That afternoon, I visited one of my properties downtown. An office building with a manager I rarely bothered. Mr. Evans greeted me like I was royalty.
“Mrs. Herrera,” he said. “It’s an honor. Is everything all right?”
“I’d like to see the top floor unit,” I said. “The penthouse.”
His eyes widened. “Of course.”
We rode the elevator up in silence. The doors opened into a space that took my breath away. Sunlight. Windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. A terrace with a view of the city that looked like a painting.
“This unit has been listed for rent,” Mr. Evans said. “It’s premium.”
I walked slowly through the rooms, touching the counter, looking out at the skyline, feeling the quiet luxury of a space that didn’t apologize for existing.
“Cancel the listing,” I said.
Mr. Evans blinked. “Ma’am?”
“I’m moving in,” I told him.
He hesitated, then smiled politely as if he still wasn’t sure this was real.
“Mrs. Herrera,” he said carefully, “this is a high-end property. The monthly rate is significant.”
“I’m not asking you for the rate,” I replied. “I’m telling you my decision.”
My voice didn’t shake.
That was new.
The First Phone Call That Didn’t Feel Like Begging
The next day, moving trucks arrived at my small apartment. I watched men carry boxes past the framed photos of Ethan, past the little signs of a life I had built around him.
I didn’t take everything.
Some memories stay. Some you put away.
While the movers worked, my phone rang.
Ethan.
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