Page 18 of Dante
"Thanks," he remembered to say, his tone brusque.
"Of course." She was sliding away from the desk when she noticed a file partially hidden behind the desktop.
"Did you leave this here?"
"No. What is it?"
He came closer as she opened the folder.
Inside were several crisp sheets of paper, their letterhead unfamiliar. A logo in deep blue, formal and understated. She scanned the topmost page, brow furrowing as she took in the first few lines.
"It's addressed to you," she said, handing the folder over, her voice low.
He glanced at the heading, eyes narrowing in recognition.
"From the Foundation," he murmured, flipping through the documents with growing curiosity.
"Must have come in with the morning mail," she offered, watching his expression shift.
"Could be important. I'll look it over now." He set the folder atop his planner, the tennis match and the rest of the day's obligations momentarily forgotten as he read through the unexpected correspondence.
"Anything I should know?" There was something about his expression before it was shielded. Something she could not identify.
"No. I'll deal with it. I'll be in my office for a few more minutes, you may go."
She waited until he had stepped into his office before making a face. The man was impossibly rude. She was about to buzz the intercom and ask if he wanted something to eat but thought better of it. There was no way she was going to take more of his insults. She had much better things to do with her time. Shoving back from the desk, she cleaned up and left.
Inside his office, Dante hesitated before opening the folder again. Someone had snuck up to the top floor and left it on her desk. The same bastard who had been plaguing him for several months now. His bastard of a father, who thinks that after leaving him in the not so capable arms of a mother who had abused him, that he could come back into his life.
He stared at his own name printed in indelible ink, the signature at the bottom of the page blurred by an unsteady hand. Outside, the city hummed along its relentless track, unbothered by theprivate storms brewing in locked offices. Dante pressed his thumb against the paper, feeling for hidden seams, some clue that would explain why after all these years, the Foundation, his father, had reappeared now, dragging old ghosts out into the sterile light of day.
A surge of anger flared and subsided, replaced by a colder, more calculating resolve. He would not be ambushed by sentiment, nor by the lure of unfinished conversations. The envelope contained exactly what he'd expected: a lifeline, a leash, the pretense of reconciliation. He set his jaw and began reading in earnest, eyes scanning for traps, for fine print with barbed hooks.
The clock on the wall ticked, marking time in neat increments as his certainty built. This was a move, nothing more. A piece played on a board he had never chosen, but one he refused to abandon. Whatever overture or threat the Foundation thought to deliver, they'd find him prepared this time.
He folded the first letter with care, tucking it back into the folder. The rest he left unread for now. He needed to think. He needed air, and the truth, and perhaps, though he'd never admit it, the quiet assurance that history could be rewritten, even if only by the act of refusing to play by its rules.
He stood and crossed to the window, the city lights flickering in the dusk, and let himself believe, just for a moment, that he could outmaneuver destiny itself.
Well, the damned folder had done one good thing for him. It had taken his thoughts from matters that should never be an issue. Rubbing a hand at the back of his neck, he tried to shake her loose.
She did not go back to sleep when she returned home. How could she? After dashing to the office and getting that file ready for that wretched man, she was certainly in no mood to just go back to bed and tuck the sheets over her. She was wide awake and revved. It had been an eventful week. And she had enjoyed every minute of it.
Letting herself inside, she dropped the key fob into the bowl on the entrance table and went straight to the kitchen. Her stomach was acting up a little bit and the decision to make some tea while at the office had not panned out. Setting the kettle to boil, she rooted out the chamomile and fetched the honey.
It was time to start thinking about her future. Sitting around the counter, she reached for a notebook and pencil she kept there.The job was good. No, she shook her head. It was excellent. It was demanding and challenging, and she loved it. It paid extremely well. When she first saw the compensation package, she had to stop herself from dancing with glee.
She was earning what top executives earned. The health insurance was the best she had ever come across. No co-pay at all. Even if she had the urge to get plastic surgery done, not that she ever would of course! It would be paid for. Say what you will about Dante Livingston, but the man takes care of his staff. No wonder they were so loyal.
She looked around the tiny kitchen and focused on the herbs she had planted. Which reminded her that she hadn't watered them in days. Hopping off the stool, she turned off the flame and grabbed a watering can. It still hit her like a ton of bricks that she had her own place. That she was so different from the frightened girl in that group home. The one who used to stop herself from crying for her mother. The same girl who had clung to her brother when the bullying had started.
She was no longer wearing cast-offs. But could buy her own. She had her own home. It had taken all her savings for the opening and closing cost, but she had wanted her own place. Her brother had said it had to do with the fact that they never had a home, and he was probably right.
She pressed her palm to the glass, watching the city's pulse reflected in the window, her own silhouette a silent witness to everything she had clawed her way through. This house, secondhand, cramped, cluttered with mismatched mugs and fading grocery lists, was the sum of a hundred small victories. Every inch felt claimed by effort, by sacrifice, by nights spent staring at the low ceiling and imagining escape routes.
She watered the basil and mint, running her thumb over a bruise on a leaf, thinking absently of old wounds and the ones that never quite healed. The kettle shrieked, scattering her thoughts, so she poured the water, honey swirling gold in the steam, and took her cup to the window. The ritual steadied her. With the city spread out before her, she could finally let the tension drain from her shoulders.
She let herself imagine, just briefly, a future written in her own careful hand. One where she chose the terms, where her past didn't dictate every move. That was the real luxury: not the salary or the insurance or even the sturdy lock on the door, but the freedom to decide what came next.
