“Then we initiate eviction proceedings. But honestly, Katherine, I don’t think it will come to that. When he receives the notice from a property management company, not from his mother, it will be different.”
“And if he tries to find out who the owner is?”
Rachel smiled slightly. “Vega Properties LLC is a limited liability company. The shareholders are not public. He would have to request information from the Secretary of State’s corporate registry, which takes time—and by the time he does, the thirty days will have passed.”
“Cadillac AE6 vehicle,” she continued. “This one is more straightforward. It is company property. He only has authorization to use it. We can revoke it immediately and request the return of the vehicle.”
“How is that done?”
“We send a formal communication requesting the return within forty-eight hours. If he doesn’t comply, we send a company employee with a tow truck and the spare keys.”
“Do it,” I said without hesitation.
“Card,” Rachel said. “This is the simplest of all. It’s an additional card on your personal account. You can cancel it with a phone call. Immediate effect.”
I looked at the three documents in front of me.
My son would receive three blows in a matter of days. He would lose his house, his car, his unlimited access to money.
“Is it too harsh?” James asked softly. “We could do this gradually. First the card, then the car, then—”
“No,” I interrupted him. “Gradual would be cruel. It would be like cutting off a finger every day instead of ripping off the bandage all at once. He needs to feel the full impact to understand the magnitude of his mistake.”
Rachel looked at me with something resembling respect.
“You are stronger than I thought.”
“I am not strong,” I said. “I am a mother who was blind for three years and finally decided to open her eyes.”
We spent the next two hours drafting the documents.
One: letter of non-renewal.
*Dear Mr. Matthew Vega,
Vega Properties LLC, in its capacity as a lessor of the property located at East 70th Street, 234, New York, hereby notifies you that the lease agreement expiring on January 31, 2024, will not be renewed. In accordance with the residential tenancy law, you have until the indicated date to vacate the property in the same condition in which it was delivered.
Sincerely,
James Torres, Executive Director,
Vega Properties LLC.*
Two: request for vehicle return.
*Dear Mr. Matthew Vega,
The purpose of this letter is to inform you that the temporary authorization for the use of the Cadillac AE6 vehicle, license plate 4082 KLM, property of Vega Properties LLC, is revoked as of this date. We request the return of the vehicle within a maximum of 48 hours to our facility on Park Avenue 89. Failure to comply with this request will result in us proceeding to recover the asset through corresponding legal means.
Sincerely,
Asset Department,
Vega Properties LLC.*
Three: card cancellation.
This one only required a call to the bank.
Rachel dialed the number on speakerphone.
“Card department, Lisa speaking. How may I help you?”
“Good morning,” Rachel said. “I am calling on behalf of Miss Katherine Vega, holder of the account ending in CT823. We need to cancel an additional card.”
“Of course. Can you provide the name of the additional holder?”
“Matthew Vega.”
“One moment, please.”
Rachel looked at me.
I nodded. “Immediate.”
“Perfect. The card will be blocked in the system in approximately two hours. Anything else?”
“Yes,” I added, leaning toward the phone. “I would like to receive a detailed expense report for the last twelve months for that card, please.”
“Of course, Miss Vega. We will email it to you in the course of the day.”
We hung up.
Rachel closed her laptop. “That’s it. The documents will be sent by certified mail and email today. The card will be canceled before noon. The vehicle—when do you want us to recover it?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “Give him time to read the letter first. Let him understand that this is serious.”
James leaned back in his chair. “And you? Where will you be when all this explodes?”
“In my apartment on the Upper West Side. I don’t plan to hide. If Matthew looks for me, he knows where the office is, but I’m not going to make anything easy for him.”
“And if he goes to the press?” Rachel asked. “Billionaire mother ends her son’s lease. That could be a juicy headline.”
“Let him,” I said. “I have twenty-eight years of documents showing exactly how I built this empire, and I have six months of statements showing how he and his wife used it like their personal cash machine.”
I stood up. My knees creaked slightly.
Sixty-four years. Sometimes I felt every one of them in my bones.
“Thank you both,” I said. “I know this is uncomfortable.”
“Katherine,” James said, also standing up, “Anthony would be proud of you. He always said true love sets boundaries. I wish you had listened to him sooner.”
I felt a lump in my throat.
Anthony.
How much I missed him in moments like this.
