“I mean, we’ve never even crossed the threshold. I don’t know if he rents or owns, or what his sheets look like, or if he even has sheets.” I rake a hand through my hair, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s always my place. Always. I tried to mention it, but he just… pivots. Every time.”
Layla takes this in, expression folding from shock to analysis. “That’s… actually really strange,” she says, rolling the words like a test drive. “And you’re sure he’s not, like, lying about being a billionaire and living in a van? Or hiding an entire other relationship? Because that’s a classic move for guys with secret wives.”
“He doesn’t have a secret wife,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I hear how hollow they sound. How would I actually know that? I’ve never seen where he lives. Never met anyone from his family. Never had so much as a pizza delivered to his place.
“You’re sure?” Serena asks. Not unkindly, but pointed.
“I mean, he’s with me almost every night. When would he have time for a secret wife?”
“That’s not the ringing endorsement you think it is,” Layla says gently. “Audrey, you’re a scientist. Think about this like data. What do you actuallyknowabout his living situation?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
“He has an apartment somewhere in the city,” I say slowly. “He’s mentioned a home gym—he converted his second bedroom. And he goes there sometimes, I assume. To get clothes, or handle…stuff. I don’t know.”
“But you’ve never been there.”
“No.”
“And he’s never invited you.”
“No.”
“And you don’t know the address.”
The cinnamon scroll sits heavy in my stomach.
I don’t even know his address.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say, but my voice sounds thin even to my own ears. “He’s private. You know how he is.”
“Private is one thing.” Serena’s brow furrows. “But you’re his girlfriend. You’ve met his friends, he’s met your family. Keeping his apartment off-limits feels...”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.
“Maybe he’s embarrassed?” Layla offers. “Some guys are weird about that. They think their place isn’t nice enough, or they haven’t decorated, or?—”
“He’s a billionaire,” Serena points out. “I don’t think his apartment is a cardboard box under the expressway.”
“Maybe it’s messy. Maybe he has a secret collection of something embarrassing. Anime body pillows. Vintage Beanie Babies. A shrine to Elon Musk.”
“He hates Elon Musk.”
“See? We’re learning things.” Layla spreads her hands. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. You should just ask him.”
“Or,”I start, because I’m non-confrontational and would rather not confront him if I don’t have to. “You could ask Bennett and Caleb. They’ve been his friends since college. Surely they’d know the answer here. Right?”
Layla’s eyes light up with the kind of cunning that always gets me into trouble. “Excellent idea. I’ll text Bennett.”
Serena cackles. “Group chat or solo?”
“Solo first,” Layla whispers, glancing at the screen with the focus of a bomb squad tech while she types.
I’m suddenly, weirdly nervous. I mean, it’s not like I’ve never trusted my friends, but something about this feels like pulling the pin on a grenade then handing it to Logan. It’s a small explosion, but the shrapnel might hit us both.
“Don’t panic,” Serena says, reading my face. “We’re not going to send a SWAT team. Just gather some intel. If it’s nothing, fine. If it’s something, better we know before you show up and find a ferret farm in the living room.”
“I don’t think it’s a ferret farm,” I say, but then I think about it and realize I have absolutely no evidence to the contrary.
