I Lost Everything In A Day, And Only My Maid Would Feed My Baby
Part 1
Resting my forehead against the penthouse glass, I watched the late afternoon Miami sky hang heavy with gray mist.
Beyond the thick veil of humidity, white yachts sat completely motionless in the harbor below.
A heavy, suffocating silence stretched across the room behind me.
A thick stack of documents lay in my hands, bound in a dark blue leather folder.
The top letter carried a bold heading that made my chest tighten.
Notice of asset seizure from the United States Federal Court.
I rubbed my thumb over the raised ink of the official seal.
The words blurred together, turning into sharp blows against my ribs.
Dan, my lawyer of ten years, shifted in the leather chair across the walnut desk.
He flipped through the paperwork without looking up.
The IRS had already stepped in.
My estimated tax debt hovered right around eighteen million dollars.
A dry laugh scraped the back of my throat.
I tossed the folder onto the desk, letting it slide to a halt near Dan’s coffee cup.
Dan adjusted his midnight blue silk tie.
It was the same tie I had bought him for Christmas two years ago.
The entire Brickell Bay complex, the South Beach Hotel, the Orlando project, and this very penthouse were gone.
Nothing remained under my name.
I crossed my arms and watched Dan pack his briefcase.
He slid the clasp shut with a sharp click.
Craig Robinson, my business partner and closest friend, had vanished somewhere past the Bahamas with tens of millions in investor money.
We had toasted champagne on a New York rooftop just six months ago.
Now, the man who once graced the cover of Real Estate King of Miami stood alone, treated like a common thief.
I leaned against the glass window, watching Dan walk toward the heavy oak doors.
He paused with his hand on the brass handle.
A fifty-thousand dollar retainer was required for him to even pick up my next phone call.
I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and flipped it open.
Two crumpled ten dollar bills, one five, and a handful of loose change stared back at me.
Dan stepped out into the hallway, the soft click of the door sealing my fate.
A shrill cry pierced the heavy silence of the apartment.
I flinched, my grip tightening on the empty wallet.
The sound echoed from the nursery down the hall.
Since then, I had navigated a storm of furious investors and court summons completely alone.
The crying grew louder, shifting into panicked, breathless gasps.
Pushing the nursery door open, I found her.
Megan stood inside her crib, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks.
Her tiny fingers gripped the wooden bars with desperate strength.
Reaching down, I lifted her out of the crib.
Her small, feverish body pressed against my chest.
She buried her wet face into my shoulder, her fingers curling into the fabric of my wrinkled shirt.
I patted her back, my mind racing through a fog of cheap whiskey and sleepless nights.
The formula can on the metal shelf sat completely empty.
Only two diapers remained in the plastic wrapper beside it.
I carried Megan into the home office and arranged cushions around her on the large leather sofa.
A soft knock rattled the front door.
I froze, the blood rushing in my ears as my eyes darted toward the entryway.
My hand instinctively dropped to my empty pockets, half-expecting to hear the metallic clink of handcuffs.
I held my breath, waiting for the heavy thud of a battering ram against the wood.
The knock sounded again, persistent but gentle.
I moved slowly toward the door and cracked it open just an inch.
Brenda Flores stood in the hallway, wearing her standard blue housekeeping uniform.
Her dark hair was tied back, and she held two large paper grocery bags from the cheap market downstairs.
I stared at the bags, my jaw tight.
Brenda shifted her weight and looked past me toward the sound of Megan’s crying.
She lifted the bags slightly, the paper crinkling in the quiet hallway.
I stepped aside, my face burning.
The woman who cleaned up the trash after my lavish parties was standing here with baby formula.
I straightened my posture, trying to summon the authority I used to wield.
Brenda ignored my stance and walked straight to the table.
She pulled out a fresh can of formula, baby food, and a stack of diapers.
Megan’s cries continued from the other room.
Brenda slipped past me and walked into the office.
She scooped Megan up with a natural ease that made my stomach knot.
The crying faded almost instantly into a few shaky hiccups.
Brenda pressed her cheek to Megan’s forehead and rocked her gently.
She glanced at the empty formula can, then at me.
I swallowed hard, the words catching in my dry throat.
Brenda turned toward the hot water dispenser, her movements practiced and quick.
A few minutes later, the quiet room filled with the soft, steady sound of Megan drinking from a warm bottle.
I leaned against the desk, watching the two of them.
Brenda adjusted her grip, supporting Megan’s head.
I reached into my pocket and touched the crumpled bills again.
The housekeeping staff hadn’t been paid for last month.
Brenda had used her own empty pockets to feed my child.
I pulled out the money, offering the pathetic stack of bills toward her.
Brenda shook her head and kept her eyes on Megan.
I dropped the money onto the desk, my hands trembling.
Brenda finished feeding Megan and gently patted her back.
She turned her head and looked straight at me.
A business card stuck out of her apron pocket, bearing the logo of Greg Thomas’s hotel empire.
My stomach plummeted.
I stared at the crumpled business card sticking out of her pocket, realizing my only way to feed my daughter was to beg my worst enemy for a job.