“I wish I had, too,” I whispered.
I left the office at 11:30 a.m. The winter sun shone on Park Avenue. Tourists were taking photos of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. A young couple argued about which restaurant to choose for lunch.
Normal life continued.
I stopped in front of the Louis Vuitton window. There, on the center mannequin, was a bag I recognized from the statement—$2,634.
Audrey had bought it in October and flaunted it on her Instagram with the caption, “When your husband spoils you.”
At that moment, my phone vibrated.
A message from Matthew.
Mom, good morning. Where are you? I stopped by the Chelsea apartment I thought was yours, but the doorman says a young couple lives there. Can you call me? I’m worried.
I put the phone away without responding.
I walked to a small coffee shop in Soho—one of those that didn’t have Instagram, just good coffee and honest sandwiches.
I ordered a cortado and a croissant.
The total was $3.50.
Audrey probably spent that on a single fingernail at the manicurist.
My phone rang.
It was James.
“The emails were sent,” he said. “Matthew should receive them any minute.”
“Perfect.”
“Katherine… are you really okay?”
“Yes,” I replied, looking out the coffee shop window. “For the first time in three years, I’m okay.”
I hung up and took a sip of coffee—hot, strong, unadorned—just like the truth that was about to hit my son.
Day 1 — December 28th
It was 9:15 a.m.
Matthew opened his laptop at the penthouse dining table. Audrey was still asleep.
The night before, they had been up until three in the morning arguing about the “Katherine drama.”
“Exaggerated,” Audrey had said. “Your mother has always been dramatic. She’ll be back tomorrow begging for forgiveness.”
But that morning, there were no messages from his mother, no calls—just a strange silence that gave him a knot in his stomach.
He clicked on his inbox.
Among the corporate Christmas emails and newsletters he never read, he saw a subject line that chilled him.
Formal notification — lease agreement termination.
Sender: Vega Properties Administration.
His heart started beating faster.
He opened the email with trembling hands.
He read the first line, then the second.
Then he had to read the whole thing three times because his brain refused to process the words.
Will not be renewed.
Vacate the property.
January 31, 2024.
“What the hell?” he whispered.
He immediately looked up the phone number at the bottom of the email and dialed.
It rang four times before a professional female voice answered.
“Vega Properties administration department. Good morning.”
“Yes. Hello. This is Matthew Vega.” His voice sounded tense. “I just received an email about the termination of my lease agreement. It must be a mistake. I have always paid on time. I have never had problems with—”
“One moment, Mr. Vega. Let me check your file.”
Matthew heard the tapping of a keyboard. Each second felt like an eternity.
“Mr. Vega, there is no mistake. The owner has decided not to renew the contract. It is their legal right according to clause 12.3 of your agreement.”
“But why? Did I do something wrong?”
“I don’t have that information, sir. We only execute the owner’s decisions.”
“Who is the owner?” Matthew asked, feeling panic climb up his throat. “I need to talk to them. This makes no sense.”
“That information is confidential. If you wish to appeal the decision, you may send a formal written request to our office on Park Avenue.”
“Park Avenue.” Matthew frowned. “I know that office. It’s near where I work.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes. Can I at least continue renting when the apartment goes back on the market?”
“Of course. When the property is available again, you can apply like any other applicant. The current market price for that unit is approximately $3,800 a month.”
Matthew almost dropped the phone.
“Three thousand eight hundred? But I pay—”
“You pay $1,400, Mr. Vega. A preferential price that will no longer apply.”
The line went dead.
Matthew sat there staring at his phone screen.
$3,800.
His monthly salary was $2,800 after taxes.
It was mathematically impossible.
“Matthew?” Audrey appeared in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in an expensive silk robe. “Why are you yelling?”
“We’re being evicted,” he said in a hollow voice. “We have to be out of the apartment before January 31st.”
Audrey blinked as if he had spoken a foreign language. “No. That can’t be. This is your apartment.”
“It’s rented,” Matthew muttered. “It always has been.”
“But you pay on time. You have rights as a tenant. They can’t just—”
“Yes, they can.”
And they did.
Audrey walked over and read the email over Matthew’s shoulder. Her face changed from confusion, to disbelief, and then to fury.
“This is because of last night, isn’t it? Your mother did this. Somehow she convinced the owner to— I don’t know.”
