The keycode.Fuck, no.
She wants access to my apartment while I'm not there, wants to walk through my space alone and unsupervised. Every instinct I have, every carefully honed sense of self-preservation that's kept me alive in this business, screams that this is a terrible idea.
Me: I can bring it to you.
Liana: I'm at the port all morning. It's easier if I just pick it up.
The port? What the hell is she doing at the port? I stare at the message, trying to piece together what business she could possibly have in that part of the city, but nothing makes sense.
Me: Liana...
Liana: Unless you don't want me to have access to your place?
Aw… hell.She's got me cornered, and she knows it. After last night, after the tears streaming down her face, after I made her feel like she was crazy for trying to be a good wife—I can't say no without looking like a complete asshole. Without proving every terrible thing she's probably thinking about me.
I type out the codes, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel the muscle jumping.
Me: Building code is 4782.
Liana: Thank you.
That's it. Just "thank you" with no emoji following it, no excessive punctuation to soften the words. The formality of it sits wrong in my gut.
Something's wrong. I can feel it the way you feel a storm coming, that change in pressure that makes your teeth ache.
I try to focus on the meeting, nodding at appropriate moments as the supplier drones on about shipping schedules and container costs. But I can't concentrate on anything except the image of Liana alone in my apartment, moving through my space without me there to see what she's doing.
What is she doing there? The question circles my mind like a vulture.
The meeting finally ends at two o'clock, and I make it until two-thirty before I can't take it anymore. The not knowing is eating me alive.
"Bruno, I need to go," I announce, already reaching for my jacket.
He looks up from his paperwork, his expression confused. "Go where?"
"Home."
"It's two-thirty in the afternoon, boss."
"I know what fucking time it is." I shrug into my jacket with more force than necessary. "Handle things here."
"Boss, what's going on?" There's genuine concern in his voice now, the kind that comes from working with someone long enough to know when they're acting out of character.
"Nothing. Everything. I don't know." I'm already heading for the door, my stride long and purposeful. "Just handle it."
In the car, my mind spirals through every possible scenario, each one more absurd than the last. What has she done? Did she move more stuff into my apartment, claiming more territory in that relentless way of hers? Is she redecorating right now, hanging curtains or rearranging furniture according to some vision I never agreed to?
Maybe she adopted a cat. Or three cats. She seems exactly like the type who would get multiple cats without asking permission first, would show up with a carrier full of mewing animals and act like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.
Or maybe she's cooking, attempting some surprise dinner that she's probably burning at this very moment. I can almost smell the smoke alarm going off, see her waving a dish towel at the detector while something smolders on the stove.
Or—Christ!—what if she hired an interior designer? What if I come home to find my entire apartment painted pink, or covered in floral patterns, or transformed into something from a home decor magazine?
The drive from the warehouse to my building takes fifteen minutes in good traffic. Today, it feels like an hour,every red light a personal insult, every slow driver an obstacle deliberately placed in my path.
I pull into the underground garage and take the elevator up to the penthouse level, my heart beating faster than the situation warrants. I stand outside my door with the key in hand, trying to prepare myself for whatever chaos awaits on the other side.
I take a deep breath, forcing air into lungs that feel too tight. Whatever's on the other side of this door, I can handle it. I've handled everything else she's thrown at me so far—the invasion of my space, the rearrangement of my life, the constant disruption of my carefully maintained order.
