Chapter 5: The Suspicion
I watched their car disappear down the street, a rush of victory flooding me—only for it to fade almost immediately.
Two days later, I sat in my office, acquisition charts for a hostile takeover in Tokyo glowing on my screens, but I couldn’t focus. My attention kept drifting back to the live security feed from the hallway of their building—the one I now owned.
Sarah was pacing.
She had her phone pressed to her ear.
I activated the audio feed.
(Yes, it was illegal. No, I didn’t care.)
“…it doesn’t make sense, Linda,” she said, her voice tight. “I called the power company. The bill was paid in full for the next year. Who does that? And the ‘clerical error’? I found my old receipts. I was behind. This guy, Julian… he’s lying.”
She was sharp. Sharper than I’d given her credit for.
“I’m scared, Linda. What if he’s a trafficker? What if he wants Maya? I can’t stay here. It’s too good to be true.”
My stomach dropped. I’d pushed too hard. In trying to save them, I’d frightened her. She was packing again.
I had no choice. I couldn’t stay invisible anymore. I had to become real.
I grabbed my coat and headed out. I needed to explain—tell her the truth, or at least a version of it that didn’t sound like stalking by a billionaire.
When I reached her apartment, she opened the door with the chain still on. A baseball bat was clenched in her hand.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “And don’t give me the ‘property manager’ crap. I looked up the building records. It was bought by ‘Vance Global Holdings.’ That’s a hedge fund. Who are you really?”
I met her gaze through the narrow opening. Then I glanced at the bat.
“Sarah,” I said quietly, dropping the façade. “Can we talk? I’m not a manager. And I’m not a predator. I was at the church.”
Her grip loosened slightly. “The church?”
“Christmas Eve. I was sitting three rows behind you. I heard Maya.”
Silence stretched between us.
“I heard what she asked for,” I continued softly. “She didn’t ask for money. She asked for someone to help you carry the boxes.”
The chain slid free. The door opened. Her eyes searched my face, hunting for lies.
“Why?” she asked. “Why would a man like you care?”
“Because,” I said, stepping into the hallway but keeping my distance, “I used to be the kid in the passenger seat of a rusted car. And nobody helped my mom. I couldn’t save her. But I can save you.”
It was the most honest thing I’d said in a decade.