Matthew ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know, but I need to find out.”
He grabbed his jacket and the Cadillac keys.
“Where are you going?”
“To the Vega Properties office. I’m going to talk to someone face to face. This cannot be happening.”
12:30 p.m. — Vega Properties Office
Matthew parked the Cadillac in a nearby parking garage—$4.50 an hour, a small fortune he usually didn’t care about—and walked quickly toward the building on Park Avenue.
He had never been there before.
The façade was elegant, modernist, with high windows and wrought-iron balconies. A discrete plaque next to the entrance read: Vega Properties LLC, Third Floor.
He climbed the stairs two at a time.
When he reached the reception desk, a young woman greeted him with a professional smile.
“Good morning. How may I help you?”
“I need to speak with the director, the manager—whoever makes the decisions here,” Matthew said, trying to remain calm. “I’m a tenant and I just received a termination notice that makes no sense. My name is Matthew Vega.”
The receptionist checked something on her computer, and her expression changed slightly—almost imperceptibly, but Matthew noticed it.
“One moment, please.”
She stood up and disappeared down a hallway.
Matthew took the opportunity to look around.
The walls were decorated with photographs of buildings. He recognized some: the complex in Brooklyn, the offices in Soho… and he froze.
In a large photograph in the center of the wall was his father, Anthony Vega, in a construction helmet, smiling in front of a half-built building.
The plaque underneath read: Anthony Vega — Co-Founder — 1989 to 2017 — In Memoriam.
His father had been a construction worker.
He had never mentioned owning a part of anything.
“Mr. Vega.”
A man in his mid-forties, in an impeccable suit with graying hair at the temples, approached—hand extended.
“I am James Torres, Executive Director of Vega Properties. I understand you have concerns about your lease agreement.”
Matthew automatically shook his hand, but his mind was still processing the photograph.
“Yes, I— Excuse me, that photo. My father worked here?”
James followed his gaze, and something akin to sadness crossed his face.
“Anthony was much more than an employee, but that is a separate issue. Why don’t we go to my office so we can—”
James’s Office
The office had views of the entire avenue.
Matthew sat in a leather chair while James opened a file on his desk.
“Mr. Vega, I understand your concern, but the decision not to renew your contract is completely within the legal framework.”
“The owner. Who is the owner?” Matthew interrupted. “I need to talk to them. There’s been a misunderstanding. My mother—she said something inappropriate at Christmas dinner, and if that somehow reached the owner’s ears—”
“Your mother has nothing to do with this,” James said, although Matthew noticed something odd in his tone. “It’s simply a business decision.”
“Then at least let me apply to renew. I can pay more. I can—”
“The market price is $3,800 a month,” James said firmly. “Can you pay that amount?”
Matthew opened his mouth.
He closed it.
The math was brutal and obvious.
“There are other apartments in New York,” James continued, not without some compassion. “I suggest you start looking soon. The market in January is competitive.”
Matthew stood up, feeling dizzy.
“This isn’t right. Something isn’t right here.”
As he left, his gaze fell again on the photograph of his father, and then he noticed something he hadn’t seen before.
In the background of the slightly unfocused image was a woman in a simple dress with her hair pulled back. She was holding a folder and talking to a man in a suit.
Something about the woman’s posture felt familiar.
2:15 p.m. — Columbus Circle
Audrey had decided that retail therapy was the solution.
While Matthew dealt with the apartment issue, she would go buy the dress she had seen at Nordstrom for the New Year’s Eve party.
In line to pay, she pulled out the silver card she always used—the one that never seemed to have a limit, the one that made the sales associates look at her with respect.
She swiped the card through the reader.
Declined.
“You can try again,” Audrey requested with a tense smile.
The cashier tried two more times.
Declined.
Declined.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. The card isn’t going through. Do you have another form of payment?”
The people behind Audrey in line began to murmur.
She felt her cheeks burn.
“It must be a system error,” she said quickly, putting the card away. “I’ll come back later.”
She left the store, her heart pounding.
She immediately called the bank from her cell phone.
“Account services, Maria speaking. How may I help you?”
“My card was rejected,” Audrey said, trying to sound calm but authoritative. “I need to know what’s going on. It’s the card ending in 4829.”
“One moment. Can you give me the name of the holder?”
