Chapter 3 - The Glass Castle
By the time the roasted chicken arrived, Emma had already devoured the risotto and three pieces of warm bread. When she finally set her fork down, her stomach was full, but her eyes were heavy with an exhaustion so deep it looked like it belonged to an old woman.
"Where are your parents?" Jonathan asked, sipping his wine.
Emma stared at the tablecloth. "My mom went to sleep in the hospital and didn't wake up. The man they said was my dad left me at the Greyhound station. He said to wait. That was a long time ago."
Jonathan felt a cold fury spike in his veins. He knew corporate sharks. He knew ruthless board members. But abandoning a child at a bus station? That was a special kind of evil.
"Where do you sleep?" he asked.
"Outside," she mumbled.
Jonathan looked out the window. The April rain had turned into a sleet storm, freezing as it hit the pavement. He looked at his phone. Dozens of unread emails. A billion-dollar merger waiting on his signature. He was a man of logic, algorithms, and calculated risks. Taking a homeless child into his care was illogical. It was a massive liability.
"Come on," Jonathan said, standing up and throwing a hundred-dollar bill on the table to cover the tip.
"Where are we going?" Emma asked, shrinking back. "Are you taking me to the police?"
"No," Jonathan said, his voice firm but surprisingly soft. "I'm taking you home. It's raining."
Thirty minutes later, Jonathan’s armored Maybach pulled into the underground garage of the most exclusive high-rise in Manhattan. Emma pressed her face against the tinted glass, her eyes wide. When they stepped into his private elevator, which opened directly into his penthouse, she gasped.
The penthouse was massive, a sterile expanse of white marble, black leather, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline of New York. It was beautiful, but it felt like a museum. It didn't feel like a home.
Jonathan had his housekeeper, Maria, who lived on the lower floor, come up immediately. Maria took one look at the shivering, dirty child and burst into rapid-fire Spanish, ushering Emma into a massive guest bathroom.
An hour later, Emma emerged. The grime was gone. Her blonde hair was washed and brushed, glowing under the recessed lighting. She was wearing one of Jonathan’s designer t-shirts, which fell past her knees like a dress. She looked incredibly small.
Jonathan was sitting on the leather sofa, a glass of scotch in his hand, staring at the city.
"Thank you, Mr. Daddy," Emma said quietly, standing awkwardly in the doorway.
Jonathan almost choked on his drink. "My name is Jonathan. You can just call me Jonathan."
"Okay, Jonathan." She padded across the cold marble floor and climbed onto the opposite end of the massive sofa. "Are you going to make me leave tomorrow?"
May you like
Jonathan looked at her. He thought about the cold streets. He thought about the social services system—a broken machine that churned out broken kids. He thought about his own empty, echoing life.
"Go to sleep, Emma," he said. "We'll figure tomorrow out when it gets here."
