Chapter 3: Twenty Minutes Late to His Heart

Grant frowned, shooting me a sideways glance. "Aren’t you an orphan? Whose grave are you visiting?"

I took a slow breath, met his eyes for a beat, and tamped down the irritation rising in my chest.

"A friend’s," I said quietly.

It was true, in a way. Daniel Hayes and I barely spoke, but he was the closest thing I ever had to a friend.

Grant looked surprised—maybe he’d never pictured me with friends.

I grew up in foster care, scraping by on handouts and government aid. I was so broke I could barely eat, let alone make friends.

I didn’t make a single close friend all through high school, except Daniel Hayes. Even then, we only talked a handful of times.

"Rest up," I said, not wanting to explain further. I turned to leave.

Grant called after me, "It’s late. Stay here tonight."

"No."

He probably hadn’t expected to be turned down twice in one night. He set his bowl down with a clatter, looking pissed, and grabbed my chin between his fingers.

The kitchen light was low, throwing shadows across his face. His eyes were a little glassy, his lashes casting long shadows.

I’d rarely refused Grant before, but tonight I’d said no twice.

"Don’t forget your place, Rachel. Don’t throw a tantrum with me." His voice was low, dangerous. His grip tightened until his knuckles went white.

"I want to rest. Go upstairs. Leave after I fall asleep," he said, turning away, ending the conversation.

I sighed, quietly, and trailed after him up the stairs—reluctant, but knowing better than to argue.

I’d disobeyed him before. Last time, Grant iced me out for a week. I nearly lost my mind trying to get back in his good graces—brought him a project, showed up at Whitaker Corp every day until he finally forgave me.

I couldn’t stand not seeing that face. So I let Grant get more demanding, let everyone in Chicago believe Rachel Serrano couldn’t live without Grant Whitaker.

His mansion was huge. The master bedroom alone was bigger than the backyard of my old foster home.

Grant changed into pajamas and lay on his side. I pulled up a chair by the bed, watching him close his eyes.

I never liked how Grant looked when he slept. Only his eyes reminded me of Daniel.

His mouth was close—the shape was similar, but Grant’s lips were full and red, while Daniel’s had always been pale and chapped.

Grant was out in minutes. After half an hour, I slipped out, drove back to the tiny apartment I’d bought downtown.

People loved to joke about the CEO of Lakeside Holdings living in a thousand-square-foot apartment. Some whispered that I was just a tasteless upstart, too cheap to buy a real place.

When I opened the door, Jamie Song poked his head out of the guest room, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Sis, you’re back. Want something to eat?" His voice was thick with sleep, but he tried to sound awake.

The sky was just starting to lighten, casting a faint glow through the living room blinds.

Jamie was a kid I’d found under an overpass, just a scrawny teenager back then. Now he’d started college—admitted to a top Chicago school, thanks to my help.

I’d taken him in partly because, like Grant, his face reminded me of Daniel Hayes. If Grant was an eighty percent match, Jamie was maybe fifty.

When I brought him home, he was only fourteen. Five years had flown by.

Jamie had grown taller, but still looked fragile. Years of going hungry had left their mark. Even now, with regular meals, he was thin as a reed.

He reminded me of Daniel in his hospital bed—delicate, always on the edge of vanishing.

I changed my shoes and headed to the master bedroom.

"Go back to sleep. I’m leaving Chicago tomorrow. You’ll be here by yourself for a few days."

Jamie nodded, sipping water from a glass, his eyes clearer now in the early light.

He usually lived on campus, only coming home for breaks. As I closed the bedroom door, I heard the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up in the bathroom. I hurried over.