He squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face in her shoulder. It was a Tuesday. He was holding his daughter on a Tuesday afternoon. "Why are you here? " she asked, pulling back, her little brow furrowed. "Did someone die? " Roland laughed a dry, rusty sound.
"No, sweetie. Nobody died. I just I got off work early, like forever. Something like that. Come on, let's go get your cake. " The rest of the day was quiet.
Painfully, beautifully quiet. They ate pizza. They cut the cake. They built a fort out of sofa cushions in the living room. For the first time in years, Rolan didn't flinch when a phone rang on television.
His personal cell phone sat on the kitchen counter, dark and silent. He had blocked Viven's number, her assistant number, and the corporate switchboard. By 900 p.m., Khloe was asleep. Rolon sat alone at the small laminate kitchen table. The silence of the apartment, usually a comfort, now felt heavy.
The adrenaline of quitting had worn off, leaving behind a cold, creeping reality. He opened his laptop and looked at his bank account. It was decent. He was a saver. But New York was unforgiving.
And health insurance for a child wasn't cheap. He had maybe 6 months before things got desperate. He poured himself a glass of cheap whiskey and watched the rain lash against the window. He imagined Viven in Zurich right now. She was probably tearing into some junior executive who couldn't pull up a spreadsheet fast enough.
She was fine. She didn't need him. He was just a cog in her machine. A welloiled, highly paid cog, but replaceable nonetheless. At 11:15 p.m., the buzzer rang.
The harsh electronic screech made Roland jump, nearly spilling his drink. He stared at the intercom by the door. No one buzzed his apartment at this hour. The babysitter had a key. His parents were in Ohio.
He walked over and pressed the button. Who is it? Static crackled. Then a voice familiar, sharp, but lacking its usual commanding edge. Let me in, Roland.
Roland froze. It couldn't be. He pressed the button again. Viven, it's freezing. Open the goddamn door.
He buzzed her in before he could process what was happening. He opened his apartment door and stood in the dim, flickering light of the hallway. He listened to the heavy, slow footsteps coming up the three flights of stairs. When she rounded the corner, Roland couldn't speak. Viven Croft was soaking wet.
Her expensive trench coat was plastered to her shoulders. The hem stained with street grime. Her hair, normally immaculate, hung in dark wet strands across her face. And in her right hand, she gripped the handle of a silver Ramoa suitcase. She stopped in front of him.