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At 5:30 the next morning, the radiator clanged violently awake, dragging the apartment into another workday. Lena got dressed in the half-dark, tied her hair back, packed Annie's lunch, and tried not to look at the card on the table. By 6:30, she was walking Annie downstairs to Mrs. Alvarez in 1B, who had agreed to watch her before school for five dollars less than her usual rate because, as she put it, "that child says thank you with both her eyes."
Lena took the early bus back to the hotel. The Ashcroft Grand looked entirely different in the stark daylight—less magical, more expensive. Delivery trucks lined the back alley; kitchen staff smoked in heavy winter coats by the loading entrance; men in maintenance uniforms rolled metal carts across the service ramp. The ballroom where the previous night had turned strange now sat somewhere above her, quiet except for vacuum cleaners and banquet crews stripping tablecloths.
Margaret Doyle was already in the back office with a clipboard and a mug of black coffee when Lena arrived. "You look terrible," Margaret said straight away.
"Good morning to you, too."
Margaret handed her the mug without being asked. "Drink that before you do something dramatic."
Lena accepted it, the warmth heating her palms. "I'm not dramatic."
"No, honey. You're exhausted. Different thing."
For a moment, neither woman mentioned the gala. That made the silence feel almost tender. Then, Margaret leaned back in her chair. "Did he call yet?"
"No."
"You going to call him?"
Lena took a slow sip of the coffee. It was terrible and burning hot, exactly what she needed. "I don't know."
Margaret nodded, as if she had expected nothing else. "That means you're thinking about it."
"I'm thinking about rent, groceries, and bus fare, Margaret. I'm thinking about a six-year-old asking me whether she'll still be my child if somebody richer wants her."