Chapter 13 - THE LIFE I BUILT WITHOUT HIS MONEY
Z
I got a job at a boutique hotel near the Chicago River.
Assistant guest-services manager.
The salary wasn't extraordinary.
But it was steady.
The benefits were better.
And the manager, a woman named Denise Parker, believed employees should be treated like human beings.
On my first day, she handed me a schedule.
“Questions?”
I stared at the paper.
“Am I allowed to request time off for medical appointments?”
Denise looked surprised.
“Of course.”
I almost cried.
That was when I realized how much fear I'd been carrying.
Not just from Vanessa.
From years of believing I had to earn the right to rest.
My shoulder improved gradually.
Daniel continued rehabilitation.
We moved into a slightly larger apartment with better accessibility.
I paid bills.
Saved money.
And, for the first time in years, bought myself a winter coat that wasn't secondhand.
It was dark green.
Wool.
Expensive by my standards.
I wore it home and stood in front of the mirror for ten minutes.
Daniel laughed when he saw me.
“Look at you.”
I smiled.
“What?”
“Fancy.”
I threw a pillow at him.
He caught it.
Then his expression softened.
“Mom would've loved that coat.”
My smile faded.
I looked down.
“Yeah.”
He nodded.
“She would've been proud of you.”
I swallowed.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Daniel said:
“Anna, you don't have to keep proving you can survive.”
I looked at him.
He continued.
“You can actually live.”
That sentence stayed with me.
A few weeks later, I enrolled in evening classes toward a hospitality-management degree.
I started taking photographs again.
Not inventory pictures for extra money.
Real photographs.
Buildings.
People.
The lake at sunrise.
Chicago in winter.
I began remembering who I was before bills and fear had taken over my life.
Luca and I stayed in occasional contact.
He asked about Daniel.
I asked about the investigation.
Sometimes we talked about books.
Sometimes about work.
He never offered money.
Never asked me to return to the mansion.
Never suggested I owed him anything.
And slowly, our conversations became less about what had happened and more about who we were.
One evening, he invited me to dinner.
I stared at the message for almost an hour.
Then I replied.
Is this business or personal?
His answer arrived immediately.
Personal. But only if you're comfortable.
I smiled.
Then typed:
May you like
Dinner sounds nice.
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