“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want you to talk to the CEO,” he said quietly. “You needed… a person. A normal conversation.”
Raya’s fingers tightened around the card until it bent slightly.
The plane hit a pocket of turbulence, and for a second everything shook, like the universe was laughing at her surprise.
Cole leaned closer, voice low.
“This isn’t charity,” he said. “It’s… an opening. If you ever need anything. If you ever want anything. Call me.”
Raya stared at him like he’d handed her a door and she didn’t know whether it led to warmth or another trap.
Chicago’s airport was all bright lights and rushing bodies, the kind of place that made Raya feel like she didn’t exist unless she was in someone’s way.
She retrieved her small duffel from the overhead bin, the zipper sticking halfway like it wanted to punish her for being broke. Sofia shifted against her hip.
Cole stood close, holding Sofia for a moment so Raya could wrestle the bag.
“Let me,” he offered, fingers already reaching.
“I’ve got it,” Raya snapped, tugging harder until the zipper surrendered.
The refusal was automatic. Help always came with invisible strings. She’d learned that the hard way.
They walked through the terminal together, the contrast between them almost cruel. He moved like the world expected him. She moved like she was borrowing space.
“Where are you staying?” Cole asked.
“A motel near the venue,” Raya replied. “It’s fine.”
His brow creased. “This time of year, some of those places… the heat isn’t reliable.”
“I can’t afford anything else,” Raya said sharply. Then, softer, because she heard the desperation in her own voice, “I appreciate what you did, but I don’t need you to fix everything.”
Cole stopped walking immediately, like he’d hit an invisible wall.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”
His phone buzzed. Once. Then again. The kind of buzzing that didn’t accept being ignored.
“I need to take this,” he said, and stepped a few feet away.
Raya turned slightly, pretending she wasn’t listening, but the terminal echoed.
“Whitman here,” Cole said, voice suddenly different. Firm. Precise. CEO voice.
Raya’s stomach tightened.
“We cannot compromise the vetting process for the housing program,” he said into the phone. “These are single mothers, not numbers. I want to personally review every rejected application. Every one.”
Raya went still.
Housing program.
Single mothers.
She watched him end the call, watched the way his face remained calm while his jaw tightened like he was holding back anger.
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