Chapter 2

I got back to the basement apartment in Brooklyn just after one in the morning, body running on fumes.

The door swung open to the usual smell — damp walls, mildew, the faint sourness of a place that never quite dried out.

Paint had been peeling off the corner by the window for months. The pipes ticked and dripped somewhere in the dark.

I lowered myself onto the old couch, the springs groaning under my weight, and sat there with cold hands and a dull ache low in my abdomen that wouldn't let me forget.

I dry-swallowed two ibuprofen and looked around at the four walls I'd once called home.

The word felt obscene now.

A few hours ago I'd watched Bradley sink into a leather sofa worth more than everything in this apartment combined, a watch on his wrist that cost more than I'd earn in a decade, two bottles of Ace of Spades sweating on the floor beside him.

And now here I was, back in a basement where the heat cut out without warning.

The lock turned.

Bradley came in wearing his old gray hoodie, the one washed so many times it had gone soft and shapeless.

He'd smeared a few streaks of engine grease across his hands.

He saw me sitting in the dark and his face shifted immediately into concern.

"Hey, why are you still up?" He crossed the room and crouched in front of me. "Still hurting?"

He took my hands. His palms were warm.

If I hadn't heard what I'd heard tonight, I might have let it.

"Just got in. Tired." I pulled my hands back.

He didn't notice anything off. Instead he reached behind him with a small grin and produced a little paper box.

"I know it's not much — boss threw me an extra ten bucks for staying late. I walked past that bakery you like, so." He opened the lid. A single cupcake.

I looked at it. Behind my eyes: Bradley tilting a crystal glass, unhurried, the candlelight catching the face of his Patek Philippe.

"Thank you," I didn't touch it. "Busy day at the shop?"

"Brutal." He exhaled, rolled his shoulder. "Few big jobs came in. My back's wrecked."

He gave me the smile I knew so well — patient, reassuring.

"But we're okay. We keep saving, right? I promised you a real life."

Not a flicker.

But I could smell him. Under the grease — expensive cigar smoke, designer cologne, the warm boozy air of a sealed private suite. Motor oil doesn't cover that. It never does.

I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat.

"Bradley."

"Yeah?"

"The hospital called again. About Leo." I kept my voice even. "The cardiologist says the surgery can't wait. They need twenty thousand upfront."

Something moved across his face — a half-second pause, there and gone.

Then, right on cue, the performance began.

He dropped his head and dragged a hand through his hair.

"God, Molly. I'm so sorry." His voice went rough. "I already asked my boss. I even thought about borrowing it — but who's gonna lend twenty grand to a mechanic?"

He shook his head slowly. The picture of a man crushed by his own limitations.

Twenty thousand dollars. Tonight that wouldn't have covered a round of drinks in that suite.

I watched him and felt nothing except cold, clear disgust — at him, and at the version of myself that would've reached out to comfort him right now.

"It's fine. I was just asking."

He looked up sharply. "Don't do anything crazy, okay? Don't go looking for money in places you shouldn't."

He set his jaw, like a man steeling himself.

"If it comes to it — I'll donate blood. Whatever it takes."

That landed in my stomach like a stone.

I didn't call him out. There was no point.

I stood up, ignoring the pull low in my abdomen.

"It's late. Get some sleep."

He opened his mouth. I was already walking to the bedroom.

I closed the door, put my back against it, and stood there in the dark with my eyes shut.

Three years. I'd given this thing everything I had.

Tonight I finally knew what it had been worth.

But Leo was still in that hospital. Whatever Bradley had done to me, my brother was real, and the bill was real, and I couldn't afford to fall apart.

I opened my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found the name.

Sarah.

We'd worked a few shifts together at the club, back when I first started picking up temp work.

One night, she'd mentioned a job — private, well-paid. Fifty thousand up front, she'd said.

I'd turned it down without thinking twice. Because she'd said the employer was difficult.

I looked at the hospital notification sitting at the top of my screen. Then I pressed call.

It rang twice.

"Molly?" Sarah's voice, surprised, a little sleepy.

"The job you mentioned," I said quietly. "Is it still open?"

A beat of silence.

Then a short laugh. "Well. Did that broke boyfriend of yours finally starve you into it?"

I didn't answer.

She heard it and dropped the teasing.

"His name is Alexander Locke. Fair warning: the man is not easy to work for. I mean nobody lasts. You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Sarah was quiet for a moment.

"Okay. Peninsula Hotel, top-floor suite. Eight a.m. sharp. And Molly?" A pause. "Look put-together."