Redemption’s Sweet Surprise のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 21 - チャプター 30

RSS 21I follow behind Luther as we step out of the restaurant, no longer hungry after eating and less likely to trip over and faint. We get to the car and Luther is about to step in when he gets a call on his phone. He picks it up and gets into the backseat, me following swiftly behind.I turn my face to the window, not paying attention to anything else but the beauty of the streets outside. It’s on the upper side of the city, most likely a place for the rich. Since I started working for Luther, I’ve seen more “rich” places than I’d ever seen in my life. It’s both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it’s like a breath of fresh air, knowing that my life may be ugly, but there are better things out there. Better lives to live and better places to see. It’s a curse because seeing it makes me realize just how shitty my life actually. All my life, I’ve tried as much as I can to be optimistic, but seeing people live such glamorous lives opens my eye to the unfair hand I’ve been deal

RSS 23The address on the cream envelope felt heavy in my hand, not like paper, but like a stone. Eleanor Vance. 214 Crestview Lane. The arts district. The driver didn’t speak, and I was grateful. My mind was a roaring static, replaying that sliver of a child’s smile from the hidden photo, the shattered look on Luther’s face in the library.This wasn’t a simple errand. It was a window into a room in his life I was never meant to see. I tucked the envelope carefully into my bag, the corner of the photo now securely inside. I hadn’t pulled it out. Seeing it felt like a violation of something sacred, a feeling that sat cold in my gut.Crestview Lane was a row of old, narrow townhouses, painted bright colors. Number 214 was a soft periwinkle blue, the front garden a wild, cheerful tangle of late-blooming flowers. It felt alive. It felt nothing like Luther’s stone mansion. My knock was answered by a woman in her sixties, with kind eyes and flour dusting her apron.“You must be from Luther,

RSS 25 The taxi ride back to the city felt like crossing a border between two different worlds. In one, there were stone mansions, private cars, and orders for expensive art supplies. In the other, my world, there was the fluorescent buzz of the hospital corridor and the ever-present weight of a bill I was one crisis away from not paying.I walked into Keila’s room, the smell of antiseptic pulling me back to solid ground. She was propped up with pillows, a coloring book open on her lap.“Mummy! Look, I stayed inside the lines,” she announced, holding up a page of a clumsily colored dinosaur.“It’s perfect, sweetheart,” I said, kissing her forehead, the familiar ache of love and fear swelling in my chest. Luther’s words echoed. A recovering warrior. He had no idea how right he was. “How are you feeling?”“Tired. But the doctor said my numbers are… are…” She scrunched her nose, searching for the word.“Good?” I offered.“Better!” she said, triumphant. She looked at me, her big eyes too

E.V. is on their board. A beat. Then, Luther’s hand reached for his water glass. His eyes flicked down to the pad for less than a second. Nothing on his face changed. But he set the glass down without drinking. “Your point about section 4.B has merit,” Luther said, the words so sudden and so utterly wrong that Henderson physically startled. “The timeline can be amended. We’ll add a six-month review buffer. A sign of good faith.” The junior lawyer’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it, and his face fell. The meeting ended twenty minutes later with handshakes and revised documents. The victory was complete, but it was a different victory than the one Luther had walked in for. In the elevator going down, the silence was absolute. He stared straight ahead at the brass doors. I watched the numbers descend. “You researched the board,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection. “I research everything,” I replied, my own voice quiet but steady. “It’s my job.” “Your job wa

RSS 28 The plaza café was the kind of place where the coffee had descriptions longer than its menu. All exposed brick and soft jazz, a curated backdrop for power lunches and discreet affairs. We arrived at 9:58. Luther, of course, had already secured a secluded corner table with its back to the wall, a clear view of both exits. He didn’t rise when we approached. Katie, in her best jeans and a sharp jacket, looked like a warrior entering a foreign court. I saw her take him in—the immaculate suit, the watch, the utter stillness of him. Her chin went up a fraction. “Katie, this is Luther Vance. Luther, my friend, Katie.” “Ms. Miller,” Luther said, giving a curt nod. He did not offer his hand. “Sit. We have twenty-seven minutes.” Katie sat, throwing me a look that screamed ‘you see?’ She leaned forward, ignoring the menu. “I appreciate you making the time.” “I’m not making time. I’m allocating it,” he corrected, his gaze flat. “Audrey’s stability impacts her performance. You ar