I just nodded, not trusting my voice. I had so many questions but didn’t know where to start. Who was he? Why me? How did he know so much about my life?
But none of them made it past my lips.
He was already moving—tapping away at a small black control panel on the wall between the living room and the entrancefoyer. Everything about him was precise and controlled. The opposite of me.
He paused in the foyer.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
That was it.
He turned, grabbed a jacket from the coat closet near the elevator, hit the button, and stepped inside—all in one fluid motion.
He gave me one last look as the elevator doors slid shut, like he didn’t know what to do with me but walking away from me sure as hell wasn’t easy.
I sat there frozen, staring at the bowl in front of me. Then, I picked up the spoon and went back to eating, devouring every bite without shame before scraping the bowl clean.
God, I hadn’t eaten in…what? Twenty-four hours? More?
I took a sip of wine and set the glass down. No way was I going to let myself get relaxed. Not in this place.
Not until I knew exactly what kind of man he was and how I was supposed to survive him.
I rinsed my bowl in the sink, found the dishwasher tucked discreetly beneath the counter, and placed the bowl and spoon inside.
The kitchen was something out of a celebrity chef’s dream—sleek white marble countertops, polished stainless steel fixtures, flush-mounted appliances. Everything gleamed. Everything was in its place.
The fridge was full, the cabinets too—and with real ingredients for meals, not just snacks. I also found condiments, herbs, boxes of imported teas, and protein bars lined up in perfect rows. The man didn’t just live here—he curated the space. And not in the way I had expected. I’d thought I would find nothing but liquor, maybe some energy drinks. But no. It was as if this place had been designed for someone who loved to cook.
I straightened, letting my eyes sweep the room.
No family photos. No mail. The only things of real note—other than the spectacular artwork—were a wall-mounted panel by the elevator I didn’t dare touch and a single black bowl on the kitchen island filled with crisp red apples. I wondered if he had a maid or a chef.
Just then, I sensed I was being watched. Had to be. A man like him didn’t just leave a girl in his home and allow her to roam freely. There had to be cameras hidden everywhere. I couldn’t explain how he’d found me in the building behind the theater or how he’d known where I was tonight, much less how he’d retrieved all my things from the theater and my apartment—unless he’d been doing more than just following me as I went about my day.
I padded into the living room, scanning for signs of anything personal. But there were no books. No receipts. No clutter. Not even a damn coaster out of place.
It was obsessively tidy.
I crossed toward the frosted-glass wall I’d noticed earlier—a room just off the main living space.
My pulse kicked up.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The hum of electronics filled the space. Giant monitors spanned the far wall, each of them black. Lights on racks of computer equipment blinked in a random pattern. Resting on desks were several industrial keyboards. I moved closer and tapped on one.
Nothing.
The desks held no notepads, no pens. No clues. Just metal, glass, and wires.
This was no home office.
This was command central.
I stared at the monitors again, unease prickling up my spine.
Had he been watching me from here? At my apartment? At the club?
