of infrastructure failure. A real father provided consistent heat and a safe environment, not a freezing room with a dead boiler. I refused to let her minimize the threat.
“It is a massive deal, Wren,” I said, stepping closer to her. “You are in your third trimester, and you cannot be sleeping in a freezing room with a broken radiator.”
Wren didn’t panic or complain about the sudden drop in temperature. She simply stepped back to the air mattress to grab her winter coat. The coat rustled in the quiet room as she pushed her arms through the sleeves and pulled it over her shoulders.
“You’re already shivering, Wren,” I said.
She tugged the edges of the coat closed over her bump. “It’s just a draft. Silas is working downstairs today, so I’ll ask him to check the basement pipes when I get back from my shift.”
A tattooed landlord who couldn’t even keep the boiler running on a Tuesday afternoon had earned her trust. She was content to freeze in this drafty walk-up just to prove she didn’t need the Kensington resources. I curled my hands into fists so tightly my raw knuckles burned.
“You shouldn’t have to rely on a landlord to keep you from freezing to death,” I said. “Let me call a private HVAC company to come fix it right now.”
Wren zipped her bag. “Absolutely not. This is Silas’s building, and he handles his own maintenance fine.”
“Maybe that’s fine for his own comfort, but not for yours,” I said. “The boiler is failing in the middle of winter, Wren. Just let me pay an emergency crew to repair the unit.”
She adjusted the strap on her shoulder, tightening her grip. She didn’t look at the broken radiator, and she didn’t look at the half-assembled IKEA crib. She just looked at me, offering nothing.
“I said no, Cassian. I have to go to work, so make sure you lock the door when you leave.”
She turned her back on me and walked out into the unheated hallway. The apartment door swung shut behind her. I stood alone in the freezing room, the final click of the latch echoing off the bare walls.
I dropped back to my knees. The draft from the window bit into my neck. I grabbed the misaligned slat, bracing my weight against the baseboard. The composite wood resisted the pressure.
It bowed under my grip, threatening to snap, but refused to slide into place. At the Kensington estate, an army of contractors would have built a custom nursery. Here, I was losing a physical fight to a box of flat-pack garbage.
“Just align, you cheap piece of trash,” I muttered.
I pushed harder, digging the toes of my boots into the floor for leverage. The slat buckled outward. My grip slipped from the smooth white paint. My torn hand slammed against the particleboard.
The impact tore a fresh layer of skin, the burn radiating up my forearm. I pulled my arm back. A bright bead of blood welled over the scrape.
The pain drove me over the edge. I shoved myself to my feet, my boots thudding on the wood. I drew my right leg back and kicked the frame.
The wood splintered under my boot with a loud crack. The broken pieces skidded across the floorboards, coming to rest near the pipes of the radiator.
I stared at the wreckage. I had gutted legacy corporations, yet I couldn’t even provide a basic, functional bed for my unborn child. I couldn’t even keep the room warm. The chill continued to deepen, seeping through the soles of my boots.
I let out a sharp exhale, my breath misting in the freezing air.
A familiar, booming voice surfaced in my mind.
“Money solves everything, Cassian. Don’t ever let inferior people dictate your standard of living.”
Arthur had drilled that logic into my head during my very first board meeting. I had sat beside him, absorbing the lesson without the slightest hesitation.
“I understand, Dad. We control the environment.”
My father was a monster, but standing in this freezing apartment, his ruthless logic felt like the only valid survival tactic.
Wren refused to accept my help. She put her pride above her own physical safety, relying on Silas to fix a failing boiler instead of letting me solve the problem. It was an unacceptable gamble.
I had unlimited resources at my immediate disposal. A real father didn’t sit on the floor and bleed while his wife shivered in the cold. A real father orchestrated a solution and forced the world to accommodate his family.
I wiped the blood from my knuckles onto my jeans, leaving a dark smear.
“This is ridiculous,” I said to the empty room. “I am not letting my family live like this for another second.”
I ignored the splintered wood. I paced the floorboards, convinced that writing a check was the only way to keep them safe.
I shoved my bleeding hand into the pocket of my jeans, seeking a sliver of warmth.
The denim provided zero insulation against the biting draft seeping through the cracked window frames.
I wrapped my stiff fingers around the cheap burner phone I’d bought at a corner store that morning. I pulled it into the freezing air.
The screen flared to life, the backlight catching the mist of my breath. The cold had already sunk into my clothes. I jabbed a numb thumb against the glass, missing the digits twice before I finally dialed the number for my luxury real estate broker.
The line rang. I held the phone to my ear, waiting in the bitter silence.
“Pick up, Marcus,” I muttered.
I continued pacing the length of the room. The rhythm of my boots broke the lingering silence of the dead pipes. Wren was content to endure this squalor just to prove a point, but she didn’t have to anymore. I was here. I had the cash on hand to eliminate this threat entirely.
The ringing ceased.
“Mr. Kensington?” the broker asked, his voice thin through the tiny speaker. “Is that you?”
Any remaining doubt I had was gone. The ruthless, familiar cadence of the Kensington boardroom returned, stripping away the weeks of physical labor and small-town humility. I was no longer a man scrubbing grease traps for a chance to speak to his wife. I was a CEO resolving a system failure.
“Marcus,” I said. “I need a fully furnished luxury rental locked down in Oakhaven immediately. I don’t care what the monthly rate is, just finalize the lease in cash right now.”
A brief silence hung on the line. I stepped closer to the window, staring out at the gray winter sky.
“Oakhaven is mostly blue-collar, Mr. Kensington,” Marcus said. “But there is a newly renovated waterfront penthouse available. I can have the unit secured and the keys ready in two hours.”
I didn’t care about the logistics. I just needed heat. I needed a secure place where my pregnant wife wouldn’t rely on a stranger to survive a winter afternoon. By the time she finished work, I would have her relocated to a safe, heated unit overlooking the water. She wouldn’t even have to pack.
“Take it,” I ordered. “Then connect me to Gary’s moving crew, because we are relocating my wife to a heated apartment today.”
I ended the call and lowered the device. The screen went dark in my hand. I paced the bare wood. If I couldn’t build a functional crib, I would buy a secure apartment, whatever the cost.