[Serena’s POV]
"No." The word comes out before he can speak. "We're not coming."
Silence. Then: "Serena—"
"I appreciate the offer, but we'll figure something else out. We always do."
"Like what?" His voice is tight. Controlled in a way that means he's fighting something underneath. "A hotel you can't afford? Sleeping on that couch with cardboard taped over your door?"
"That's not your concern."
"It is my concern." The control fractures. "She's my daughter. You're—" He stops. Breathes. "You're not safe there."
"We're fine."
"You're not fine!" The words explode through the phone. "Someone violated your home. Aria is terrified. And you're sitting there trying to convince yourself that accepting help is worse than putting her through another night of fear."
The accusation lands like a physical blow. Makes my jaw clench so hard it aches.
"Don't you dare question my parenting."
"I'm not questioning your parenting." His voice drops, becomes something raw. Something that sounds like fear wrapped in desperation. "I'm questioning your pride. Your need to prove you don't need anyone. Even when it hurts her."
The words detonate in my chest. Make me want to scream at him, hang up, prove him wrong by staying in this destroyed apartment with its broken door just to show him I can.
But Aria shifts against me. Whimpers in her sleep. And I know—god, I know—he's right.
My pride is hurting her. My inability to accept help is making her less safe.
The realization tastes like failure.
"Do you want her to feel unsafe in her own home?" His voice is quieter now. Gentler. Somehow that makes it worse. "Is that really better than letting me give you somewhere secure for a few weeks?"
"Two weeks," I hear myself say. The surrender in my own voice makes me sick. "Three at most. Just until the locks are fixed."
"Okay." Relief floods his tone, so palpable I can feel it through the phone. "Pack whatever you need. I'll send a car—"
"No. We'll take the subway."
"Serena, it's almost midnight—"
"We'll take the subway," I repeat. "Or we don't come at all."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Fine. Text me when you're close."
The line goes dead, and I sit there holding my phone, feeling the full weight of what I've just agreed to.
Two weeks in Caspian Rothwell's home. Two weeks of proximity I've spent months avoiding. Two weeks of watching him exist in his space while I try not to remember why I used to lie awake at night thinking about him.
Aria stirs. "Mommy? Where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe, baby." I stroke her hair, my touch gentle even as my chest constricts. "Just for a little while."
* * *
The penthouse is obscene.
Obscene wealth made tangible. Floor-to-ceiling windows that turn Manhattan into a glittering backdrop. Marble counters that probably cost more than my annual salary. More bedrooms than one person could ever need, each one larger than my entire apartment.
The kind of space that makes my teeth ache. That makes every year I spent eating instant ramen and working three jobs while he lived like this feel like a fresh wound.
"Mommy." Aria's whisper is awed. She's pressed against my leg, but her eyes are huge. "It's like a castle."
"It's just an apartment, baby."
But it's not just an apartment. It's a monument to everything I'll never have. Everything I've never been able to give her.
Caspian appears from somewhere deeper in the penthouse. He's in jeans and a t-shirt—casual in a way I've never seen him. It does something dangerous to my composure. Makes him look less like a CEO and more like the boy from Columbia who used to study in the library with his sleeves rolled up.
"The guest suite is this way." His voice is careful. Measured. He doesn't move to take our bags, doesn't crowd our space. Just gestures down a hallway with the kind of careful distance that feels practiced.
Like he's thought about this. How to not overwhelm us. How to give us space while still offering shelter.
The awareness of his thoughtfulness makes my chest tight in ways I refuse to examine.
The suite is bigger than our living room and kitchen combined. King bed with sheets that probably have a thread count higher than my SAT score. An ensuite bathroom with a tub that could fit three people. A reading nook by the window with views that make my breath catch.
"Aria can have her own room if she wants," Caspian says. "Right next door. But I figured tonight—"
"She'll stay with me." The words come out sharper than intended.
He nods. Doesn't argue. "There's food in the kitchen. Help yourself to anything. Fresh towels in the bathroom. If you need—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair in that gesture I remember too well. "Just let me know if you need anything."
Then he leaves. Actually leaves. Doesn't linger or make small talk or try to capitalize on having us in his space.
The careful distance he maintains—this deliberate not-pushing—is somehow worse than if he'd been overbearing. Worse because it means he's listening. Respecting boundaries I didn't know I'd drawn.
Worse because it makes him harder to hate.
"Can I explore?" Aria's fear has transformed into excitement. The resilience of children, their ability to find wonder even after trauma, makes my throat tight.
"Tomorrow, baby. Tonight we sleep."
She's out within minutes. The exhaustion of fear and tears and upheaval finally catching up. I tuck her in, kiss her forehead, and then stand there watching her breathe.
She looks peaceful. Safe. Her small body relaxed in a way it hasn't been since we walked into our ransacked home.
I should feel relieved. Should feel grateful that she's comfortable, that the terror has left her features.
I don’t feel relief—just grief. Because this obscene penthouse, with its airtight security and expensive sheets, is what “safe” looks like for my daughter. Not the apartment I bled for. Here, in Caspian Rothwell’s space, under his protection, she finally relaxes.
The thought sits in me like swallowed glass.
I change into sleep clothes and slide into sheets that probably cost more than my monthly groceries. The mattress is perfect; the pillows smell like lavender and money. Everything engineered for rest.
I hate how good it feels. Hate that my body unwinds anyway. Hate that I feel safer here too.
The admission burns. I want to scoop up Aria and run back to our cardboard door, because accepting this help feels like the first crack in a dam I’ve spent seven years maintaining. If I let him do one thing, what’s next? How much of my hard-won independence erodes?
Aria’s breathing evens into true sleep—the kind she hasn’t had in months, even before the break-in. That truth tightens my chest. I was so busy not needing him that I missed how much she needed this. How much we both needed a place where sleep isn’t another form of vigilance.
Beyond the glass, Manhattan glitters—promise or threat, depending on your angle. From here it looks like promise. I know better. I’m not someone who gets this. I’m the girl who clawed up from nothing, raised a sister and a daughter on rage and refusal.
Except… here I am. Needing.
The hollow of that vulnerability feels like the morning I woke alone in a hotel room, his medallion the only proof he existed.
I close my eyes. Try not to think about him elsewhere in this penthouse. Try not to hear the part of me that feels something like safe for the first time in seven years.
But I do. And that terrifies me more than any break-in ever could.