“Better.”
“You would not report to me.”
“Much better.”
“Carlo is on the technical interview panel.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“He knows facilities.”
Fair.
“Would my current job be safe if I don’t get it?”
“Yes.”
“In writing?”
“Yes.”
I smiled.
“You know me.”
“I’m learning.”
I took the application.
Not the job.
The application.
That mattered.
I interviewed three weeks later.
It went badly.
At least I thought so.
The panel asked about budgets.
I stumbled.
They asked about guest-service software I had not used in two years.
I admitted I would need training.
They
asked how I would handle a senior resident demanding an employee violate policy.
I answered:
“Make the policy visible enough that nobody has to guess whether the senior resident matters more than the rule.”
Carlo, sitting on the panel, looked at me.
Then smiled slightly.
Afterward, I told Alessandro I had probably failed.
He said:
“I’m not allowed to know.”
“You own the division.”
“I recused myself.”
“That must be physically painful.”
“Extremely.”
Four days later, I got the job.
Not because of him.
I know because the hiring manager told me I was their second choice until the first candidate accepted another offer.
I loved that.
“You’re happy about being second?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it sounds real.”
He nodded.
“I’m adjusting.”
I moved from housekeeping into operations.
More money.
Better hours.
Training.
Childcare backup when needed.
Mia stopped visiting the penthouse except occasionally with me on weekends.
No more
blanket behind towels.
No more bottle warmer hidden under cleaning cloths.
Life became less desperate.
Not magically easy.
Rent still existed.
Teething existed.
Daycare colds existed with military precision.
But I had room.
Real room.
Then, six months after Victoria returned to London, my attorney called.
Not Alessandro’s.
Mine.
I had hired one with help from a nonprofit legal clinic.
“Elena?”
“Yes?”
“We located David Moreno.”
My heart stopped.
“Where?”
“Philadelphia.”
Alive.
Working.
Not hiding under another name.
Just gone.
“What does he want?”
“He contacted the escrow attorney himself.”
That surprised me.
“Why now?”
“He says he saw an article.”
“What article?”
“About Duca Maritime correcting historical employment claims.”
The company had publicly acknowledged several wrongful suspensions from Marco’s division.
David’s name was not published.
But he knew.
“He wants the paternity test.”
I sat down.
“Does he want custody?”
“No.”
“Visitation?”
“He hasn’t asked.”
“Money?”
“No.”
“Then?”
My
attorney paused.
