Chapter 5 - The Two-Bedroom in Astoria
The rain had eased into a cold, persistent drizzle by the time Wesley arrived in Queens.
The neighborhood was quiet, lined with modest brick multi-family homes, small laundromats, and neighborhood delis. It was light-years away from the sterile, silver elegance of his Fifth Avenue tower, but it smelled real—of damp leaves, baking bread, and family life.
Wesley stood at the bottom of a creaky wooden staircase outside a two-story brick building. He held a large black umbrella in one hand and a bag from an expensive bakery in the other—an absurd, panicked peace offering he had bought on the way over because he didn't know how else to approach a doorstep he had no right to cross.
He climbed the stairs slowly. His leather shoes squeaked on the wet wood.
Apartment 2B.
A small, hand-drawn welcome sign hung on the door, decorated with crayon butterflies and signed in wobbly letters: LEO & CLARA.
Wesley raised his hand to knock. His knuckles hovered an inch from the wood for ten full seconds. In his entire business career, facing hostile boards, ruthless corporate raiders, and angry union reps, he had never felt a fraction of the sheer terror he felt right now.
He knocked three times.
Inside, he heard small, hurried footsteps, followed by Nina’s soft voice: “Leo, don't open the door without looking through the peephole!”
Footsteps approached the door. A lock clicked. The door opened three inches, held back by a brass security chain.
Nina looked through the gap. When she saw Wesley standing in the hallway, her expression transformed from mild annoyance to complete, defensive shock.
“Wesley?” she whispered, her eyes widening. “How did you—how did you find this place?”
“I have resources, Nina,” Wesley said gently, keeping his hands visible and at his sides. “You know I do.”
Nina’s face hardened immediately. “Right. Of course. You hired someone to spy on me. Because that’s what you do when you want something, isn't it? You hire people to crush the distance.”
“I didn't come to crush anything,” Wesley said, his voice pleading. “Please, Nina. Let me speak to you. Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
“No,” Nina said flatly, starting to pull the door shut. “We have nothing to talk about, Wesley. You chose your path five years ago. You made it very clear what mattered to you.”
“I didn't know!” Wesley burst out, his voice echoing down the stairwell. “I didn't know about Leo! If I had known you were pregnant when I left for San Francisco, I would have burned that check in front of the board! I would have stayed!”
Nina stopped pulling the door. She stared at him through the gap, her eyes shining with sudden, angry tears.
“You didn't ask,” she whispered, her voice laced with poison. “I called you three times during your first month in California, Wesley. You were always in meetings. Your secretary answered twice and told me you were too busy to be interrupted. So I stopped calling.”
The words hit Wesley like a physical blow. He remembered those calls. He remembered seeing her missed calls on his screen late at night and telling himself he’d call her back tomorrow—after the next pitch, after the next funding round, after he secured the company’s future.
Tomorrow had turned into five years.
Before Nina could slam the door, a small voice sounded from behind her inside the apartment.
“Mommy? Is that the rain man from the sidewalk?”
Clara stepped up beside her mother, wearing pink flannel pajamas with tiny sheep on them. She peeked through the door gap at Wesley, holding a half-eaten slice of toast.
Wesley dropped to his knees right there on the dusty hallway floor, ignoring the damp wood staining his trousers, bringing himself down to the little girl’s eye level.
“Hi, Clara,” Wesley said softly, managing a faint, trembling smile. “I brought some pastries from the bakery down the street. Do you like chocolate croissants?”
Clara’s eyes lit up. She looked up at her mother. “Mommy, he has chocolate!”
May you like
Nina looked down at her daughter, then back at the billionaire kneeling on her rug in the hallway. Her shoulders sagged, the anger draining out of her, replaced by an overwhelming, tragic exhaustion.
She unlatched the safety chain and opened the door.
