“Then you’re done here,” Ms. Hargrove said quietly. She tucked her clipboard under one arm, turned, and walked away through the crowd of oblivious diners, her heels sharp against the marble floor.
Crystal exhaled. She looked down at Noah. He was staring at her like she had just done something extraordinary.
Come on, baby, she said softly, crouching down. Let’s go find your daddy. She turned her back to him.
Hop up. He climbed on without hesitation, wrapped his arms around her neck, pressed his tear damp cheek against hers, and held on.
She carried him out through the front doors of the meridian into the cool night air.
And that is when the world shifted. He was standing at the open door of a black Rollsroyce, phone pressed to his ear, looking like a man in the middle of everything and in the middle of nothing all at once.
A man in his late 30s to early 40s in a dark blue suit that cost more than most people’s monthly salaries.
Red tie slightly loosened, jaw sharp, expression cracking open the second his eyes landed on the boy on Crystal’s back.
Noah. The word came out broken. Not like a billionaire, like a father. Noah’s head snapped up.
Daddy. He was off Crystal’s back before she could react, running across the entrance steps and slamming into his father’s legs with everything he had.
The man dropped to his knees right there on the pavement, suit and all, and wrapped both arms around his son so tightly it looked like he was trying to put him back inside his own heartbeat.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. He was saying it into Noah’s hair over and over like a confession.
