Apartment Blocks

The walk home was meant to be a peaceful one, one where I could collect my thoughts but our conversation had ended with Warren Astor offering to drive me home. Offering being the wrong word entirely, Warren Astor offered nothing, everything was for a vested interest.

Which is why when we stepped from the building there was already an array of flashing cameras, and in that moment, he had grasped onto my hand ushering me forward, for a moment I wondered whether he knew they would be there, if that was why he took my hand.

“Did you call them?” I finally ground out, after the silence that stretched between us, his grip tightened on the wheel of his car, a gritting of teeth making me revaluate my question.

“I may be an arsehole but even I know when to draw the line.”

 I pressed my lips together, I wanted to believe it but I was too jaded to.

“The ring looks nice on you,” he broke the silence a grin permanently welded onto his features.

“I haven’t said yes yet.” I affirmed, not likely how smug he looked.

“Haven’t you Heron? You haven’t taken it off again,” he pointed it out like it was his greatest achievement, and immediately my fingers went to rip it from my finger.

He swerved and this time I knew it was on purpose, my hands disconnected with the harsh turn.

“Don’t do that,” I all but hissed, “It’s dangerous.”

“I would never put you in danger,” there was a glimmer in your eyes.

“Then don’t drive like a reckless idiot.”

“Might I remind you,” he chuckled lowly, “I still own your shop.”

“And what,” I seethed turning to him a blaze in my eyes, “You’re going to destroy it, blackmail me?”

“No.” the response was a cool one, “I don’t need blackmail to get what I want.”

“Oh really,” I tugged on my sleeves, “It really shows how spoilt you are,” His grip tightened on the wheel, but he said nothing, we approached my road, it was one turn away and I was so relieved to see the apartment block I called home. It was a drab and unappealing, but it was home, even with it’s pale green chipping paint, and elevator that would never be clean even if it was bleached ten times over.

“You live here,” he questioned, not slowing down to the lot beneath the block of flats.

“Yeah, I do.”

“It’s a shithole.” He had no reservations about berating me, so I didn’t know why I had expected him to have some decency when it came to my home.

“It is. But you should already know that,” I paused, “You own the building.”

His face paled, “I- what-“

“So privileged that you don’t even know what your properties look like,”

“It’s a big company, I don’t personally-“

“Save it,” I reached for the door, but he was quick to press down on the child lock, “You can’t keep me in your car.”

“It’s much better than your apartment,” and shame curled through me, a wicker of emotion that shouldn’t have been there.

I turned to him, “So this is what you are like Mr. Astor, an arrogant and privileged man who doesn’t have the decency not to insult my home because it’s all I can afford. Something that your class and rank made sure of.”

He was silent, and I felt I must have said too much, there would be no way of me keeping my shop now, new clients be damned.

My resolve almost crumbled, I almost apologised and that was the worst of it, I had no reason to apologise for my living circumstances, to tell him how I felt.

“Heron,” he whispered dejection in his eyes, “I didn’t know.”

“You wouldn’t. Because we are all far too small for you, Mr. Astor,” the words were careful and bruised. Broken and shattered before they even fell.

And this time when I pried the handle, the door opened. The ring shifted off my finger, and I placed it carefully on the seat, “I will have your rent for you by the end of the week,”

There was only silence and the crunch of gravel as I made it back to my shithole of a home.

But it was still home.