Brooklyn nights

By the time I got home, the sky over Brooklyn had turned navy, bleeding orange at the edges like the city was still smoldering from the day. My heels clicked across the tile hallway of my building as I unlocked the door to my apartment and stepped into my sanctuary.

It was quiet. Impeccably clean. Everything where I left it. I dropped my bag by the door and slipped off my shoes like I was peeling off battle armor.

The silence here wasn’t loneliness. It was survival.

I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of wine, and leaned against the counter. The hum of the fridge filled the room. Outside, somewhere down the block, a car alarm started blaring. A siren answered in the distance.

This was the city. Beautiful and brutal. Just like Statham Enterprise. Just like Erik.

God, Erik.

He was colder today than yesterday, but not in a dismissive way. No, it was worse. Calculated. Measured. Like he had assessed me, labeled me, and filed me away under “Potential Threat.”

And I liked it.

I hated that I liked it.

That level of attention from him—no matter how sharp—meant something. He didn’t waste time on people who didn’t matter. And that meant I mattered.

But I couldn’t afford to think like that. Not now. Not with Rob breathing down my neck and Julia already staking her claim like I was trespassing on something she owned.

I sat on the couch, took a sip of wine, and opened my laptop. Work should have distracted me, but instead my fingers hovered over the keys. My gaze drifted toward the shelf above my television.

Photos.

A small collection. Nothing sentimental. A picture of my graduation from Harvard. A framed article I wrote in undergrad about female leadership in business. One old, faded photo of me and my mother in front of our house in Sheffield.

And next to that—one I kept buried behind the others, like it might haunt me if I looked too long—was a snapshot of me at age ten. Sitting on my dad’s lap. His arms wrapped around me. Both of us smiling like the world hadn’t started to crack yet.

I stared at it. And against my will, memories bubbled up.

Flashback – Sheffield, 2003

I was nine when the fighting started.

At first, it was quiet. Hushed voices behind closed doors. Tension that lingered in the walls. But then it got loud. Shouted words. Slamming doors. And finally, silence—the kind that told you everything was broken and no one knew how to fix it.

He left six months later. Said he’d come back on weekends. Said it wasn’t my fault.

Then he stopped calling. Stopped showing up. And eventually, stopped being real.

I remembered watching my mother scrub the same plate for five minutes one night, tears in her eyes, saying nothing.

And I remembered thinking: I will never be that woman.

The memory faded like a bruise dissolving under my skin.

I picked up the glass again, this time draining it.

I hadn’t seen my father in over a decade. He had a new family now, somewhere in California. Sent a card once. Didn’t sign it.

My mother had moved back in with Grandma Marcy after the divorce. Both still in Sheffield. Still believing in kindness, in second chances, in people.

I loved them for it.

But I didn’t believe in any of that. Not anymore.

My phone buzzed on the table. Unknown number. I frowned and picked it up.

Text message:

9AM. Conference Room 18A. Don’t be late.

—E.S.

No signature. No pleasantries. Just command.

I stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Then I typed back:

I wasn’t late last time.

No reply.

I smiled anyway.

Later that night, I called home.

“Catherine!” my mother’s voice sang through the speaker. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine, Mom. Just… wanted to hear your voice.”

“A rough day?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re not letting them run you over, are you?”

“Of course not. You know me.”

“I do. But even strong women get tired.”

“I’m not tired. Just… focused.”

There was a pause. Then the warm, familiar rustle of her shifting on the couch. “Your grandmother made lemon cake. She wants to know when you’re coming back to visit.”

I smiled softly. “Tell her soon. Maybe next month.”

“You sound different,” Mom said gently. “Not bad, just… tense. Like you’re carrying something heavy.”

I didn’t answer right away.

“I just have a lot to prove,” I said eventually. “And a man at the top who doesn’t make it easy.”

“Maybe he sees something in you.”

“Or maybe he wants to crush it before it grows.”

“Maybe that’s the same thing.”

I blinked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

She chuckled. “It will.”

After we hung up, I stood at the window, looking out at the glittering city. Somewhere, a floor above me, Erik Statham was probably working late. Calculating. Strategizing. Already thinking about how to break the next person on his list.

If I wasn’t careful, that person would be me.

But I had no intention of breaking.

Not now.

Not for him.