Chapter 3
The phrase "by the end of today" hung thick in the air, sharp and final like a death sentence.
After he spoke, Carson sank back into a hollow, lifeless silence.
It looked as if he was pouring every last bit of his strength just to gut out the crushing blow of that foreclosure notice.
I had no time to sit around coddling him.
I stood up, glanced around the gilded mansion that'd been my home for three years.
The antique vase in the living room, the fine art on the walls, the luxury designer decor lining the entryway—only hours ago, all of it had screamed wealth, status, and endless privilege.
Now it was nothing more than cold collateral, soon to be seized by the bank.
"Other than this old apartment, do you have anything else left?" I asked.
"What about your cars?"
Carson slouched weakly against the couch, totally drained.
"All the cars in the garage are registered under the company," he said tiredly. "They'll get towed away with the rest of the assets.
"I still have my old Jeep parked down at the apartment complex—that's all I've got left."
He sounded totally worn out.
"What about your bank cards?" I pressed.
"All frozen," he replied flatly.
"I only have a few thousand bucks in cash left in my wallet."
It wasn't much, but it was enough to start over.
We had a roof over our heads, a running car, and a little cash to get by.
We weren't totally out of luck yet.
"Start packing," I told him firmly.
"Only grab daily essentials and your ID docs.
"Leave all the fancy stuff behind."
With that, I turned and headed upstairs.
Carson didn't move a muscle. He stayed frozen on the couch, still reeling from losing everything he'd ever had.
'Daddy's so worn out. He doesn't have the energy to move,' the baby's tiny voice echoed softly in my head.
'Mommy, can you go hug him? Please?'
The little one's tone was innocent and pleading, impossible to brush off.
I paused for a second, hesitating.
Hug him?
I shook the thought off. That kind of intimacy wasn't part of our deal, not now.
I grabbed my own small suitcase, then pulled an empty larger one from the walk-in closet, and started packing Carson's things for him.
He had piles of designer clothes, but I only picked out a few casual everyday outfits and two sets of formal clothes for emergencies.
Next, I packed his toiletries, a couple of his favorite books, and his laptop.
I moved calmly and efficiently the whole time, as methodical as a pro housekeeper.
There was no sentimentality, no regret, no lingering attachment to the fancy life we were leaving behind.
When I dragged the two fully packed suitcases back downstairs, Carson finally snapped out of his funk.
He stood silently and took the heavier suitcase from my hands.
His skin felt cold and clammy.
"I'll carry these," he murmured.
I didn't argue.
I headed to the kitchen instead, cleared out all the perishables from the fridge, and packed everything into two large grocery bags: a carton of milk, a few fresh eggs, veggies, and some raw meat.
It looked like we'd be cooking all our own meals from now on.
By the time we walked out of the villa, dusk had fallen, painting the sky in soft twilight hues.
The setting sun stretched our shadows long across the pavement.
We loaded the suitcases into the dusty trunk of the old Jeep.
Carson slid into the driver's seat and turned the key.
The engine rumbled to life, then settled into a low, steady purr.
This beat-up old Jeep was pretty much the only valuable thing he had left.
The car pulled away from the exclusive upscale neighborhood—one where only the wealthy and powerful lived.
I glanced back through the rear window, watching the glowing white mansion shrink smaller in the mirror until it faded into a distant speck of light.
An entire chapter of our lives was officially over.
A heavy, awkward silence hung in the car.
Carson kept his eyes glued to the road, not saying a word.
I watched the city scenery roll by outside the window—first the bustling downtown financial district, then the lively nightlife strip, and finally into quiet, ordinary residential neighborhoods where regular people lived simple lives.
We eventually turned down a narrow side street.
The streetlights in the older part of town were dim and flickering, lined with run-down apartment buildings covered in ivy and faded exterior walls.
The Jeep rolled to a stop in front of a weathered apartment complex that looked at least twenty years past its prime.
"We're here," Carson said quietly.
He cut the engine.
We hauled our suitcases and the two grocery bags out of the car.
The building didn't have an elevator at all.
I carried the lighter grocery bags while Carson slung both large suitcases over his shoulder, trundling slowly up the stairs.
Under the dim, flickering hallway lights, his lonely silhouette looked even more lost and defeated.
The apartment was on the sixth floor.
Carson unlocked the rusted metal front door with his key.
The second we stepped inside, a stale, musty smell hit us.
The place was tiny—just one bedroom and a cramped open living area.
All the furniture was covered with white dust sheets, looking like silent, forgotten ghosts left untouched for years.
This was our new home.
From a sprawling luxury mansion to a shabby, cramped old apartment barely five hundred square feet.
That kind of contrast would've broken anyone.
I set my things down, walked over to the window, and pulled back the heavy curtains.
Outside stretched an endless sea of ordinary apartment blocks, their windows dotted with warm, twinkling lights.
It was plain, simple, and filled with the quiet warmth of everyday life.
"I'm sorry."
Carson's soft voice came from right behind me.
"I'm sorry I dragged you into this mess with me."
I turned to face him.
'Daddy's hurting inside,' the baby whispered in my mind.
'He's holding back his tears, but his heart is crying.'
The little one could sense every hidden emotion he tried to hide.
I stayed quiet, walked over to the couch, and pulled off the dusty cover.
Clouds of fine dust swirled up in the faint beam of window light.
I'd need to find cleaning supplies soon and tidy the place up.
We were spending our first night here, whether it was ready or not.
Just then, Carson's phone rang sharply, breaking the stillness.
This time it wasn't a text notification—it was an incoming call.
He glanced at the caller ID, and his already pale face turned even darker.
He hesitated for a second, then answered reluctantly.
"Hello?"
He barely got the word out before a woman's shrill, furious voice exploded through the speaker.
"Carson! Where the hell have you been hiding?!
"The company's gone under, and you still dare to go missing? Where are you right now?!
"Do you have any idea that debt collectors are camped right outside our front door waiting for you?!"