Chapter 7 - The Desperate Midnight Plea
At eleven o'clock that night, the rain beat a relentless tattoo against the glass windows of Anna’s loft. Downstairs, the scent of fresh bread drifted from the bakery ovens. Upstairs, Anna sat at her drafting table, drinking chamomile tea, sketching concepts for the new outdoor amphitheater.
A furious pounding echoed from the street door downstairs.
Anna walked to the intercom and checked the security camera. Grant stood in the alleyway, soaked to the bone. He had discarded his coat, his expensive silk tie was crooked, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. He looked wild-eyed, trembling in the bitter Chicago drizzle—resembling the terrified, broke twenty-four-year-old boy who had once panicked about job interviews.
Anna pressed the button. “Go home, Grant.”
“Anna, please! Let me up! Just two minutes. I’m begging you!” his voice crackled through the speaker, ragged and broken.
Anna waited three long seconds. Then she buzzed the lock.
Grant stumbled into the loft, dripping rainwater onto the hardwood floor. He looked around the warm, vibrant apartment—filled with canvases, plants, books, and laughter—and for a fleeting moment, a terrible look of grief flickered across his face. This was the warmth he had voluntarily thrown away for a sterile, cold trophy home.
“Graham is pulling my name from the senior partnership,” Grant gasped, collapsing onto an ottoman without being invited. “He told me if Alder Row has to swallow your terms, I’m being demoted to an analyst track in Denver. Or fired altogether. The foreign consortium is already pulling out because of the delays!”
Anna leaned against the counter, her arms crossed. “And where is Celeste?”
Grant let out a bitter, self-loathing laugh. “Celeste packed her bags this evening. The second she realized Graham blamed us, she leaked an internal memo pinning the whole oversight on my desk. She’s already meeting with a partner from a rival firm. She never cared about me, Anna. She cared about the promotion.”
“You cared about the promotion too, Grant,” Anna said softly, without a shred of pity. “You two were perfectly matched. You both worshiped a mirror.”
Grant dropped to his knees on the wooden floor, reaching out toward the hem of her simple cotton trousers. “Anna, remember what we had. Remember when you sewed that button on my shirt? Remember when you told me I was already someone important? You saved me back then. Save me now. Drop the public housing clause. Sign the commercial waiver. I’ll leave Alder Row. We can take our settlement, leave Chicago, start over anywhere you want. Just you and me.”
Anna looked down at him. For months, she had wondered if this moment would bring her triumph or spiteful satisfaction. Instead, she felt only a profound, liberating pity.
“Grant,” she whispered, stepping back out of his reach. “Twelve years ago, you asked me what would happen if you never became anything. And I told you that you were already important. But you spent the next twelve years trying to prove me wrong. You sold everything that made you human so you could impress people who don't even like you.”
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“Anna—”
“The boy who ate soup over our sink deserved to be saved,” she said gently, pointing to the door. “The man kneeling on my floor is a stranger who tried to liquidate his wife to impress a billionaire. I don't sign contracts for strangers. Get out.”
