Simone stared at him.
Richard continued.
"I didn't know whether you'd ever wake up."
He pointed toward the check.
"If I take this now, then every night becomes something else."
"Only if you let it."
"Maybe."
Richard shook his head.
"But I know what it meant to me."
His voice softened.
"I came because someone should have."
He looked at her.
"That's enough."
Simone Sinclair had negotiated acquisitions worth hundreds of millions of dollars.
She had faced hostile boards, skeptical regulators, and executives who believed saying no loudly made it permanent.
She had never been so completely defeated by a quiet man refusing a check.
Richard stood.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
Simone watched him leave.
Then she picked up her phone.
She called Sophia.
Sophia Sinclair arrived from New York the following morning.
Nineteen years old.
Dark-haired.
Sharp-featured.
Self-contained.
She entered the hospital with one suitcase, one expensive coat, and the posture of someone who had learned early that expecting too much from people was dangerous.
Sophia loved her mother.
That was precisely why she was angry.
She had spent childhood watching Simone promise herself she would slow down.
After this quarter.
After this acquisition.
After this merger.
Sophia stopped asking.
At thirteen, she learned to arrange her own transportation.
At fifteen, she stopped checking whether Simone would attend school events.
At seventeen, she moved to New York for college and discovered independence did not hurt as much when you chose it yourself.
Then the phone call came about the accident.
Sophia had visited during the first week.
She stood beside the unconscious woman who had missed half her childhood and realized she could lose her permanently before ever deciding whether to forgive her.
She fled back to New York three days later.
Fear disguised itself as anger because anger was easier to carry.
Now Preston told her about Richard.
The janitor.
The songs.
The month of visits.
The half-million-dollar check he had refused.
Sophia listened without interrupting.
Then she asked the question she always asked when someone unexpectedly appeared in her mother's life.
"What does he want?"
Preston hesitated.
"Apparently nothing."
"Everyone wants something."
"I thought so too."
Sophia walked into room 410 that afternoon.
Richard was there.
He stood when she entered.
She looked him over.
Maintenance uniform.
Work boots.
Callused hands.
Cheap jacket hanging over the chair.
"Who are you?"
Richard immediately knew.
"You must be Sophia."
"Answer the question."
"Richard Carter."
He waited.
"I work here."
"I know."
Her voice was cold.
"I know about the visits."
Richard glanced at Simone.
Sophia continued.
"I also know about the money."
Richard's expression changed slightly.
"I didn't take it."
"Exactly."
Richard frowned.
Sophia stepped closer.
"Nobody comes every night for a month for nothing."
"Apparently I do."
"Don't."
Her voice cracked slightly beneath the control.
"Don't make jokes."
Richard stopped smiling.
Sophia looked him directly in the eyes.
"What do you actually want from my mother?"
"Nothing."