He took it anyway.
The weight left my hand—too suddenly, too easily—and the faint wobble in my knees betrayed something I didn’t want him seeing.
He didn’t comment. He didn’t touch me. He stepped back with the suitcase beside him, leaving enough space between us to pretend this wasn’t happening.
“Ready?”
No.
Not even close.
I nodded.
He turned toward the elevator, and I followed because I had run out of places to stay. My boots thudded softly against the hall carpet, each step dragging behind his steady pace. The elevator doors opened, and we descended without a word.
Outside, the night pressed at my skin. Cold. Damp. Final. Gideon led the way to a black SUV idling at the curb. He lifted the suitcase into the back like it weighed nothing and opened the passenger door for me.
I slid in. The leather smelled new and expensive, the opposite of everything I’d ever owned. He circled to the driver’s side and got in; the cabin shrinking around him.
The town blurred past as soon as he pulled away. Familiar storefronts—the bakery with the crooked awning, the pharmacy with flickering lights, the diner where my father used to take me after school—faded into streaks of color behind the glass.
I watched it all disappear.
The road stretched ahead, long and empty. Streetlights thinned until they vanished. Darkness swallowed the edges of the world. Trees crowded the road in tall, silent rows.
Then the lake appeared.
A vast, endless black mirror beside us, reflecting nothing but faint strips of moonlight. It followed the road like a shadow that refused to fall behind.
The SUV hummed. Tires hissed over wet pavement.
Gideon didn’t speak. He didn’t offer reassurance. Didn’t fill the silence with small talk or apology.
I hated him for that.
And I hated myself more for needing the quiet—because if he talked, if he acknowledged any of this, I might shatter completely.
The SUV rolled to a stop before a slope of stone steps that vanished into shadows cast by the house above. Glass walls rose behind them, tall enough to make the sky look small. I opened the door before Gideon could reach for it. Cold air cut across my face, sharp enough to keep me moving.
He walked ahead without speaking.
The house loomed over us, angles and edges and light spilling along the stone like it wanted to guide me somewhere I didn’t want to go. Water trickled along a narrow channel cut into the steps, a quiet thread of sound that should’ve been soothing.
It wasn’t.
I reached the top and froze.
“You built a museum,” I murmured.
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Come inside.”
I stepped over the threshold and felt myself shrink. The front hall stretched wide and bright, framed by walls of glass that revealed the black lake beyond. A suspended staircase hung to my left, more art than structure. Sculptures lined a floating shelf to my right—sharp metal, smooth stone, pieces that didn’t match except in their intent to intimidate.
My fingers curled around my coat collar.
This isn’t a home. It’s a statement.
The words pulsed in my chest as Gideon stepped past me, his footsteps soft against polished concrete. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over a chair that probably cost more than a month’s rent.
