Chapter 2 - The House on Highlandtown
The heater in the two-bedroom apartment on Highlandtown Street sounded like a tin can being kicked down a flight of stairs, but to Roman Calder, it was the only sound in the world that mattered.
He sat in a straight-backed wooden chair beside the pullout couch. On the stove in the cramped kitchenette, a pot of simple chicken broth was simmering—an amateur’s attempt at cooking, but it was all he could manage while the neighborhood pharmacy was still open for gauze, saline, and electrolyte drops.
On the couch, Nora stirred.
Her color had returned slightly from the pale gray of the warehouse floor, though the purple bruises around her wrists stood out against her skin like ink blots. Beside the bed, curled into a tight ball with his face pressed against the mattress, nine-year-old Caleb was finally asleep. He had refused to move until Roman promised—swore on his mother's grave, a promise Roman had never made to anyone—that his sister was going to be fine.
The door to the kitchenette creaked. Roman didn't turn around.
“She’s awake,” he said quietly.
Nora’s eyes fluttered open. For a second, panic flared in her dark irises as she tried to sit up, her muscles screaming in protest. “Mr... Mr. Calder?”
“Don't move,” Roman said, standing up and walking over with a glass of water fitted with a bendable straw. He held it out. She hesitated, her lips trembling, before she leaned forward and drank. The water disappeared down her throat with desperate speed.
“Easy,” he warned, taking the glass away after a few sips. “Too much too fast will make you sick.”
Nora stared at him, the shadows of the room playing across his sharp cheekbones. The intimidating aura of the waterfront king seemed out of place in this threadbare apartment, where the wallpaper was peeling near the ceiling and a row of schoolbooks sat neatly stacked on a plastic crate.
“Why are you here?” she whispered.
“Because my fiancée is a vicious, insecure idiot,” Roman said bluntly, pulling no punches. “And because I have spent five years eating food prepared by a woman who cares more about whether my tea is the right temperature than anyone in my own family ever has.”
Nora looked toward the floor where Caleb was sleeping. “My brother... did you—?”
“He was eating a peanut butter sandwich when I got here,” Roman interrupted. “He asked me if I was the man who overworked you. I told him he was right.”
A small, wet sound escaped Nora’s throat. She pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, her eyes dropping to her bruised wrists. “She wanted the position cleared. Evelyn knew I saw her... she knew I knew about the things she brought into the estate when you were away. She didn't want to get caught before the wedding.”
“There is no wedding,” Roman said flatly.
Nora looked up.
“As of two hours ago, Miss Sterling is currently on a private flight to London with whatever luggage she could pack before my men escorted her off the property,” Roman said, his voice completely devoid of emotion. “The engagement is dissolved. Her father’s shipping contracts with the Port of Baltimore have been terminated. By morning, she will be nothing more than a bad memory.”
Silence settled over the small apartment, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the ancient refrigerator and Caleb’s soft breathing.
“You didn't have to do that,” Nora said softly. “She was going to be your wife.”
“She was a liability,” Roman corrected, walking over to the stove and checking the broth. He picked up a wooden spoon, tasted it, frowned at it, and added a pinch of salt from a cheap plastic container. “And in my line of work, liabilities are eliminated.”
He turned back to look at her, the spoon still in his hand. The harsh light from the single overhead bulb caught the scar along his jawline—the one he always rubbed when he was thinking about his past.
“Tell me about your mother,” he said unexpectedly.
Nora blinked, caught off guard. “My mother?”
“The voicemail,” Roman said, leaning against the counter. “On your phone. It was playing when I picked up your bag at the warehouse. She told you not to worry about her.”
Nora’s fingers tightened on the blanket. A look of profound, aching sorrow crossed her face—a look Roman recognized instantly, because he had seen it in his own mirror every morning since he was twelve years old.
“She died three years ago,” Nora said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Heart failure. She worked three jobs to keep us in this apartment. When she passed, the landlord tried to evict us within forty-eight hours.”
“And?”
“And I went to the docks,” Nora said simply. “I applied for every kitchen job from here to Annapolis. Most places wouldn't hire a twenty-one-year-old girl with no formal culinary school background. But the Calder estate needed a kitchen assistant who didn't ask questions about the late-night arrivals.”
Roman set the spoon down on the counter. He walked slowly back to the side of the pullout couch, looking down at her with an intensity that made her breath hitch.
“You stayed for five years,” Roman said. “You cooked for a man who never thanked you, in a house where people looked through you as if you were part of the wallpaper.”
“You paid well,” Nora said defensively, though there was no heat in it. “And you never screamed at the staff. In the underworld, Mr. Calder, indifference is a luxury.”
May you like
Roman stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, a ghost of a smile touched the corner of his mouth—the real one, not the razor-thin smirk he used in boardroom negotiations.
“The luxury is mine, Nora,” he said, reaching down to pull the blanket higher over her shoulders. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we start fixing things.”
