Chapter 6 - The Penthouse Sanctuary
The St. Regis Penthouse was a world that did not know the existence of rain or boiled cabbage. It was an expanse of cream silk rugs, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city reduced to a quiet grid of amber lights, and fireplaces that crackled with dry, expensive birch wood.
Dorothy sat in a massive velvet armchair, her legs elevated on an ottoman, a soft cashmere throw covering her lap. A private physician, secured by James within thirty minutes of their arrival, was currently adjusting a temporary traction splint on her hip while an IV line delivered high-grade anti-inflammatories directly into her bloodstream.
In the adjacent dining room, Callie and Bea were sitting at a mahogany table long enough for sixteen people. A private chef was setting down platters of silver-dollar pancakes, fresh berries, and hot chocolate served in porcelain cups that didn't rattle. The girls were eating with a quiet, ravenous intensity, their earlier fear temporarily subdued by the sheer luxury of the food.
The double doors to the penthouse opened, and James Ashby walked in.
He was still wearing his hospital wristband, hidden beneath the sleeve of a soft gray cashmere sweater. He walked slowly, his posture slightly stooped from the recent surgery, his face pale but determined. Marcus Vance followed close behind him, his cell phone pressed to his ear, his face tight with corporate panic.
"James, this is madness," Marcus hissed, dropping his voice as he saw Dorothy in the living room. "You’ve brought them to your private residence? If the media finds out you are harboring the children who are currently accused of grand larceny and elder endangerment—"
"They are accused of nothing by me, Marcus," James said, his voice cutting through the COO's protests like a blade. "And this is my home. I can invite whomever I choose."
James walked into the dining room. As he entered, Callie stopped with a forkful of pancake halfway to her mouth. She stared at him, her eyes tracking the movement of his chest, as if checking to see if the tight band she had felt yesterday was still there.
"Hi, Callie," James said gently, sitting down in the chair beside her. He looked at Beatrice. "Hi, Bea."
Bea set her cup down, her fingers leaving small, chocolate smudges on the porcelain. "You look better. You aren't the color of the sidewalk anymore."
"That's because of you," James said, his voice thick with an emotion he hadn't allowed himself to feel since Eleanor’s casket was lowered into the earth. "You called the ambulance. You held my hand." He looked at Callie. "Why did you hold my hand, Callie?"
"Because you were shaking," Callie said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And when people are shaking, they need to know someone is there so they don't fall through the cracks."
James closed his eyes, a single tear escaping and tracing a path through the lines of his face. He reached out, his long, weathered hand resting flat on the table, palms up. After a long second, Callie slid her small hand into his, her fingers curling around his thumb with the same unthinking, absolute trust she had shown in the mud of Kellerman Square.
May you like
Marcus stepped into the doorway, his phone finally quiet. "James, the board has called an emergency session for noon tomorrow. Arthur Vance—" Marcus stopped, checking his alignment. "The senior stakeholders want a statement. The local police precinct has issued a request for the children to be brought in for questioning regarding the 'theft' of your device."
James stood up, his hand gently releasing Callie’s. He walked over to Marcus, his gray eyes turning into chips of flint. "Tell the police that the device was never stolen. It was loaned to a citizen for an emergency call. And tell the board... tell them I will be at the meeting tomorrow. And I’m bringing my legal team."