“Audrey Ruiz Vega.”
“I see here that this is an additional card. The primary holder is Katherine Vega.”
Audrey felt as if cold water had been thrown on her.
“Katherine… my husband’s mother?”
“Yes, ma’am. And that card was canceled yesterday at the request of the primary holder.”
“Canceled?”
“That’s right. It ceased to be active at 2:32 p.m. yesterday. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Audrey hung up without responding.
Her hands were trembling—not from sadness, but from fury.
She immediately dialed Matthew’s number.
“Hello,” he answered, sounding exhausted.
“Your mother,” Audrey snapped. “Canceled my card.”
“Which card?”
“The one I use—the one I’ve always used. How could she?”
“Audrey… that’s not your card,” Matthew said slowly, as if he were processing the information at the same time he was speaking it. “It’s an additional card on my mother’s account.”
“You said it was ours,” Audrey hissed. “You said the company gave it to you as a benefit.”
“I… I thought—”
“No, Matthew. Either you lied… or you were too careless to know the truth.”
“Audrey, calm down. We can fix this. I have my own card. We can use—”
“Your card has a limit of $2,000,” Audrey said coldly. “Do you know how much I spend a month? Do you know how much it costs to maintain my image, my social media, my life?”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Matthew muttered.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. Forget it. I’m coming home. We need to talk.”
Audrey hung up and stood in the middle of the mall, surrounded by other people’s shopping bags, bright window displays showing things she could no longer have.
For the first time in three years, Audrey Ruiz felt poor.
And she hated that feeling with every fiber of her being.
Day 2 — December 29th
It was 8:00 a.m.
Matthew woke up with a pounding headache. He had spent the whole night before arguing with Audrey.
She wanted him to do something—to talk to his mother, to fix this.
But how?
His mother didn’t answer his calls. He didn’t know where she really lived.
And every time he tried to think clearly, the image of his father on the Vega Properties wall came back to his mind.
The doorbell rang at 8:15 a.m.
Matthew opened it, expecting the delivery person with the breakfast Audrey had ordered—charged to her own card this time, with visible disgust.
Instead, he found two men in reflective vests holding clipboards.
“Good morning, Mr. Matthew Vega. We are from Vega Properties Asset Department. We are here to recover the Cadillac AE6 vehicle, license plate 4182 KLM.”
Matthew blinked, confused.
“Recover? That’s my car.”
The older man opened his clipboard and showed him a document.
“According to our records, the vehicle is the property of Vega Properties LLC. You had temporary authorization for use, which has been revoked. We need you to hand over the keys and sign this return receipt.”
“This is ridiculous.” Matthew felt the blood rush to his face. “That car was given to me two years ago. I use it for work. You can’t just come and take it.”
“Mr. Vega,” the man said with professional patience, “you have the document here. The vehicle was never transferred to your name. It was always company property. Here is your signature authorizing the temporary use for business representation purposes.”
He showed him a page, and there it was.
Matthew’s signature from two years ago on a document that clearly said: temporary authorization.
How had he not read it carefully?
“What if I refuse?”
“Then we will proceed to recover it with a tow truck and the backup keys we have in our possession. Mr. Vega, this can be easy or difficult. You decide.”
Audrey appeared behind Matthew, still in her pajamas.
“What is going on?”
“They’re taking the car,” Matthew said in a defeated voice.
“What?” Audrey pushed Matthew aside. “That car is ours. You can’t just—”
“Ma’am,” the man maintained his professional tone, “we are only employees following orders. If you have any complaints, you can go to our offices.”
Matthew turned around, went into the apartment, and returned with the Cadillac keys.
He dropped them into the man’s hand without a word.
“Thank you for your cooperation. Sign here, please.”
Matthew signed the return receipt.
The men inspected the car, took photographs, and ten minutes later, the gray Cadillac was disappearing down the street.
Matthew and Audrey stood in the building entrance, staring at the empty space in the parking lot.
“Your mother,” Audrey said slowly, “is destroying us.”
“I don’t understand,” Matthew shook his head. “None of this makes sense. How can my mother have so much power over—”
He stopped.
An impossible, absurd idea began to form in his mind.
The photograph of his father at Vega Properties.
The word co-founder.
James Torres’s strange looks.
The fact that the entire apartment, the car, the card—were connected to Vega Properties.
