Where am I? Her voice was hoarse, raspy from the alcohol. But the authority was still there. It was a demand, not a question. You're in my apartment, Ms. Montgomery, David said calmly, staying by the kitchen counter.
He didn't step closer. It's in Logan Square. David Miller. I work in data analytics on the 14th floor. She looked down at herself.
She saw her wrinkled dress. She saw her bare feet. She saw the unfamiliar cheap blanket. Her breathing hitched. Her eyes darted around the room, frantic, cataloging the space, assessing the threat.
How did I get here? You passed out in the service hallway at the drake, David explained, keeping his voice level and soothing like he was talking to a cornered animal. Your phone was dead. You told me you fired your driver. You were unconscious.
I couldn't leave you there for the press, and I didn't know your address. So, I brought you here. She stared at him. The cogs in her brain were turning, fighting through the pounding headache he knew she had. She looked at the water and ibuprofen on the table.
Then she looked back at him. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the blanket tighter. "Did you touch me last night?" she whispered. The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. David felt a cold knot form in his stomach.
Excuse me, did you touch me? She repeated, her voice rising in pitch, the panic bleeding through the iron facade. My shoes are off. I'm in a strange man's apartment. Did you take advantage of me?
No, David said, his voice firm, shutting it down immediately. Absolutely not. I put you on the couch. I took off your heels so you wouldn't sprain your ankle in your sleep. I put a blanket on you.
That is it. I spent the entire night sitting in that wooden chair over there. Clare stood up. The blanket fell away. She swayed slightly but caught her balance.
You expect me to believe that? A low-level analyst finds the CEO drunk and incapacitated, brings her to his squalid little apartment, and just acts like a gentleman. The insult stung, but David bit his tongue. It's the truth. Look at your dress, Miss Montgomery.
It's exactly as you wore it. I didn't lay a finger on you. Where is my phone? She demanded, stepping around the coffee table, keeping maximum distance between them. In your purse. right there on the floor.
It's still dead. She snatched her clutch off the floor and rummaged through it. She found her phone staring at the black screen with mounting frustration. She looked back at David, her eyes blazing with a mixture of fear, humiliation, and a desperate need to regain control. People like Clare Montgomery didn't allow themselves to be vulnerable.
When they were, they didn't thank the witnesses. They destroyed them. "You kidnapped me," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. David felt his ground drop out from under him. "I saved you from a scandal.
You were passed out on concrete. You took me across city lines without my consent while I was intoxicated." She snapped back, her corporate armor sliding fully into place. The terrified woman on the couch was gone. The iron widow was back. Do you have any idea the liability you've exposed yourself to the company to?
I was trying to help you. David finally raised his voice, his own exhaustion and stress bubbling over. I gave up my night. I carried you up three flights of stairs. I kept you safe.
I don't need your help. She screamed, the sudden volume echoing off the thin walls. Silence rushed back into the room. Clare was breathing heavily. She looked down at her bare feet, then at her silver heels on the table.
She slipped them on, wincing at the blistered skin. She walked to the front door, pausing with her hand on the knob. She didn't turn around. Do not come into the office on Monday, Mr. Miller. In fact, do not attempt to log into your remote terminal.
HR will be contacting you regarding your immediate suspension pending an investigation. You can't be serious, David said, his voice cracking. I have a daughter. I need this job. You know I didn't do anything wrong.
I don't know anything, Clare replied, her tone devoid of any emotion. All I know is that you crossed a line, and in my world that has consequences. The door clicked shut behind her. David stood in the middle of his living room, the smell of cheap coffee filling the air. He looked at the pink princess blanket discarded on the floor.
In less than 12 hours, he had gone from a nobody trying to pay for asthma medication to an unemployed pariah facing a potential lawsuit from a billionaire. He sank onto the edge of the couch, putting his head in his hands. His life was shattered and the shards were cutting deep. The weekend was a masterclass in slow, agonizing suffocation. David didn't sleep.
He spent Saturday meticulously scrubbing his apartment, scrubbing the floors until his knuckles bled, trying to erase the ghost of expensive perfume that lingered near the sofa. He spent Sunday running the numbers. He sat at the laminate kitchen table, a yellow legal pad covered in frantic scratchy handwriting. Checking account $804 savings $200. Rent due in 9 days $150 for Chloe's inhalers $120.
The math didn't care about fairness. The math was a brick wall, and David was driving straight into it at 60 miles an hour. Monday morning arrived with the bleak, gray inevitability of a Chicago winter. At 8:59 a.m., David sat in front of his personal laptop. He had tried to log into the Montgomery Holdings secure VPN.
Error 403. Access denied. Contact network administrator. The message was a digital death sentence. He refreshed the page.
He typed his password again, slower this time. The red text blinked back at him, indifferent to the bile rising in his throat. At 9:15 a.m., his phone buzzed. The caller ID read, "Blocked." "David Miller," he answered, his voice remarkably steady for a man whose life was dissolving. "Mr. Miller.