Lacey hated New York on days like this … days when the droplets of sweat never stopped rolling down her overheated skin … when her feet were swollen and her back ached and she cursed each and every customer who demanded iced tea. She longed for the merest whisper of a breeze but, on days like this, the city was harsh … relentless.

The heat from the sidewalk burned through the thinning soles of her shoes. She needed new ones but right now she had more important things to spend her meagre earnings on. Her rent was due and her landlord wasn't the type of man who liked to be kept waiting. Lacey quickened her pace as much as she could, given the extra weight that she carried.

The six flights of stairs up to her apartment were especially hard. The elevator had been broken for what felt like forever. She paused on the first landing, letting her hand rest lightly on her bump as the baby shifted within. It couldn't be much longer now. The thought both delighted and terrified her. Most women would have had this all figured out by now but Lacey wasn't even close. She wasn't even sure where her kid was going to sleep. The baby kicked again.

There were memories. Vague, blurred around the edges. Softened by nights of hard drinking when all she'd cared about was getting that hook up at the end of the night. Darkness. The heat of bodies wrapped together in cold passion. She could barely remember the faces never mind the names.

Lacey braced her hands against her back, stretching out the cramping muscles, trying to ignore the click of the lock as a door opened and a blue rinsed head appeared.

'Everything alright dear?'

Mrs. Letterman was almost ninety, and seemed to spend her days patrolling the stairwells and corridors of the apartment building.

'Rent day,' Lacey said.

'Such a handsome man. Always dresses so nicely.'

Lacey didn't have enough breath left to disagree.

Her hair was damp with sweat by the time she managed to get her key in the lock and let herself into the tiny apartment.

She opened the windows but it did little to alleviate the unrelenting heat. Air conditioning would have been nice but the old unit had never worked worth a damn. A best it moved the air around a little, at worst it sprayed the room with water. She wondered again how exactly she was going to bring up a baby here. The bedroom was barely large enough for the double bed never mind a baby's crib and as for the bathroom…

Lacey glanced at her watch. It was later than she thought. Any minute now there would be that knock on the door. She counted out her money carefully. Taking it from the jar she kept under her bed. Lacey didn't have a bank account. There wasn't much point. She counted up a second time.

It wasn't enough.

She swore to herself, slightly mystified by the harsh language that fell from her lips. Lacey emptied her purse, scrabbled down the back of the dilapidated couch in the hopes of finding spare quarters. She felt a sharp pain deep in her gut that had nothing to do with the unwelcome jab of infant arms and legs. In her mind she was calculating, trying to work out where or when she had spent the money. She was always so careful and yet … Oh God. There had been a little outfit for the baby.

The store clerk had been so snooty that Belle had purchased it just to prove that she could. She'd meant to return it and put the money back but somehow… She'd just wanted one new thing for her child. Was that so bad? Everything else had come from charity shops.

Lacey cringed when the sharp knock came. She sat there, not daring to move, not daring to breath.

'Miss French.'

It wasn't a question. He knew she was home. Although she doubted that he'd break the door down, rumour had it that he was quite capable of making her life very unpleasant. She couldn't … wouldn't let him throw her out onto the street. Hauling herself up off the couch, Lacey went to open the door. He took one halting step into the apartment, looking around as he always did. Lacey was never certain what he hoped to find. The disdain on his face made the room feel dirty even though she had cleaned that very morning. She'd often wondered why he came himself. Surely he had minions who wouldn't mind treading on a carpet so faded that no one could hazard a guess as to its original colour?

He was immaculately dressed, as always. Cool and confident, despite the heat. Somewhere at the back of her mind, Lacey knew that the suit was Armani. The cane clutched in his hand drew attention to his disability, but he never seemed less powerful because of it. Long fingered hands, his left adorned with a ring. Somehow Lacey couldn't imagine him being married to anyone. She pitied his wife.

Lacey gathered together the notes and coins from where they were scattered on the table. She handed it to him, pleased when some of the coins slipped from his fingers and he had to bend down to pick them up. It was difficult for him, but she let him struggle.

'There seems to be something missing, Miss French.'

'It's all I have.'

She looked him straight in the eye, refusing to back down, to apologise despite the fact that she felt sick to her stomach.

'And you are no doubt, about to plead your unfortunate condition as to the reason why you cannot pay me.'

He was a bastard. Lacey longed to punch him in the face.

'You'll get the money.'

'Will I?'

'Yes.'

Lacey's hand instinctively went to cover her bump. She felt another ripple of life underneath the skin drawing a gasp from her unwilling lips.

'Spare me the dramatics,' he snarled.

For some reason his voice seemed to be goading the baby into a frenzy of activity. She winced as another kick caught just below the diaphragm. It seemed her child hated him too. He took a step closer, invading her personal space but Lacey refused to back away.

'Get out,' she hissed. 'You will get your money I promise you that but, right now this is my apartment and I want you to leave!'

He seemed to think about that for a moment, still standing uncomfortably close. It might have been an accident; it might have been something else but, just for a second, his fingers brushed against the taught skin of her stomach. Lacey took a deep breath, trying to ignore the fact that the scent of his cologne wasn't helping the situation. It made her think of cool forests and harsh mountain air. She'd never experienced either.

Finally, just when she thought she couldn't bear it any longer, he inclined his head.

'A week, Miss French.'

Lacey shut the door behind him then leant against it. Fifty dollars. She had no idea where the missing money would come from. Lacey was already taking as many extra shifts as she could and the tips never amounted to much. Deep down, she knew that she wasn't really much of a waitress. She could never, ever hope to support this child. Letting her head fall into her hands, she wept. It wasn't pretty; anguished, angry gulps that pulled the air from her lungs. She didn't care who heard her - certainly not the broken man who stood on the other side of the door, a single tear crystallising on his cheek.