chapter 2
Nathan expected poverty.
He expected unpaid bills.
He expected sickness.
He was not prepared for what he found.
Grace and Emma lived in a crumbling apartment above an abandoned laundromat.
The hallway smelled of mold.
The elevator had been broken so long that someone had nailed a handwritten sign over the buttons.
USE THE STAIRS.
Nathan climbed four flights.
The apartment door stood slightly open.
Inside...
Someone was crying.
Not loudly.
The exhausted kind of crying people try to hide.
Nathan knocked gently.
Emma answered.
The color drained from her face.
"Mr. Whitmore?"
She looked horrified.
Not surprised.
Terrified.
"You shouldn't be here."
Nathan smiled softly.
"I think I should."
Grace appeared behind her daughter.
She looked twenty years older than Nathan remembered.
Her skin had turned pale.
Dark circles surrounded tired eyes.
One hand instinctively rested against her side.
"I'm so sorry, sir," Grace whispered.
"I never meant for Emma to come."
Nathan looked around.
There was almost no furniture.
A tiny table.
Two folding chairs.
One secondhand couch held together with duct tape.
Medicine bottles covered the kitchen counter.
Some were empty.
One prescription label caught Nathan's eye.
Payment Overdue.
His expression hardened.
"Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"
Grace looked embarrassed.
"You already pay me."
"I pay you to work."
"And you did."
She smiled weakly.
"I didn't want pity."
Nathan's voice cracked.
"This isn't pity."
"This is responsibility."
Before Grace could answer...
A black luxury SUV pulled up outside.
Emma froze.
Grace looked terrified.
Nathan noticed immediately.
"Who's coming?"
No one answered.
Three sharp knocks hit the apartment door.
A man's voice followed.
"Grace."
"I know you're in there."
"It's rent day."
Grace's hands began shaking.
Emma quietly stepped in front of her mother.
Nathan watched carefully.
The landlord entered without waiting.
Large.
Expensive suit.
Gold watch.
Confident smile.
Until he saw Nathan Whitmore standing in the apartment.
The smile vanished instantly.
"Mr... Mr. Whitmore?"
Nathan recognized him immediately.
Richard Holloway.
A real estate investor.
Occasional business acquaintance.
Member of the same country club.
Nathan spoke quietly.
"You own this building?"
Richard forced a laugh.
"A few investment properties."
Nathan noticed something on the kitchen counter.
A payment ledger.
He picked it up.
His eyes narrowed.
Rent...
$4,900 per month.
For a one-bedroom apartment.
Nathan looked around again.
Broken walls.
Leaking ceiling.
Cracked windows.
Rotting floorboards.
He slowly turned toward Richard.
"You're charging nearly five thousand dollars..."
"...for this?"
Richard swallowed.
"The market—"
Nathan cut him off.
"No."
His voice became ice.
"The market didn't do this."
"You did."
Emma looked confused.
Grace lowered her head.
Richard's confidence disappeared completely.
Nathan flipped another page.
Late fees.
Processing fees.
Maintenance charges.
Interest.
Penalties.
Grace had paid more in penalties than in rent.
Nathan's eyes landed on one signature.
Approved by:
Elizabeth Whitmore.
Nathan stopped breathing.
His own daughter.
Vice President of Whitmore Property Holdings.
The company that managed several family investments.
Including this building.
Nathan slowly looked back at Richard.
Then at the signature.
Then at Grace.
Everything suddenly connected.
Grace hadn't been trapped by poverty.
May you like
She had been trapped...
...by his own family.
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