Once Daniel was safely inside, he turned to his assistant.
“She’s sharp,” Claire said. “Didn’t believe me.”
Alexander nodded slightly.
He had seen enough.
That night, Emily returned to her small apartment, her shoes soaked, her body aching.
But her mind wasn’t on the exhaustion.
It was on the boy.
On the hesitation.
On the feeling that something wasn’t right.
A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.
She froze.
No one visited this late.
Peering through the peephole, her breath caught.
A man stood outside—tall, composed, dressed in a coat that probably cost more than her monthly rent.
She didn’t open the door.
“Who is it?”
“Alexander Holt.”
The name meant nothing to her.
“What do you want?”
A pause.
“To talk.”
Against her better judgment, she opened the door slightly.
“I don’t know you.”
“No,” he said calmly. “But you know my son.”
Her heart skipped.
“Daniel… you’re his father?”
A slight nod.
“I was across the street last night.”
Her expression hardened. “You were watching?”
“I was.”
Silence.
Then—
“I don’t believe in charity,” he said. “But I do believe in paying debts.”
He placed a thick envelope on her table.
Emily stared at it.
“What is that?”
“A job offer.”
She blinked. “A what?”