My Fake Bankrupt Husband Is A Tycoon

The subway is packed with the evening rush hour crowd. I am pressed against the doors for forty agonizing minutes before I reach the suburban daycare.

The sun has completely set. The temperature has plummeted below freezing.

Outside the daycare, five-year-old Rosie is sitting on the concrete steps, shivering in a thin winter coat. A teacher stands beside her, looking annoyed.

"Auntie Grace!" Rosie cries, launching herself into my arms.

"I'm so sorry, baby," I whisper, wrapping my own wool coat around her tiny shoulders. I apologize profusely to the teacher and hurry Rosie down the street.

We stop at a cheap fast-food joint. I buy two dollar-menu cheeseburgers. While Rosie eats her fries, I text Eloise the new address of the apartment so she knows where to pick Rosie up later.

By the time we take two buses back to Center City, it is past eight o'clock.

Meanwhile, inside the apartment, Ethan's encrypted phone rings.

It's a video call from his board of directors in London. A multi-billion-dollar acquisition is on the table, and they need his immediate authorization.

Ethan walks into the guest bedroom and locks the door. He opens his laptop. To ensure absolute silence, he switches his personal cell phone to 'Do Not Disturb' and tosses it onto the bed.

At 8:15 PM, I arrive at the front door of the townhouse building with a sleepy Rosie.

I reach for the door handle. It doesn't move.

I look closer. There is a black electronic scanner next to the door. The building requires a key fob for entry after 8 PM. I only have the metal key for the apartment upstairs.

I am locked out.

Panic flutters in my chest. I pull out my phone and dial Ethan's number.

It goes straight to voicemail.

I dial again. And again. Five times. Nothing.

I send a text. I'm locked out. The door needs a fob.

No response.

The wind howls down the street, biting through my thin sweater. Rosie sneezes, burying her face into my leg.

"I'm cold, Auntie," she whimpers.

I look at the intercom panel, but there are no names, just numbers. I don't know which apartment is his.

I have no choice. I pick Rosie up and carry her to a bus stop bench at the corner of the street, trying to use the glass shelter to block the wind. I take off my scarf and wrap it around Rosie's head. My lips are turning blue.

An hour passes.

I stare at my dark phone screen. A heavy, suffocating weight settles in my stomach.

He's ignoring me.

The thought is a physical ache. Why wouldn't he? I am a mess. I brought my crazy mother to his life, I lied about him being bankrupt, and now I'm bringing a kid to his apartment. He probably regrets letting me stay. He locked the door on purpose.

Tears prick my eyes, freezing on my lashes. I feel like a stray dog left on the curb.

At 9:15 PM, inside the guest room, Ethan slams his laptop shut. He just killed the billion-dollar deal.

He rolls his neck, walking out into the living room. It is pitch black. Empty.

Ethan freezes.

He turns and strides back into the bedroom, snatching his phone off the bed.

The screen lights up. Five missed calls. Eighteen text messages.

I'm locked out.

Rosie is really cold.

Are you asleep?

I'm sorry for bothering you.

That last text-the sheer, pathetic apology in it-hits Ethan like a bullet to the chest. His breath stops. His heart drops into his stomach.

He doesn't grab a coat. He doesn't grab his shoes. He grabs the key fob and sprints out the door.