Melanie blinked, clearly surprised by the request. “You actually want his home address, ma’am?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I said,” Cecilia replied, her posture stiffening. “If he is comfortable allowing his messy personal life to interfere with the operations of my company, then I am perfectly comfortable understanding exactly why that is happening.”
The address pinged into her phone a few minutes later. It read: Willow Creek Terrace, Apartment 4C, North Ridge.
Cecilia frowned at the screen, tapping her chin with a manicured nail. She had never set foot in North Ridge, though she understood its reputation perfectly well, knowing it was not necessarily dangerous, but it was certainly forgotten. It was a place where the asphalt cracked faster than the city maintenance crews could repair it, and where individual ambition rarely managed to find any traction. She offered a faint, skeptical smile as her chauffeur navigated the urban streets, fully convinced that reality would simply confirm what she already believed to be true.
The drive took much longer than she had anticipated, as the traffic thinned out and the buildings gradually lost their polished, modern sheen. The storefronts grew increasingly smaller and weathered, the sidewalks became uneven and broken, and groups of children played near rusted chain link fences with bicycles that clearly lacked both paint and dignity.
When the car finally slowed to a halt in front of a narrow, three story brick building with peeling window trim, Cecilia stepped out onto the sidewalk, her expensive heels clicking sharply against concrete that bore the heavy marks of decades of systemic neglect. The metal number above the front door hung crookedly, held on by a single, rusted screw. She knocked firmly on the wood.
At first, there was only a heavy, stifling silence, followed by the muffled sound of movement inside, and then the distinct, high pitched cry of an infant. The door opened slowly, revealing a man she barely recognized as the person who polished her desks.
Samuel Hedges stood before her with hollow eyes and unshaven cheeks, clutching a wailing baby against his chest while a small, wide eyed boy clung tightly to his leg. His shirt was worn thin at the seams, and a palpable sense of exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. It took him several long seconds to process who was actually standing in front of him.
“Ms. Hawthorne?” he said quietly, his voice strained with a mixture of profound surprise and something that looked suspiciously like fear.
Cecilia felt something deep inside her shift, though she could not yet name the sensation. “May I please come inside?” she asked, her tone coming out much softer and more hesitant than she had intended.
He hesitated, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder before stepping aside to allow her entry. The apartment was cramped, yet it was not chaotic in the way she had imagined. The furniture was clearly ancient but maintained with pride, and a sofa with frayed edges sat beside a low coffee table stacked high with unpaid utility bills, thick medical pamphlets, and school papers marked with messy but careful handwriting. A crib stood in the corner of the living room, cobbled together from mismatched pieces of pine wood that had been sanded down by hand.
