Chapter 6 - The Key to Queens
The rain had returned by Friday afternoon, washing over the city in a dark, relentless sheet that turned the skyline into a ghost of gray stone and yellow taxi lights.
At four o'clock, Frankie walked into the penthouse study, dropping a heavy brass key onto my desk.
"What's this?" I asked, looking up from my laptop.
"It's the key to the studio apartment on Thirty-First Street in Astoria," Frankie said, taking a seat opposite me. "Savannah’s landlord called an hour ago. She gave her two weeks' notice this morning."
I froze. "She’s leaving?"
"She’s not leaving Leo, Julian," Frankie clarified quickly. "She’s moving out of her apartment. She told the landlord she couldn't afford to keep paying rent on a place she’s barely sleeping at, given the hours she’s putting in here."
"I offered her an apartment on the Upper East Side," I said, frustration creeping back into my voice. "A penthouse unit with full security and a private elevator. She turned it down."
"Because she didn't want your charity," Frankie said flatly. "She’s living on fourteen fifty an hour, Julian. Do the math. After taxes, that’s barely two thousand dollars a month in New York City. She’s taking the car service back to Queens at night, packing her stuff into cardboard boxes, and sleeping on a foam mattress because she refuses to take a dime more than what she considers honest work."
I leaned back in my leather chair, staring at the brass key on the mahogany desk.
"She’s stubborn," I muttered.
"She’s proud," Frankie corrected. "There’s a difference. People who have had to fight for every meal they’ve ever eaten don't take hand-outs from billionaires, Julian. They know that hand-outs usually come with strings attached."
"I don't want strings," I insisted. "I just want her to be safe. If Eleanor’s legal team is still sniffing around, they could easily trace her back to that studio in Queens."
"Then don't give her a hand-out," Frankie suggested softly, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. "Give her a fair trade."
An hour later, I walked out into the living room. Savannah was sitting at the low coffee table with Leo, showing him how to fold a square piece of yellow paper into a simple bird.
"Miss Reeves," I said, keeping my voice businesslike and formal. "I need to discuss a contractual amendment with you."
She looked up cautiously, her fingers pausing on the origami paper. "I told you, Mr. Vance, I’m not signing a new salary agreement."
"This isn't about a salary," I said, pulling a official legal document from my jacket and placing it on the table between them. "This is a lease agreement for the residential suite on the forty-sixth floor of this hotel. Room 4602."
She frowned. "I can't afford a suite at the Atoria Grand."
"You won't be paying cash," I said smoothly. "The suite requires an on-call overnight attendant for emergency sensory intervention. In exchange for residing on the forty-sixth floor, you will be required to provide up to two hours of emergency nocturnal support per week if Leo experiences a severe night terror."
She looked at the document, then up at my face. Her hazel eyes narrowed slightly as she looked for the trap. "Room 4602 is a guest room."
"It is a staff residential unit," I lied without blinking. "It has been classified as such by the hotel management as part of my long-term lease of the top two floors. The fair market value of your night-attendant services matches the rental cost of the unit exactly. It is a break-even transaction."
She looked at Frankie, who was standing near the hallway looking intensely interested in a painting on the wall, completely refusing to make eye contact.
"You're lying," she said quietly.
"I am an executive officer of a international shipping conglomerate, Miss Reeves," I said, maintaining my best poker face. "I do not lie about lease structures. If you decline this operational arrangement, I will be forced to hire a third-party nocturnal night nurse from an agency, which will introduce an unknown adult into Leo's sleeping environment every evening at nine PM."
Savannah stared at me for five long seconds. She knew I was manipulating the situation, but she also knew the threat of a strange night nurse was entirely real.
She looked down at Leo, who was carefully trying to crease the wing of the yellow paper bird.
"Does room 4602 have a window that opens?" she asked softly.
"It has a small Juliette balcony overlooking the courtyard," I answered truthfully. "Fresh air. No street noise."
She picked up the pen sitting next to the lease, signed her name at the bottom with quick, decisive strokes, and pushed the paper back to me.
"Fourteen fifty an hour," she reminded me, her voice firm. "And I pay my own groceries."
"Agreed," I said, taking the signed lease.
As she turned back to help Leo with his paper bird, I caught Frankie's eye across the room. He gave me a subtle, approving nod.
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It wasn't a corporate buyout. It wasn't a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar contract. It was a compromise built on mutual respect and a shared understanding of what my son needed to survive.
For the first time in two years, I felt like I was learning how to navigate the world without using my checkbook as a battering ram.
