Chapter 3 - The Apartment on Elm Street
Somerville was quiet under the blanket of late-night rain. The streets were lined with older triple-deckers and two-family homes, their narrow driveways crammed with modest sedans and hatchbacks.
Ethan parked his Aston Martin down the block from Elm Street, not wanting the engine’s low roar to wake the neighborhood. He walked up the cracked concrete walkway of a faded blue two-family house.
A single light was on, glowing behind yellowed lace curtains on the second floor.
Ethan climbed the creaking wooden stairs of the front porch and pressed the small white button beside the door marked 2B.
Inside, a doorbell chime echoed faintly.
For two minutes, nothing happened. Ethan stood on the porch, the wet wind whipping his coat around his knees. He was about to press the button again when the small window on the inner door slid open.
Grace’s face appeared behind the glass. She looked exhausted, dark circles bruised beneath her eyes, her brown hair pulled up into a messy bun.
"Go away, Ethan," her voice came through the wooden paneling, small and flat.
"Open the door, Grace," Ethan said softly, leaning his head against the cold wood. "Please. I'm alone. I didn't bring lawyers. I didn't bring security. Just let me talk to you."
"There is nothing to talk about."
"She has my eyes, Grace," Ethan said, his voice trembling. "She has my mother’s eyes. You can't look at me through that glass and tell me she isn't mine."
A long, painful silence stretched between them. Through the door, Ethan could hear the faint sound of the wind, the dripping of rain from the gutter, and Grace’s shaky breathing.
The deadbolt clicked. The chain unhooked.
The heavy door opened four inches. Grace stood in the narrow entryway, dressed in an oversized grey sweatshirt and sweatpants, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. She looked small, worn down, but her gaze was as unyielding as iron.
"Lily is sleeping," Grace whispered. "If you wake her, I swear to God, Ethan, I will call the police and tell them you are harassing us."
"I won't wake her," Ethan promised. "Just five minutes, Grace. Please."
Grace looked at him for a long moment, searching his face for the ruthless billionaire she had encountered in the alley, finding only the haunted, desperate man she had once known. She stepped back and opened the door wider.
Ethan stepped inside, stepping off his wet shoes near the door. He followed her up a narrow, carpeted staircase to the second-floor apartment.
The apartment was small, cramped, but warm. The air smelled of turpentine, chamomile tea, and lavender soap. The living room doubled as a studio; an easel stood near the window, covered by a sheet, surrounded by jars of brushes, tubes of oil paint, and stacks of stretched canvases. In the corner sat a small plastic table with tiny wooden chairs, covered in children's coloring books and crayons.
Ethan’s chest tightened as he looked at the small plastic table. His daughter sat there. His daughter drew pictures at that table.
"Do you want tea?" Grace asked, walking into the tiny kitchen connected to the living room. She didn't wait for an answer; she pulled a copper kettle onto the stove and lit the gas burner.
Ethan walked slowly to the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. "You took fifty thousand dollars from my mother."
Grace froze. Her back was turned to him, her hand resting on the handle of the kettle.
Slowly, she turned around. A cold, bitter laugh escaped her lips. "Is that what she told you?"
"She showed me the bank transfer receipt, Grace," Ethan said, his voice laced with old, unhealed pain. "Fifty thousand dollars wired to your personal account six years ago, two days after you left."
Grace leaned her back against the kitchen counter, crossing her arms over her chest. A look of profound pity entered her eyes as she looked at him.
"Your mother didn't give me fifty thousand dollars, Ethan," Grace said softly. "She paid off my father’s medical debts after he died in the hospital in Springfield. Debts that had been sent to a collections agency owned by one of your family’s holding companies."
Ethan felt the room tilt slightly. "What?"
"Two days before I left," Grace continued, her voice steady, devoid of drama, as if she were reading an official report, "Evelyn came to our apartment while you were in Manhattan. She brought two men in suits. She handed me a file containing every detail of my life—my father’s bankruptcy, his alcoholism, his unpaid hospital bills, and my late mother’s debt."
Ethan’s breathing grew shallow. "Grace..."
"She told me that if I stayed with you, your family’s lawyers would initiate immediate legal action to foreclose on my grandmother’s house in Pittsfield—the only thing my family owned," Grace said, looking directly into his eyes. "She said I was a parasite dragging you down while you were fighting for control of your father's company. She said if I loved you, I would take the debt clearance, sign a non-disclosure agreement, and leave Boston."
"And you didn't tell me?" Ethan shouted, taking a step into the kitchen. "You didn't call me? You didn't give me a chance to stand up to her?"
"Stand up to her?" Grace laughed, a sharp, broken sound. "Ethan, you were twenty-eight years old! You were terrified of losing your father's empire! Every night you came home, you drank half a bottle of scotch and cried about how your uncles were trying to strip you of your inheritance! How could I burden you with my family's ruin when you were already drowning?"
"I loved you!" Ethan roared.
"And I loved you enough to walk away so you wouldn't be destroyed!" Grace yelled back, her eyes flashing with tears. She stepped up to him, pointing a trembling finger at his chest. "I packed my bag, I took the bus to Vermont, and three weeks later, I found out I was pregnant!"
Ethan stood frozen, the words hitting him like physical blows.
"I tried to call you then," Grace whispered, her voice cracking as tears finally spilled down her cheeks. "I stood in a payphone booth in Burlington in the pouring rain, holding a positive pregnancy test. I called your office four times. Your secretary told me that Mr. Hale was engaged to Claire Whitman, and that any further contact from me would be referred to legal counsel."
Ethan felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest. "I wasn't engaged to Claire back then. I didn't even meet Claire until two years later."
"Evelyn answered your office calls back then, Ethan," Grace said quietly, wiping her cheeks with the back of her sleeve. "She had your calls filtered. She built a wall around you, and I was too tired, too poor, and too sick to break through it."
Ethan backed out of the kitchen, pulling his hand through his hair, his mind spiraling into a dark abyss of fury and remorse. His mother had manipulated him. She had systematically destroyed his life, bought off Grace’s debts, lied about the wire transfer, and stolen six years of his daughter's life—all to protect the precious "Hale legacy."
And Evelyn Hale had died three years ago of heart failure, taking her secrets to the grave, leaving Ethan to live in the shattered ruins of her grand design.
"Grace," Ethan choked out, sinking into one of the small wooden chairs at the children's table, his long legs folded awkwardly, his face buried in his hands. "My God, Grace... I didn't know. I swear to you on my life, I didn't know."
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Grace stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching the powerful billionaire weeping at her daughter’s tiny plastic table. The anger in her chest slowly gave way to a deep, terrible sadness.
"It doesn't change where we are now, Ethan," she said softly.
