The director, Mrs. Carter—a tiny woman with fire-engine-red hair and tired eyes—met him at the door like he was royalty. The plan was simple: hand over a big check, let the marketing team snap a few photos, leave.
But the second James stepped inside, something shifted.
The hallway was long and dim, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Old men and women sat in sagging chairs, some asleep with their mouths open, some staring at a TV that only played static.
And then he saw her.
In a wheelchair by a dirty window sat a tiny Black woman, white hair wild like cotton, skin like dark mahogany, eyes cloudy but sharp. Something in the way she tilted her head made the air leave his lungs.
He walked toward her without thinking. The director hurried after him. “That’s Miss Loretta. Been with us thirty-eight years. No family on record. Barely talks.”
James crouched in front of the wheelchair. His hands—hands that signed eight-figure deals—were shaking.
The old woman lifted a trembling finger and touched his cheek.
“James,” she whispered, so soft he almost missed it.
His name. His childhood nickname. The one only one person on earth had ever used.