“No,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”
“What can’t be?” Audrey asked.
But Matthew was already running back to the apartment, looking for his laptop.
Search for the Truth
Matthew typed into Google: Vega Properties owners.
The first results showed basic corporate information.
Vega Properties LLC.
A real estate management company founded in 1995.
Executive Director: James Torres.
Portfolio: 47 properties in New York City and the metropolitan area.
Estimated value: $38 million.
He clicked on images.
Photographs of buildings, inauguration ceremonies, press articles appeared… and then he saw her.
A photograph from 2015 taken at the inauguration of a residential complex in Brooklyn.
In the foreground: James Torres cutting a ribbon.
But in the background—clear as day—his mother, Katherine Vega, in a pantsuit, talking to two men in suits who were evidently listening to her with deference.
He zoomed in on the image.
The caption read: “James Torres, executive director of Vega Properties, at the inauguration of the Sea Towers complex project developed by the Vega family.”
The Vega family.
With trembling hands, Matthew searched on LinkedIn: Katherine Vega, New York.
There was no public profile.
But when he searched for Vega Properties employees, a list appeared—and there, without a photo or description, appeared a name:
Katherine Vega — Principal shareholder.
“No… no… no… no.”
Matthew ran his hands through his hair.
Audrey walked over and read over his shoulder.
“Your mother owns Vega Properties.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Oh my God, Audrey… I think she does.”
“Then that apartment…”
“It’s hers.”
“And the car?”
“Hers.”
“And the card?”
“Hers.”
“Everything.” Audrey’s voice went flat. “Everything is hers.”
Audrey collapsed onto the couch, her face pale.
“We’ve been living in her house, spending her money…”
She turned to him with furious eyes.
“…while you boasted to everyone that you had made it on your own.”
“Oh my God, Matthew. You told her to pay rent in her own house.”
Matthew felt nauseous.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “I swear… I didn’t know.”
“How could you not know? Didn’t you ever ask? Did it never seem strange to you that an apartment in the Upper East Side cost $1,400?”
“I thought… I thought it was an employee price or something. She always lived so modestly—with her old clothes, her small apartment.”
“What small apartment?” Audrey laughed, humorless. “Matthew, I’ll bet anything that small apartment was also a sham. She probably has a mansion somewhere she never showed us.”
Matthew stood up abruptly and grabbed the house keys.
“Where are you going?” Audrey asked.
“To find someone who will tell me the truth.”
2:20 a.m. — St. Luke’s Hospital
His grandmother, Carol, was in room 304, recovering from pneumonia.
Matthew hadn’t visited her since she was admitted a week ago. He had been too busy with work and Christmas parties.
When he entered the room, his grandmother was awake, reading a magazine.
She looked up, and a shadow of disappointment crossed her face before she could hide it.
“Matthew. What a surprise.”
Matthew walked over and kissed her wrinkled cheek. She looked fragile, small beneath the hospital sheets.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. The nurses say I can go home in a few days.”
“That’s good.”
There was an awkward silence.
Carol looked at him with those eyes that always saw more than one wanted to show.
“You didn’t just come to ask about my health, did you?” she finally said.
“What happened, Grandma?”
Matthew sat in the chair next to the bed. “I need you to tell me the truth about Mom.”
“What truth?”
“Vega Properties. The money. Everything.”
Carol slowly closed the magazine.
“So you finally found out.”
“I need you to tell me.”
“I knew, son. I was there from the beginning. I watched your mother and father save every penny for years. I watched them buy their first apartment. I watched them build that empire brick by brick.”
“Why did they never tell me?”
Carol sighed—a tired sound that seemed to carry decades of weight.
“Because your mother wanted you to be strong on your own. She didn’t want you to grow up like those spoiled rich kids who think the world owes them something.”
“But they lied to me.”
“They didn’t lie to you,” Carol corrected him firmly. “They just didn’t tell you everything. There is a difference.”
“They let me believe that I was supporting the house—that I was taking care of her.”
“And that made you feel good, didn’t it?” Carol asked knowingly. “It made you feel important—the successful son who takes care of his poor widowed mother.”
Matthew opened his mouth to protest, but the words caught in his throat.
“Your mother,” Carol continued, “could have lived in a mansion. She could have retired ten years ago. But she chose to live modestly. She chose to work every day. And she chose to give you advantages without you becoming dependent on them.”
