Chapter 3 -Noah’s POV

I packed everything I owned into one bag.

That should have taken longer than forty minutes. It didn’t.

Caleb sat on the edge of the bare mattress and watched me fold the pale blue shirt.

“How long will you be gone?” he asked.

“I’ll visit every Sunday,” I said. “That’s my day off.”

“Every Sunday,” he repeated, like he was turning it over in his mind.

“Every Sunday,” I said. “And I’ll call every night. And the first paycheck goes straight to Eli’s medication, okay? Things are going to get better. I need you to trust me on that.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then,

“Is he nice? The man you’re working for?”

I thought about the interview. The coffee stain. *Deal with it before tomorrow.*

“He’s professional,” I said.

Caleb looked at me like he knew exactly what that meant.

I hugged him at the door for longer than I needed to. He let me, which meant he was more scared than he was showing.

I did not cry on the subway to Manhattan.

I came close, but I didn’t.

Mrs. Hale met me in the lobby at nine a.m. sharp and walked me through everything.

My room was small but clean, with a window and a real bed. I had access to the kitchen during certain hours. No guests. No music without earphones.

“He’ll hear it,” Mrs. Hale said simply.

Right. He heard everything.

She showed me the schedule. Damien woke at six. Coffee before six thirty, black, no sugar, in the white cup not the grey one because the grey one was three millimetres shorter and he could tell. Calls from seven to nine. Lunch at one. Afternoons varied.

“What does he do in the afternoons?” I asked.

“He works,” Mrs. Hale said.

“Does he ever—” I stopped.

“No,” she said, before I finished. “He doesn’t go out much. He doesn’t want to.”

She said it in a way that ended the conversation completely.

Damien himself I didn’t see until noon.

He came out of his office and walked through the penthouse with the certainty of someone who had memorised every inch of it. No cane. No hesitation.

He stopped when he reached the kitchen doorway.

“You’re still here,” he said.

“It’s my first day,” I said.

“I know.” He moved to the counter, found the coffee maker by touch, checked the pot. Empty. His jaw tightened slightly. “My coffee.”

“I was told lunch prep started at—”

“My coffee,” he said again. Quiet. Flat.

I made his coffee.

He took it without a word and went back to his office and closed the door.

I stood in the kitchen and breathed through my nose and thought about Eli’s medication and Caleb’s cereal and the eviction notice that was no longer my problem.

I could do this.

I could absolutely do this.

My phone rang at 4pm.

I answered right away, stepping toward my room, closing the door quietly behind me.

“Mr. Carter.” Dr. Reeves. Eli’s lung doctor. “I wanted to talk about Elijah’s latest results. I think it’s time we have a more serious conversation about next steps.”

My chest tightened. “What does that mean?”

“The inflammation is not responding to the current medication. We’d like to move him to a stronger treatment plan, but I want to be honest with you about the costs before we go ahead.”

He told me the number.

I sat down on the edge of my bed and stared at the wall and said, “Okay. How long do we have before we need to decide?”

“Two weeks, ideally,” he said. “The sooner we start the better his chances.”

“I’ll figure it out,” I said. “I’ll call you back by Friday.”

I hung up.

Sat very still.

The number was four times my monthly salary. Even with no rent and no food costs it would take months to save and Eli had two weeks.

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes.

I did not cry.

I was getting very good at not crying.

I sat there for seven minutes. At minute eight I stood up. Washed my face. Went back into the hallway.

Damien was standing at the end of it.

“Your duties resume at four,” he said.

“It’s four fifteen,” I said. My voice was steady. Mostly.

“I know what time it is.”

I walked toward him. He didn’t move. For one moment I thought about just saying it. *I need more money and my brother is sick and I am barely holding this together.*

I didn’t say any of it.

“I’m sorry for the delay,” I said instead. “It won’t happen again.”

He said nothing.

I went to make his afternoon coffee and told myself I was fine.

That everything was fine.

I was getting very good at lying too.