Fuck, it was cold inside. He had been dressed in a heavy wool suit, a cashmere overcoat, plus a scarf and fur-lined gloves; still, he shivered. He couldn’t imagine how she could sleep in such frigid conditions let alone work. But there she was, sitting at a card table, bundled up and breathing mist, stuffing what seemed like hundreds of letters into hundreds of envelopes, and doing it clumsily because her hands were encased in thick but old knitted mittens. A tape was playing—some college professor droning on about balancing chemical equations. Because she was clad in layers, her body looked normal. But her face was the giveaway—as gaunt as a ghost.

In that single tick, seeing her steeped in poverty and humiliation, he had meant to pop her. More like put her out of her misery. It was so delicious, his intended revenge.

Except he couldn’t do it.

He just couldn’t disconnect from those golden eyes filled with degradation, her face awash in shame. Distant memories flooded his brain, and all he could think about was how much he still wanted her.

So he told her to pack her bags. She didn’t even own a suitcase, throwing her meager belongings into two plastic grocery sacks. This all went down at a time when he still did occasional favors for his ex-father-in-law, so he still had the trappings—the limo, the bodyguards, a view suite in a posh hotel on Michigan Avenue. He took her to the place, her disgrace keenly visible as they walked through the crowded lobby. He was carrying the sleeping kid in his arms, leaving her like an overloaded donkey to trod through the public areas, burdened under the weight of her clothes, plastic bags, a backpack filled with heavy books, and an oversize purse. When one of his bodyguards moved in to help her, he warned him off with a subtle shake of his head.

Before he took her upstairs, he checked in with the management, saying that she’d be staying with him for a couple of days, that anything she ordered should be placed on his account. The head concierge in charge of customer service—some thin faggot of a guy who looked her up and down with disgust—became fidgety, giving him squirrelly looks, too scared to broach the subject because of who he was. The little twit of a man made him laugh aloud. He knew instantly what the stick up his butt was all about.

“Terry, show him some ID.”

With shaking hands and downcast eyes, she pulled out her Illinois driver’s license and her Northwestern student ID card from a tattered wallet.

The faggot was instantly relieved. His concern was understandable. She looked around twelve.

He led her into the elevator to an upper-floor two-bedroom suite holding a panoramic view of the city’s skyline. The living area was furnished with several traditional-style couches, a couple of stiff chairs, some side tables, and a dining-room set—typical run-of-the-mill pieces for a hotel penthouse. But to her, the lodgings must have looked palatial—judging by the size of her eyes. He watched her walk over to a large ceramic vase filled with fresh cut flowers. Still clutching her belongings, she held out a finger and touched a lily. When he told her that it was real, she blushed at her stupidity.