Nothing.
I check their social media. Their press releases. News articles about the store.
Not a single mention of a sale in ten years of business.
I move to the next store. Then the next. Each search confirms what Emma said. These aren’t regular stores. They’re high-end, luxury retailers that cater to the wealthy.
And somehow, I walked in and bought thousands of dollars’ worth of furniture at an enormous discount.
My fingers fly across the screen, pulling up corporate information. I have access to business databases through work, and I use them now. Ownership details. Parent companies.
It takes me twenty minutes of digging to find it. All three stores are owned by the same company. A shifter-run corporation.
I click through to the board of directors. CEO and primary shareholder: Ethan Rosario.
Darius’s friend.
The phone slips from my hands, clattering onto the coffee table. I cover my mouth with both hands, trying to breathe through the panic rising in my throat.
Darius did this.
He bought the building. He arranged the low rent and all the discounts. He orchestrated everything, from the realtor showing me this place to the furniture I’m sitting on right now.
But why?
I press my fists against my eyes, trying to make sense of it. Trying to understand what game he’s playing.
He said he was wrong about me. Said he didn’t mean those things he told his father. But that doesn’t explain this. Doesn’t explain why he’d spend a fortune to give me a penthouse and furniture without even telling me.
Is it guilt? Pity? Some twisted attempt to control me?
My chest tightens. The strange ache that has been present for weeks intensifies, spreading through my ribs like fire.
The doorbell rings.
I freeze on the couch, my heart hammering against my ribs.
It rings again.
I stand on shaking legs and move to the door. Press my eye tothe peephole.
Darius.
He’s standing in the hallway with a large, wrapped box in his arms. His hair is slightly damp like he just showered, and he’s wearing dark jeans and a black sweater that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad.
My hand hovers over the doorknob. I could pretend I’m not home. Could wait until he leaves. But the anger building in my chest won’t let me.
I yank the door open.
His eyes meet mine, and he looks surprised at the force with which I just opened the door.
“Hi.” His voice is cautious. Controlled. “I know I’m early. I hope that’s okay.”
I stare at him.
He shifts the box slightly. “I brought a housewarming gift. Can I come in?”
“You bought this building.” My tone is flat. Accusatory.
