Chapter 4 - The Forty-Fourth Floor
The private residence on the forty-fourth floor was a world Sloan Walsh had only seen through the glass of a microfiber cloth. The ceilings were twenty feet high, supported by massive beams of dark walnut. The furniture was minimal but impossibly expensive—low silk sofas, Persian rugs that swallowed the sound of her shoes, and windows that made the entire city look like a toy model built for Cain Brennan’s amusement.
Sloan sat on the edge of a cream-colored armchair, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She had refused the food the silent man in the suit had brought, but Posie had no such reservations. The five-year-old was sitting at a massive marble island in the kitchen, her feet dangling six inches above the floor as she carefully cut a pancake with a silver fork, Buttons tucked securely under her arm.
"Mommy," Posie said, her mouth full of syrup. "The juice is very sweet here. It doesn't have the little bits in it like the store juice."
"Don't touch anything else, Posie," Sloan whispered, her eyes constantly darting toward the double doors of the suite. "Just eat quickly. When the man comes back, we have to be ready."
"Ready for what?"
"To go," Sloan said, though she knew there was nowhere to go. If Cain Brennan fired her and blacklisted her from the luxury hospitality union, she wouldn't even be able to get a job sweeping the platforms at the train stations. They would be on the street by the end of the month.
The heavy double doors clicked open, and Sloan instantly stood up, her body forming a rigid shield between the entrance and her daughter.
Cain Brennan walked in. He had taken off his leather gloves, but he still wore the black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his dark hair damp from the rain that had started to leak through the building’s upper terrace lines. He looked massive in the low-ceilinged room, his presence instantly altering the air pressure.
He didn't look at Sloan. He looked at Posie.
"Did you like the pancakes, Posie?" he asked, walking over to the island with a slow, measured gait that carried no threat.
Posie nodded vigorously. "They have sugar on top. The little white sugar that looks like snow."
"It’s powdered sugar," Cain said, a microscopic shift near his eyes suggesting a smile he didn't allow to form. He turned his gaze to Sloan, his eyes hardening into their standard, analytical state. "You brought your daughter to a high-security facility during a Level One lockdown, Ms. Walsh."
"The sitter canceled, Mr. Brennan," Sloan said, her voice shaking but her chin lifted in that same desperate, stubborn way it had been in the ballroom. "I couldn't lose the shift. If I lose forty dollars, I can't buy her asthma medication next week. I know it’s against the rules. I know I’m fired. Just... please don't take her to the state. She’s all I have left."
Cain studied her face. He saw the faint, blue lines of exhaustion beneath her eyes, the small scar on her chin from some long-forgotten childhood accident, and the fierce, unyielding light in her brown eyes that looked remarkably like survival.
"You're not fired, Sloan," Cain said softly.
Sloan blinked, the words failing to compute in her head. "Sir?"
"Your daughter just saved my life, and possibly the lives of twenty men at the shipping docks," Cain said, walking over to the glass window and looking out at the river. "My wife was providing structural data to the Falco family. If Posie hadn't seen Julian Falco in the private corridor last Tuesday, the shipment at Pier Twelve would have been a massacre."
Sloan looked down at her daughter, who was currently trying to feed a piece of pancake to Buttons. "Posie... what did you see?"
"The pretty lady was kissing the crow man," Posie said simply. "She told me I was filthy and that you would lose your house if I told."
Sloan’s breath left her in a sharp, painful rush. She felt a sudden, violent wave of nausea at the thought of the billionaire’s wife putting her white, diamond-ringed hands on her child’s shoulder in the dark.
"I’ve removed Delphine from the building," Cain said, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying frequency. "She won't be returning. But the Falco family doesn't like to lose their investments. They know someone leaked the information about the pier, and by noon, they’ll know it was a child from the maintenance staff."
He turned back to face Sloan, his hands resting in his pockets.
"You cannot go back to your apartment on 47th Street, Ms. Walsh. It isn't safe. Your contract with the hotel is terminated, effective immediately."
Sloan felt the floor drop out from beneath her shoes. "Mr. Brennan, you just said—"
"I said your maintenance contract is terminated," Cain interrupted, stepping closer until he was standing directly in front of her. "As of nine o'clock this morning, you are the residential manager of the private penthouse suites. Your salary is quadrupled. You will live here, on the forty-fourth floor, under my personal security manifest. The child will have a private tutor, and you will have a key to every door in this building."
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Sloan stared at him, her heart pounding so hard she was certain he could hear it against the quiet of the walnut walls. "Why are you doing this? You don't know me. You’re a man who... people say you don't have a heart, Mr. Brennan."
"People say a lot of things when they’re afraid, Sloan," Cain said, his eyes locking onto hers with a strange, dark intensity that made her skin tingle. "I’m doing this because I pay my debts. And right now, I owe your daughter a kingdom."
