Chapter 11: Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Thyme
As winter turned to spring, Noah began to grow. He gained weight. He gained a voice. And he gained a profound, intense curiosity about the world around him.
He also developed very specific opinions about the men who frequented the ninth floor.
Davis, the security guard, visited every Thursday on his lunch break. He never made a production out of it. He would just appear with a cheap coffee from the lobby cart, sit at the kitchen island, and talk to Isla about building maintenance as if she had lived there for ten years.
He never mentioned the stairwell. He never mentioned the Mylar blanket.
But on a rainy Thursday in late January, Davis walked in to find a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup waiting at his exact spot at the table.
Davis stopped. He looked at the bowl, then at Isla.
“I made too much,” Isla said quietly, wiping the counter. “Sit down and eat it before it gets cold, Davis.”
Davis’s throat moved. His tough, stoic exterior cracked just a fraction as he pulled out the stool.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Davis whispered, digging in.
Roman visited on Tuesdays. Initially, it was for legitimate reasons—updating her on the permanent custody case, logistics regarding her employment. But eventually, the paperwork ran out, and the billionaire kept coming anyway.
Noah, now three months old, would sit in his high chair and stare at Roman with the intense, unwavering focus of a tiny detective conducting an investigation.
“He’s studying you,” Isla said one Tuesday, pouring Roman a cup of black coffee.
Roman looked back at the baby, raising one eyebrow. “He does this every time. He does it to Davis, too.”
“He likes people who are consistent,” Isla replied softly.
Roman took a sip of his coffee. “He’s a very smart kid.”
Isla looked up. For the first time since Roman had met her, the hard, guarded mask completely dropped. The corner of her mouth lifted into a genuine, unguarded smile. It was breathtaking.
She turned back to the sink, but Roman had already seen it. He noticed other things, too. He noticed she had started leaving the apartment door slightly cracked open when she was home—the ultimate sign of a woman who no longer expected monsters to come through it.
He noticed the row of small plants on the windowsill: basil, thyme, and a fragile rosemary bush that she tended to with fierce dedication. She was finally allowing herself to keep something alive.
