Chapter 2 - The Apartment She Never Wanted Me to See
Sophie was admitted that afternoon.
I remained in the hospital.
Not in her room.
She had made that boundary clear.
So I sat in a waiting area forty feet from the oncology floor, wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit I had not changed in fourteen hours, while men who would normally clear entire restaurants for me stood awkwardly near vending machines.
At six that evening, Nico walked over holding two coffees.
"You look terrible," he said.
I stared at him.
"Careful."
"There he is. I was getting worried."
I accepted the coffee.
"Anything?"
"On the calls? I'm working on it. Office records were altered."
My hand stopped halfway to my mouth.
"Altered how?"
"Three inbound entries on the executive line were deleted from the internal log. The telecom provider still has the metadata. Dates line up with what Ms. Bennett told you."
My jaw tightened.
"Who had access?"
"You. Me. Your executive administrator. Two people in family operations." He paused. "And your uncle Matteo."
Of course.
Matteo Moretti had been telling me for years that Sophie made me weak.
He called her kind when he meant fragile. Civilian when he meant useless. After the first miscarriage, he had started making quiet comments about heirs and duty.
I had shut him down every time.
But I had never removed him from my inner circle.
Because he was my father's older brother.
Because family loyalty had been carved into me before I was old enough to understand the damage it could do.
"Don't accuse anyone yet," I said.
Nico nodded.
"Already assumed that."
My phone vibrated.
A number from the hospital.
I answered immediately.
"Moretti."
"Mr. Moretti, this is Dr. Patel. Sophie gave permission for me to speak with you about her current condition."
The fact that Sophie had given permission hit me harder than I expected.
"I'm listening."
"She has a bloodstream infection, but we caught it early. She's receiving broad-spectrum antibiotics. Her blood counts are very low from induction chemotherapy, so we're watching her closely."
"Is she going to die?"
Nico looked away.
No one in my world heard me ask questions like that.
The doctor did not soften the truth.
"She is very sick. But right now, she is stable. Our immediate goal is to control the infection. After that, we need to reassess her leukemia response and determine whether she can proceed to transplant."
"You said she doesn't have a donor."
"Not yet. Her registry search is ongoing. Sibling donors are often ideal, but Sophie told us she has no full siblings."
I knew that.
Her mother had died when Sophie was twenty-one. Her father had disappeared from her life years before that.
"What can I do?"
Dr. Patel was silent for a moment.
"Be someone she can trust."
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because that might be the hardest thing anyone had ever asked of me.
"Can I see her?"
"Not tonight. She asked to rest."
My grip tightened around the phone.
Then I remembered my promise.
Consent.
"Tell her I understand."
After the call ended, I stared at the dark screen.
Nico waited.
"Stable," I said.
"Good."
"I need you to do something else."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Find out where Sophie lives."
Nico's face changed.
"Boss—"
"I'm not going there to drag her back. I need to know whether someone is taking care of her apartment. Food. Bills. Anything she might be worrying about while she's here."
He studied me.
"You know she may consider that invasive."
I hated that he was right.
"Then don't go inside. Just get the address."
It took him eleven minutes.
Sophie lived in a small third-floor apartment in Lincoln Park.
Not a luxury building.
Not a place with a doorman or underground parking.
A brick walk-up with narrow balconies and a grocery store on the corner.
The next morning, I asked Sophie if I could bring her anything from home.
Her text arrived ten minutes later.
A gray sweater. Phone charger. Blue notebook on the kitchen counter.
Then, after a pause, another message.
Please don't send anyone. Go yourself.
I read those words twice.
She knew me too well.
I left the hospital with Nico and one car.
The apartment building smelled faintly of laundry detergent and old radiators. The stairs creaked. A neighbor carrying a bag of groceries looked at me, then at Nico, and quickly moved aside.
Sophie's key was waiting in an envelope with the hospital security desk.
When I opened her apartment door, I stopped.
The place was small.
Clean.
Quiet.
Painfully Sophie.
A faded green couch sat beneath the window. Two plants leaned toward the light. A stack of library books rested on the coffee table. The kitchen was barely large enough for two people.
On the refrigerator, held by a magnet shaped like a lemon, was a handwritten list.
Milk.
Ginger tea.
Thermometer batteries.
Crackers.
Pick up prescription.
Underneath that, in smaller handwriting:
Call hospital if fever over 100.4.
