Chapter 2 - The Secret of Unit 914Unit 914 was designed for corporate executives between permanent housing assignments—a sprawling two-bedroom suite overlooking Lake Michigan, furnished in minimalist grays and charcoals, featuring floor-to-ceiling windows, heated marble floors, and a kitchen stocked with high-end appliances that had probably never been used to cook a real meal.
When Roman guided Elena through the door, she froze on the threshold, her muddy sneakers hovering nervously over the pristine white wool rug in the foyer.
“Take your shoes off,” Roman said, stepping inside. “Or leave them by the door. Either way, the rug is insured.”
She stepped inside hesitantly, holding the baby tightly against her chest as if she expected the floor to open beneath her. Her eyes swept over the massive living room, the glowing fireplace, the plush velvet sofa, and the enormous bay windows framing the glittering skyline of Chicago.
“This… this is someone’s home,” she whispered, overwhelmed.
“It’s a corporate suite,” Roman replied, tossing his car keys onto the marble console table. “It stays empty half the year. Right now, it has two new occupants.”
He walked over to the kitchen island, where a grocery delivery bag sat steaming slightly—Thomas had clearly pulled out all the stops, supplying hot soup, fresh bread, bottled water, formula, diapers, baby wipes, and a basket of fresh fruit within twenty-five minutes.
Roman picked up a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and brought it over to Elena, who was standing awkwardly near the center of the living room, clutching her tattered coat around herself.
“Drink,” he commanded gently, holding out the bottle.
She took it with trembling hands, her lips touching the plastic, drinking greedily as if she hadn't had water in days.
“The master bedroom is down the hall,” Roman continued, gesturing toward the back of the suite. “There’s a crib that the staff managed to pull from storage. The master bath has a tub with hot water. There are clothes in the closet—spare robes, loungewear. They’ll be large on you, but they’ll keep you warm.”
Elena lowered the water bottle, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She looked at Roman with a mixture of profound gratitude and lingering terror.
“Mr. Callaway… I don't know who you are, but I know this building costs a fortune. I can’t pay for this. I don’t have a job right now, my savings went toward my last month of rent before my landlord evicted me—I can’t afford even one night here—”
“I didn't ask for a credit check, Elena,” Roman cut her off, his voice dropping into a tone that brooked no argument. “You are staying here until you figure out your next move. No rent. No bills. Consider it a tenant agreement with very unconventional terms.”
Before she could protest further, a soft, high-pitched mewling sound came from beneath her coat.
The baby was waking up.
Elena’s entire demeanor shifted instantly from exhausted adult to hyper-focused mother. She unzipped her coat, pulling back the silver emergency blanket and the hospital quilt to reveal a tiny, squirming infant boy with tufts of dark hair and flushed red cheeks.
Roman watched from three feet away.
He didn't move closer, but his eyes locked onto the child. He noticed the tiny hospital band still wrapped around the baby’s minuscule wrist, bearing a name typed in faded black ink: Vance, Baby Boy.
“He’s hungry,” Elena whispered, rocking side to side, her face twisting with sudden anxiety as she realized she had no formula prepared, no clean bottles, nothing except what Thomas had just rushed up from the lobby stores.
“There’s formula and bottles in the kitchen bag,” Roman said immediately, turning toward the island. “I’ll handle it.”
“You don't know how to make a bottle—”
“Elena,” Roman interrupted, looking back over his shoulder with a faint, dry smile. “I run multi-billion-dollar corporations, international shipping lanes, and half the commercial real estate in this city. I think I can figure out how to mix warm water and powder in a plastic bottle.”
She let out a shaky, breathless laugh—the first genuine sound of amusement he had heard from her since they met in the stairwell.
While Roman heated the water and carefully measured the formula, following the instructions on the tin with the precision of a chemist mixing explosives, Elena sat down on the edge of the plush velvet sofa. She finally shed her tattered coat, revealing a faded cotton sweater that was far too thin for November.
Roman brought the bottle over, testing the temperature against his wrist before handing it to her.
She took it with trembling hands, guiding the nipple toward the baby’s mouth. Within seconds, the tiny infant latched on, his small hands curling into miniature fists as he began to feed with fierce, desperate hunger.
Elena closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the sofa cushions, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.
Roman stood quietly beside the coffee table, watching them. The harsh, hard lines of his face softened imperceptibly in the warm ambient light of the suite.
“Where is the father?” Roman asked quietly, breaking the silence.
Elena’s eyes remained closed. The peaceful look on her face vanished, replaced instantly by a shuttered, icy wall of pain and bitterness.
“He doesn't know,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
“Because the day I told him I was pregnant,” Elena said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper, “he told me I had two choices: get an abortion or get out of his life. He’s an executive at a venture capital firm downtown. A man with a bright future, a society fiancée, and a reputation to protect. A baby from a girl who worked at a bookstore didn't fit his five-year plan.”
Roman’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek.
“What’s his name?” Roman asked.
Elena opened her eyes, looking up at him with sudden alarm. “Why? What are you going to do?”
“Nothing,” Roman lied smoothly, though his mind was already turning over names, departments, and connections in the downtown financial district. “Just curious.”
“His name is Julian Vance,” she said bitterly. “Not that it matters. He blocked my number, changed his office security codes, and threatened to sue me for harassment if I ever came near his building again.”
Roman memorized the name instantly. Julian Vance.
A venture capital executive in downtown Chicago.
May you like
Roman Callaway didn't believe in coincidences. In his world, people like Julian Vance lived in glass towers just like this one, believing their money and their tailored suits insulated them from the consequences of their actions.
They were about to learn how fragile glass really was.