“Or she tried to,” Matthew whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“Matthew,” Carol said, “how much did you spend last month on restaurants, on clothes, on trips?”
Matthew didn’t answer.
“Your wife,” Carol said, her voice tightening, “has posted forty-seven photos in the last month showing off your luxurious life—handbags that cost more than a nurse’s monthly salary—while your mother, the woman who owns all of that, wears the same jacket from five years ago.”
“I didn’t ask for any of that,” Matthew said weakly.
“You didn’t ask, but you accepted. And you didn’t just accept, son—you boasted. You told the world that you had achieved all of that.”
Carol looked at him steadily.
“And on Tuesday night, in front of twenty-five people, you told your mother to pay rent… or get out.”
Tears began to roll down Matthew’s cheeks.
“I didn’t know.”
“And does that make it better?” Carol took his hand with her weak strength. “Your mother taught you with her silence, but you learned the wrong lesson. You thought her humility was weakness, her generosity an obligation.”
“What do I do now, Grandma?”
Carol squeezed his hand.
“Learn what she tried to teach you from the beginning. The real value of things. The effort it takes to build something. The difference between having privileges and deserving them.”
“How do you start?”
“From scratch, son. Like your mother and father did. Without their money, without their contacts—just you and your own effort. That’s the only way you can look her in the eyes again someday.”
Matthew sat there for a long time, holding his grandmother’s hand, crying for everything he had lost—and for everything he was just beginning to understand.
Two Weeks Later — January
Matthew stood in front of an old building in the Queens neighborhood. The paint on the façade was peeling. There was no doorman. The mailbox was rusty.
“This is number 23,” said the real estate agent—a young man with excessive gel in his hair. “Four hundred fifty square feet. One bedroom, small kitchen, eighth floor. No elevator.”
“How much?”
“Eight fifty a month, plus utilities.”
Audrey, standing behind Matthew with her arms crossed, let out a bitter laugh.
“Is this a joke? It’s a shoebox.”
“It’s what we can afford,” Matthew said without looking at her.
“I can’t live here.”
Audrey gestured toward the building. “Look at this place. What am I going to post on Instagram? Living my best life in an apartment with no elevator?”
“Then don’t live here,” Matthew said wearily.
The real estate agent coughed uncomfortably.
“Do you want to see the inside, or—”
“Yes,” Matthew said.
“No,” Audrey said at the same time.
Matthew looked at her for the first time that afternoon.
“Audrey, I need to make a decision. I have to hand over the keys to the penthouse on January 31st. I can afford this place. It’s ugly. It’s small, but it’s what my real salary allows.”
He held her gaze.
“If that doesn’t work for you…”
“It doesn’t,” Audrey said firmly. “Matthew, this is not what I signed up for when I married you.”
“What did you sign up for? A contract where I keep you in endless luxury?”
“I signed up for a life. A life you promised—the successful architect, the nice apartment, the trips, the dinners.”
“That life wasn’t real,” Matthew said, feeling something break inside him. “It was a lie. A lie my mother financed while I believed the story.”
Audrey took off her sunglasses and looked at him with cold eyes.
“Then find a way to get it back. Talk to your mother. Ask for forgiveness. Do whatever you have to do, but don’t ask me to live in this.”
She looked at the building with disgust.
“My mother won’t answer my calls,” Matthew said. “She doesn’t respond to messages. I don’t know where she really lives.”
“Then find out. Go to her office. Ask her if you have to.”
“I won’t ask her for money.”
“Why not?” Audrey threw up her hands. “Pride? Now you have pride? You didn’t have it when you were spending her money on eight-hundred-dollar dinners.”
The truth of those words hit Matthew like a punch.
“I’m going to rent this apartment,” he finally said. “You can come with me or not. You decide.”
He turned to the real estate agent.
“I want to see it.”
Audrey stood on the sidewalk while Matthew climbed the stairs behind the agent.
She didn’t follow him.
When Matthew reached the eighth floor, panting and his legs burning, he knew Audrey was right about one thing:
This wasn’t what they had had.
But for the first time in his life, it would truly be his.
Przeczytaj dalej, klikając poniższy przycisk (CZYTAJ WIĘCEJ 》)!
