NATHAN SWALLOWED HARD, the awkwardness of the lump in his throat paling in comparison to the amount of tightness in his chest. He’d never been inside Eleanor’s House.
Ever.
He’d drawn the designs for the building, spent a year raising the money and fighting the council, but in eleven years since the conception of the project, he’d never walked through the front doors.
He took one shuddering breath after another, his gaze magnetically drawn to his mother’s name, which hung above the large steel-enforced doors.
He’d wanted a safe haven for these women and that had meant top security from the outset.
A large man stood at the door with a clipboard.
He stepped up, clearing his throat. “Nathan Johnson.”
The burly security guard nodded once and opened the door for him.
One more quick brea
