Chapter 3 - The Threat at the Door
The bus ride downtown was long and bumpy. Every jolt of the heavy wheels made Meredith’s lower back throb with dull pain.
By nine o'clock, she was on the 68th floor of the Ashford Plaza, pushing a heavy yellow mop bucket across the polished gray marble floor. The building was almost silent, save for the rhythmic humming of the ventilation system and the soft slap of her wet mop against the stone.
She paused near the massive glass windows overlooking the city lights. Chicago looked like an ocean of diamonds buried under ice.
Suddenly, her phone vibrated in her apron pocket.
She pulled it out, her fingers stiff from cold water. It was a text from an unknown number, accompanied by a photo.
She opened the image, and her heart dropped into her stomach.
The photo showed the door of her apartment. Standing in the hallway, holding an iron crowbar, was her late husband’s brother, Grant Conway.
A second text appeared below the photo:
Twelve hundred by tomorrow morning, Meredith. Or I change the locks with your two old strays inside.
Meredith’s hand shook so hard she almost dropped the phone.
"No... please, no," she gasped, her throat tightening.
She turned around quickly, leaving her mop bucket standing in the middle of the hallway, and ran toward the service elevators.
She didn't hear the footsteps coming down the carpeted corridor behind her.
As she reached the elevator doors, a tall man stepped out of the private executive suite at the end of the hall. He wore an immaculate charcoal wool coat over a dark suit, his silver hair neatly combed back, his dark eyes fixed on her distress.
It was Vincent Ashford.
Meredith didn't recognize him as the owner of the building; she had only ever seen his name on corporate plaques in the lobby. To her, he was just another high-level executive working late.
"Is there a problem?" Vincent asked, his voice calm, heavy, and steady.
Meredith hit the elevator button three times in rapid succession, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "I... I have to go. My home... someone is at my home."
Vincent took a step closer, noticing the tear tracks freezing on her cheeks and the frantic way she held her hands over her stomach.
"Meredith," he said quietly.
She froze. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with shock. "How... how do you know my name?"
Before Vincent could answer, Carter Quinn stepped out of the private office behind him, holding a phone to his ear. He looked at Vincent and gave a single, firm nod.
"It's taken care of, boss," Carter said quietly.
Meredith looked between the two men, her mind racing, confusion and fear colliding inside her chest. "Who are you?"
Vincent reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a clean, ironed white handkerchief. He held it out to her gently.
"My name is Vincent Ashford," he said softly. "And the man standing outside your apartment door has just been removed."
Meredith backed up until her shoulders hit the elevator doors. "You... you were watching my apartment?"
"I was protecting my investment," Vincent corrected smoothly, though his eyes held a softness that contradicted his cold words. "You work for my building, Mrs. Conway. And I do not permit small men like Grant Conway to threaten people who clean my floors."
Meredith stared at him, her chest heaving. "Why? Why would someone like you care about a cleaning woman?"
May you like
Vincent looked down at her swollen belly, then back into her eyes.
"Because you have two people sleeping on your floor tonight," Vincent said quietly. "An old man named Harold and a woman named Beatrice. And fifty years ago, that old man saved everything I am."
