My bedroom is smaller, but no less impressive. A sitting room leads into the sleeping space, as if I’m supposed to entertain guests before I rest. As if this is a life someone planned for me without bothering to ask.
His office is locked.
I check once.
Then again.
Nothing. No give. No sound. Solid.
Fine.
So I move on.
The private gym. The bar. The vast living area that looks untouched—staged more than lived in. Bookshelves built seamlessly into the walls, sleek and modern, and lined with expensive first editions that don’t look like they’ve ever been opened.
The kitchen is the only place that feels lived in. Used. Real.
And it’s there—standing barefoot on cold tile, surrounded by stainless steel and morning light—that I find the first person who speaks to me like I belong here.
Boris is nothing like Asher.
That’s the first thing that hits me.
He’s the private chef—the one who keeps the kitchen stocked, the meals planned, and the entire operation running without ever making it feel like an operation. He’s built like a man who’s spent his life on his feet. Broad. Solid. The kind of presence that fills a room without trying.
Where Asher is cold precision, Boris is warmth and motion. Constant movement. A steady rhythm that doesn’t feel performative.
The first time I wander into the kitchen, he gives me a slow, approving nod, like I’ve passed some invisible test I didn’t know I was taking.
“Finally,” he says, Polish accent thick but warm. “You come to eat properly.”
He doesn’t even look up when he says it.
He’s working at the cutting board, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and shoulders broad enough to block half the counter. The kitchen smells incredible—garlic, butter, and something sizzling that makes my stomach tighten in a way that surprises me.
I hover near the doorway.
Boris doesn’t comment. Doesn’t rush me. But I can feel his attention like a weight—not sharp, and not invasive. Just… aware.
Measuring.
So I stay.
I watch.
I listen.
I learn.
He’s not wrong—I haven’t been eating much. Not as a protest. Not intentionally. It’s just that nothing in this place feels like it belongs to me. Everything is too polished. Too perfect. Plates arranged like they’re meant to be admired instead of used.
But here—here it’s different.
Here there’s heat. Noise. Movement. Something real.
“Asher doesn’t eat much, does he?” I ask one afternoon, leaning against the counter while Boris kneads dough that smells like heaven.
He snorts. “He eats when he remembers. So I remind him.”
