Chapter 3: The Lobby Wait
The afternoon sun was struggling through the smog over downtown when my shift at the hotel ended at four. My feet throbbed inside my flat shoes, and the damp chill of late autumn was settling into the concrete sidewalks. I pushed through the revolving glass doors of the grand hotel lobby, eager for the subway ride back to my apartment, only to freeze on the top step.
A black town car was idling by the curb, and leaning against its fender was Julian Reed. He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only his crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the intricate black ink sprawling across his forearms. He wasn't on his phone; he was staring straight at the hotel entrance, waiting.
When he saw me, he pushed off the fender and walked toward the steps, ignoring the doorman's inquiring look.
"You didn't have to wait," I said, stopping a few steps above him so we were nearly eye-to-eye.
"I didn't have anywhere else to be," Julian replied, his voice steady. "I called my office at noon and cleared the rest of the week. After I left your apartment last night, I didn't sleep, Clara. I stared at the ceiling and realized that for three years I've been living on borrowed time, while the daughter of the man who bought that time for me is scrubbing floors in a hotel uniform."
"I earn my living honestly," I retorted, tightening my grip on my canvas tote bag. "My father taught me how to work, not how to accept handouts."
"I'm not offering a handout," he said, stepping up one stair closer. "I'm offering a conversation. There's a diner across the street. Twenty minutes. If you want to walk away after that, I won't follow you again. You have my word."
I studied his face in the gray afternoon light. The lines around his eyes were deeper than they had been in the video clips from three years ago—the scars of recovery etched into his skin alongside the emotional weight he carried. There was no arrogance in his posture now, only a quiet, relentless determination.
"Twenty minutes," I said. "Not a minute more."
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The diner was warm, smelling of stale coffee and fried grease. We took a corner booth away from the front window. Julian didn't order food, just black coffee, while I ordered a grilled cheese I knew I wouldn't eat.
"Tell me about him," Julian asked, stirring sugar into his cup though he hadn't tasted it. "Tell me what he was like before that night."
