Chapter 9 - THE WOBBLY TABLESix months later, the rain was falling again over Jersey City.
Inside the third-floor apartment above the bakery, the air still smelled of cinnamon and burnt sugar. The radiator still clanked when the heat kicked on. The bathroom faucet still screamed if you turned it too far left.
And the kitchen table still wobbled just a little bit.
Daniel walked in carrying two takeout containers of cheap dumplings and a bottle of decent wine. He kicked off his shoes, loosening his tie as he tossed his keys onto the counter right next to the cracked blue cookie tin, which now sat empty, its dangerous contents safely locked away in federal archives.
Lena was sitting at the wobbly table, going over architectural blueprints for the new community housing initiative the restructured Han Foundation was funding in Newark.
"You're late," she said without looking up, though a small smile played at the corner of her lips.
"Traffic on the bridge," Daniel said, setting the food down and pulling out a chair. He sat across from her, resting his chin in his hand, just watching her.
Lena finally looked up, her dark eyes sharp, intelligent, and entirely unimpressed by his CEO title. "What?"
"I was just thinking," Daniel said softly, "that my father spent seventy years building an empire out of fear, and it vanished in forty-eight hours."
Lena reached across the table, her fingers—no longer soft, still bearing the faint scar from the kitchen burn—resting gently over his.
"And we built this on a wobbly table," she said, her voice warm and steady. "Let's see if it lasts longer."
May you like
Daniel smiled, turning his hand over to interlace his fingers with hers.
"It will," he said. "We checked the foundation."
