She moves through the space with quiet efficiency, like she’s correcting mistakes before they have the chance to exist. Sharp eyes. Measured steps. Nothing wasted.
Monica.
She’s tall and composed, sleek dark hair pulled into a low chignon that never shifts. Business-casual, but worn like armor—pressed slacks, a silk blouse, and a watch that probably costs more than my tuition ever did. She looks like she belongs in a boardroom, not tidying up a billionaire’s glass-and-steel fortress.
She comes every few days. Slips in. Slips out. The kind of practiced ease that makes it feel like she’s always been part of this place, even when she isn’t.
During her second visit, she’s folding linens in my sitting room, smoothing each crease like the wrinkles have personally offended her.
“You’re settling in well,” she says, eyes still on the fabric.
It isn’t a question.
More like an assessment.
I huff quietly. “Clearly you haven’t been paying attention. I wouldn’t call this… whatever this is… settling in.”
She hums, unconcerned.
“Asher doesn’t bring people here often,” she adds lightly.
Casual. Neutral.
But I hear the test buried underneath it.
“I’m not people,” I say. “I’m a hostage.”
I wait. Half-expect her to freeze. To react. To ask questions. To help.
She doesn’t even blink.
“Hostages don’t get private suites and a personal chef,” she mutters.
I glance around the room despite myself. The space is beautiful. Comfortable. Absurdly expensive.
“That doesn’t make it okay to kidnap someone,” I snap.
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t agree either.
She moves on, checking surfaces, adjusting pillows, and scanning corners like she’s cataloging the room—and me—with the same careful attention.
I catch her watching me when she thinks I’m not looking.
Eventually, she pauses. “Do you need anything?”
Yeah. To be let out of this fucking house. To walk outside. To go literally anywhere else.
I bite the inside of my cheek, already knowing the answer before I ask it out loud. Then I shake my head. “No.”
Her eyebrow lifts. Skeptical. Like she doesn’t believe me for a second. But she lets it go.
The hot water slides over my skin in a slick, shimmering layer. The tub is already full, and bubbles creep up to my chin as I sink lower, letting them cling to me like a second skin. The air smells clean. Expensive. Like money pretending to be soap. Steam curls toward the glass wall, softening the edges of the city beyond it.
I don’t mean to make taking baths in Asher’s tub a habit.
But I do.
The first time, I just needed to breathe. To get out from under the weight of the penthouse and everything it holds. To take up space that felt—if only briefly—like it was mine.