My chest tightened.
No armed guards.
No private nurse.
No chef.
No one.
I walked into the bedroom.
Her suitcase from the night she left me was open in the corner.
The same suitcase.
She had never fully unpacked it.
That detail broke something inside me.
I found the gray sweater folded over a chair.
The phone charger was beside the bed.
The blue notebook sat on the kitchen counter exactly where she said it would.
I reached for it.
Then stopped.
It was closed.
Private.
Months earlier, I would have opened it without thinking if I believed it contained something important.
I did not open it.
I put it in the bag.
As I turned to leave, a white envelope on the counter caught my eye.
My name was written on the front.
Ethan.
My entire body went still.
The envelope was unsealed.
For a long moment, I did nothing.
Then I called Sophie.
She answered on the fourth ring.
Her voice was weak.
"Did you find the sweater?"
"Yes."
"And the notebook?"
"Yes."
Silence.
I stared at the envelope.
"There's something here with my name on it."
Her breathing changed.
"What?"
"An envelope. On the counter."
A long pause.
"Leave it."
I closed my eyes.
"Okay."
"You didn't open it?"
"No."
Silence again.
Then, very quietly, "Thank you."
Two words.
Nothing more.
Yet I understood exactly what had happened.
For the first time in years, I had been given the chance to respect one of Sophie's boundaries before violating it.
I left the envelope where it was.
But on my way out, I noticed something else.
A framed photograph facedown on a bookshelf.
I hesitated.
A photograph was not a letter.
Still, I asked myself the same question.
Do I have the right?
The answer was no.
I walked away.
Before I left the apartment, I noticed a stack of envelopes half-hidden beneath a fruit bowl.
Hospital billing office.
Pharmacy.
Insurance.
I did not open them.
I did not need to.
One envelope had FINAL NOTICE printed in red across the front.
For five years, money had been the easiest thing I could give Sophie. If she mentioned a broken appliance, a new one appeared. If she admired a coat and then decided it cost too much, it would somehow be in her closet by the weekend. I used to think generosity could compensate for absence.
Standing in that little kitchen, I finally understood why it never had.
I called her again.
"What now?" she asked, exhausted but amused.
"There are medical bills here."
Silence.
"Ethan."
"I'm not opening them."
"Good."
"But I want to pay them."
"No."
The answer came immediately.
Every old instinct in me rose at once.
I could pay every bill before lunch. I could make one call and erase the entire problem. I could buy the building if I wanted.
And that was exactly why I needed to stop.
"Okay," I said.
Sophie went quiet.
"Okay?"
"If you say no, then no."
"You sound like it physically hurts."
"It does."
A faint laugh.
Then she sighed.
"I have insurance. I have savings. The divorce settlement was more than enough, even though I barely touched it. I'm not going to be homeless because of treatment."
"That's not what I'm afraid of."
"What are you afraid of?"
I looked around the apartment.
At the crackers beside the sink.
At the blanket folded over the green couch.
At the list on the refrigerator written in her careful handwriting.
"That you learned how to survive this without asking anyone for help because asking me stopped feeling safe."
She did not answer.
I almost apologized again.
Instead, I waited.
Finally she said, "If I need help, I will tell you."
"Promise?"
"No promises."
I closed my eyes.
She was right.
"Then tell me if you need help."
"I will try."
It was not certainty.
It was better.
It was honest.
At the hospital, I handed the bag to a nurse because Sophie was sleeping.
Then I returned to the waiting area.
Nico was already there.
And from the look on his face, something had changed.
"We found the deleted calls," he said.
I stood.
"Who?"
"The system records show the deletions were authorized under a family operations credential."
"Whose credential?"
Nico's eyes hardened.
"Matteo's."
I felt something dark and familiar move through me.
The instinct that had kept me alive in my world.
The need to strike.
To punish.
To make someone pay.
Then I looked through the glass toward the oncology floor.
Sophie was fighting for her life.
This could not become another excuse for me to disappear into violence.
"Bring Matteo to the office," I said.
Nico nodded.
"Tonight?"
"No."
He looked surprised.
"Tomorrow morning."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
I sat back down.
"Tonight, I stay here."
Nico watched me for a moment.
Then he smiled faintly.
"Maybe you're finally learning."
May you like
I should have threatened him for that.
Instead, I stared at the double doors and waited for my ex-wife to wake up.
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