Lily could be in the same building. It was the best offer she’d ever received. Also potentially the most dangerous. If I find something, what happens to me? Last time I lost everything. Last time you were alone. This time you have me. Clara thought about Lily, about bills, about Harbor Grace and all the women depending on support that might be getting stolen.
When do I start? The first month was observation, learning systems, workflows, rhythms, learning to walk through halls where everyone wondered who this nobody was. She also learned to watch Douglas Crane. Ethan hadn’t told her who he suspected, but she wasn’t stupid. The CFO of Mercer Capital was 52, silver-haired and silver tonged with charisma that made people want to agree with him.
He’d been Ethan’s partner since nearly the beginning, one of the first investors, one of the architects of growth. He was also the person who signed off on all charitable dispersements. Miss Whitmore Crane approached her in the breakroom one afternoon. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Douglas Crane.
Mr. Crane. Nice to meet you. Ethan tells me you’re working on special projects. Very mysterious. The words were light, but something lurked underneath. What exactly are these special projects? Mr. Mercer has me well set up. Of course, another smile. Well, if you need anything, my door is always open. He walked away. Clara texted Ethan.
Craig, introduced himself, asked about my work. Reply seconds later. We knew he’d notice. Be careful. Weeks turned into months. Clara settled into a routine. Daycare drop off at 7:30, work until 6:00, dinner and bath time and sleep. And somewhere between spreadsheets, she started to know Ethan Mercer. It began with late nights.
Clara often stayed past 6, chasing threads in the data. Ethan kept late hours, too. Not because he had to, but because he seemed to have nowhere else to be. They’d end up talking about work at first, then aboutother things. Tell me about your mother,” Clara asked. One night when the office was empty and the city glittered outside, Ethan went still.
That thing he did deciding how much to expose. Margarite Maggie to everyone who knew her. She came from Haiti at 19. No money, barely any English, but this belief that things could be better. That if she worked hard enough, she could build a life. Did she? She tried three jobs. I barely saw her sometimes, but when she was there, his voice softened.
She was completely there telling me stories about Haiti, about our family, about who she wanted me to become. Clara thought of her own mother. Double shifts at the factory, hands cracked and raw, still finding energy to help with homework. How did she die? Pneumonia started as a cold she couldn’t take time off for.
By the time she went to a clinic, it was too far gone. I’m sorry. It was 30 years ago. Grief doesn’t expire. Claraara knew this. What happened after foster care, group homes, learning to survive? Ethan’s jaw tightened. I learned that asking for help marks you as a target. The only person who saves you is yourself. And you did. I built something.
He looked at her. Whether that’s the same as saving. Sometimes I wonder. All this money, all this power, and I still feel like that 8-year-old waiting for someone to come back for him. Clara reached out and touched his hand. “First physical contact since that first night,” Ethan looked down at her hand on his. “You didn’t pull away.
” “You came for me,” Clara said quietly. “That night, you didn’t have to. You needed help. So, did you The words felt true. You were alone in that penthouse with an unopened champagne bottle, and you drove to the Bronx because a stranger’s text made you feel less alone. Something caught in his breath, a small loss of composure.
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