Chapter 3: The Glass Fronts of Town
Marcus kept the sedan idling by the curb of the brick apartment building while I checked the passenger-side floor mat to make sure I hadn't left the brown paper bag behind. My hand instinctively pressed against the soft knit of my cream sweater, feeling the solid, reassuring warmth of the bakery items tucked safely against my baby bump. The damp afternoon chill off the street seemed to settle right into the marrow of my bones, a lingering echo of Julian's voice in the bakery. Marcus didn't rush me. He shifted the gear into park, his heavy frame moving with slow, deliberate precision as he cut the engine and stepped out into the misty air to open my door.
"Let me take that," Marcus said softly, his deep voice carrying a steady rumble that cut through the hiss of passing traffic on the wet asphalt. He didn't reach for the bag I held, respecting the physical barrier I placed between myself and the world, but his eyes scanned the length of the sidewalk, tracking a delivery truck idling three doors down and a jogger rounding the corner. His neck tattoos caught the gray light under the building's concrete overhang, a stark contrast to the quiet, protective focus in his gaze.
"I can manage," I murmured, sliding across the worn upholstery. My legs felt heavy, weighed down by a combination of fatigue and the quiet dread that always accompanied returning to this address. Julian paid the lease on this place for the first six months after we moved downtown, a convenience that had slowly transformed into a golden cage of oversight. Every mail slot, every security camera in the vestibule, carried the invisible weight of his approval.
We walked up the three shallow concrete steps together. Marcus stayed half a step behind and to my left, his broad shoulders shielding me from the open street. As we entered the glass-fronted lobby, the smell of damp brick and radiator heat hit us. The mail area sat just past the mailboxes, a polished mahogany table where circulars and parcel slips accumulated like snow.
My eyes immediately caught the thick, cream-colored envelope resting square in the center of my box's brass floor. It wasn't standard postal service mail. The heavy cardstock bore a crisp, embossed gold crest in the upper left corner—the distinctive seal of Julian's philanthropic foundation. Even from three feet away, the dark ink of my name, printed in Julian's preferred precise font, looked like a summons.
I stopped dead on the rubber-backed lobby rug. My breath caught in my throat, a sharp, cold pinch behind my ribs.
Marcus noticed the sudden rigidity in my posture. He stepped up beside me, his gaze dropping to the envelope inside the open brass box. He didn't touch it. Instead, his eyes moved methodically around the lobby—up toward the corner security dome, across the mail sorting alcove, and back down to the polished brass locks. His shoulders stayed square, the muscles in his neck tightening slightly under the inked lines of his tattoos.
"You don't have to look at it right now," Marcus said, his voice entirely even, offering a quiet harbor against the rising tide of panic.
"It's from his office," I whispered, my fingers tightening instinctively around the brown paper bag against my stomach, feeling the slight crunch of the pastry packaging inside. "He always finds a way to remind me that he knows where the door is."
"He's not inside," Marcus said, his tone leaving no room for argument. With a calm, practiced vigilance, he stepped past me to check the heavy glass service door leading to the building's interior stairwell, ensuring the latch was secure and the hallway empty. He moved with the quiet grace of a man who understood perimeter security not as a theory, but as a daily necessity. "Let's go up."
I reached into the box, my fingers trembling slightly as I pulled out the heavy envelope without opening it, tucking it beneath my arm alongside my keys. We rode the small, wood-paneled elevator in silence, the rhythmic hum of the cables vibrating softly through the floorboards. Every floor we passed felt like another layer of separation from the street, but the heavy cardstock under my arm felt heavier still.
May you like
When we reached the fourth floor, I unlocked apartment 4B with quick, practiced turns of the deadbolt. The air inside was stale, smelling faintly of old coffee and radiator dust—a space that belonged to me on paper, but whose walls still echoed with Julian's casual judgments.
I pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped inside, the familiar layout greeting me with a strange mix of safety and claustrophobia. Marcus followed quietly behind, his presence filling the compact entryway without crowding it. As I clicked the deadbolt home into its brass strike plate with a heavy, final thud, Marcus walked straight into the small, galley kitchen and set the brown paper bag down gently on the laminate counter, bringing an anchor of steady warmth into the quiet apartment.
