He couldn't afford to get involved in the messy lives of the ultra rich. But he also couldn't leave a vulnerable woman on a concrete floor. Think, David. Think, he muttered to himself. He couldn't take her back into the ballroom.
He couldn't leave her. He didn't know where she lived, and her phone was dead. He scooped up her discarded heels, shoved them into his jacket pockets, and adjusted his grip on her. He half carried her, half dragged her toward the heavy metal exit doors that led to the alley behind the hotel. The cold Chicago air hit them like a wall.
Smelling of wet asphalt and garbage. He pulled out his own cheap smartphone and opened a ride sharing app. A black sedan was 3 minutes away. Those 3 minutes felt like 3 hours. Clare leaned heavily against him, muttering incoherently.
A cold drizzle began to fall. David took off his tuxedo jacket and draped it over her bare shoulders. She shivered, burying her face into the cheap fabric. When the car finally pulled up, the driver gave them a suspicious look. She had a bit too much at the wedding.
David lied smoothly, opening the back door. Just need to get her home. He maneuvered Clare into the back seat. She flopped over, her head resting against the window. David climbed in beside her, gave the driver his address, and sat rigid the entire way.
The contrast between the Drake Hotel and David's neighborhood was jarring. The smooth pavement gave way to potholes. The high-end boutiques faded into porn shops, 24-hour laundromats, and flickering street lights. Clare shifted in her sleep, her head sliding off the window and landing heavily on David's shoulder. He froze.
He didn't move a muscle. He just stared straight ahead, watching the meter tick up, silently calculating how many days of groceries this ride was costing him. When they finally pulled up to his brick walk-up, the rain was coming down harder. He paid the driver, tipped him extra for his silence, and helped Clare out of the car. Navigating three flights of stairs with a dead weight billionaire was an athletic feat.
By the time David reached his apartment door, he was out of breath, and his shirt was sticking to his back. He fumbled with his keys, balancing Clare against his hip, and pushed the door open. Mrs. Gable was asleep in the armchair in front of the muted television. She jerked awake at the sound of the door. "David, you're late." Her voice trailed off as she took in the sight.
A disheveled David holding up a woman in a stunning rain-dampened evening gown. "It's not what it looks like," David whispered fiercely, dragging Clare inside and kicking the door shut. Mrs. Gable stood up, clutching her purse. "I don't judge, Mr. Miller. But bringing a woman home while Chloe is sleeping.
She's my boss, David interrupted, breathing hard. She got drunk at a corporate event. Her driver is gone. Her phone is dead. And she passed out.
If I left her there, she would have been ruined, or worse. Mrs. Gable peered closely at Clare's face, now illuminated by the harsh overhead light of the cramped living room. Recognition dawned on her face. Lord have mercy. That's the Montgomery girl from the news.
Yes, please, Mrs. Gable. I just need to put her on the couch. David guided Clare to the ancient beige sofa that dominated the small room. He lowered her down gently. She immediately curled into a fetal position, shivering.
Mrs. Gable handed David his cash and walked to the door. You be careful, David. People like that. They don't live in the same world we do. When they make a mess, it's folks like us who get the stain.
I know. Thank you. Good night. David locked the deadbolt. The apartment was quiet again.
He stood over the couch, staring at Clare Montgomery. She looked incredibly out of place. Her silk dress clashed violently with the faded upholstery. Her hair spilled over a throw pillow that had a juice stain on the corner. She began to shiver violently.
David sighed. He went to the hallway closet and pulled out a fleece blanket. It was Chloe's spare, bright pink, adorned with cartoon princesses. It was clean, at least. He walked back to the couch and draped it over her.
He needed to make sure he was entirely above reproach. He didn't touch her dress. He didn't remove any of her jewelry. He just took the silver heels out of his pockets and placed them neatly on the coffee table. He fetched a glass of water water and two ibuprofen, setting them on the coaster next to her shoes.
He turned off the overhead light, leaving only the dim glow of the kitchen stove hood. David didn't go to his own bed. He couldn't sleep anyway. He pulled up a hard wooden dining chair, placed it about 10 ft away from the couch, and sat down. He needed to be awake in case she threw up and choked.
He needed to be awake to control the narrative when she opened her eyes. He sat in the dark, watching the slow rise and fall of her breathing, the clock on the wall ticking away the hours. The cynicism gnawed at him. He had done a good deed, but in his gut he knew Mrs. Gable was right. No good deed in the corporate world ever went unpunished.
The morning sun in David's apartment didn't filter through sheer, elegant drapes. It aggressively sliced through cheap plastic Venetian blinds, casting harsh, striped shadows across the living room floor. It was 7:00 a.m. David was already up. He had quietly gotten Chloe dressed, fed her a bowl of cereal, and handed her off to his neighbor across the hall, who ran an informal daycare. He needed the apartment empty for this.
He was standing in the tiny kitchen, brewing a fresh pot of coffee when he heard the rustle of fabric from the living room. He poured a cup, took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and walked out. Clare Montgomery was awake. She was sitting up on the couch, clutching the pink princess blanket to her chest. Her hair was a tangled bird's nest.
Her makeup was ruined. She looked around the cramped room, the scuffed walls, the cheap TV stand, the pile of children's shoes by the door with a look of utter bewilderment. Then her eyes landed on David. The confusion vanished, replaced instantly by a cold, terrified defense mechanism. Her spine went rigid.