I turn around.
Audrey is standing in the center of my foyer. She has traded the oversized college t-shirt for a pair of faded denim jeans and a thick, cream-colored sweater that looks like it was aggressively pulled out of a storage bin. Her hair is tied back in a knot that is already falling apart, and she is gripping the handle of a battered navy suitcase like it’s a flotation device.
Next to the sheer scale of the penthouse, she looks impossibly small. But the way her eyes dart around the room—analyzing the sightlines, judging the sterile lack of personal items, mapping the exits—takes up every inch of oxygen in the space.
"That will be all, Grant," I say, my voice cutting through the quiet.
Grant gives a brief nod. He doesn't look at Audrey, but I catch the microscopic tightening around his eyes—the closest he ever gets to expressing concern. He steps back into the elevator. The doors slide shut, sealing us in.
Audrey doesn't move. She just stares at the spot where the elevator doors closed, her knuckles turning white around the plastic handle of her luggage.
"You can let go of the bag, Audrey," I say calmly. "No one is going to steal it."
"Excuse me if I have trust issues regarding my personal property," she fires back, finally turning to look at me. "The last time I unpacked my life, my fiancé legally transferred ownership of my office chairs to his mistress."
She tries to sound sharp, but I can see the fatigue pulling at the corners of her mouth. The hangover is gone, replaced by the crushing reality of what she just agreed to.
"Simon is an amateur," I reply, walking around the kitchen island. I stop a few feet away from her, leaving enough distanceso she doesn't feel cornered. "If I wanted to steal your clothes, I wouldn't use a contract loophole. I would just burn the suitcase."
Audrey blinks, a short, involuntary laugh escaping her throat before she manages to suppress it. "Good to know. I’ll keep the fire extinguisher handy."
She lets go of the suitcase. The handle snaps down with a loud clatter that echoes off the high ceiling. She winces at the noise, looking around the massive, open-concept living area.
"It’s very..." She trails off, her brow furrowing as she takes in the charcoal gray sofas, the black steel accents, and the complete absence of color. "Serial killer chic. Do you own a single object that isn't functionally terrifying?"
"I own a toaster," I say deadpan.
"Does it double as a weapon?"
"Only if you drop it in the bathtub."
She bites the inside of her cheek. It’s the same nervous tell I noticed in the surveillance photos. She is trying very hard not to be intimidated by the space, or by me. It’s a futile effort, but her stubbornness is fascinating to watch.
"Your bedroom is down the hall. Last door on the left," I tell her, gesturing toward the corridor. "It has an en-suite bathroom. The lock on the inside of the door is a deadbolt. As per your condition this morning, your privacy is absolute. I will not enter without your permission."
She looks at the hallway, then back at me. The defensive posture drops a fraction, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise. "Oh. Okay."
"Did you think I was going to force you to sleep at the foot of my bed?"
"I don't know what you do," she says, wrapping her arms around her stomach. The oversized sweater swallows her hands. "You blackmailed me into moving in with you in less than six hours. I’m still trying to figure out where the hidden cameras are."
"There are no cameras inside the apartment," I say, my tone hardening slightly. "There is security in the elevator, the lobby, and the perimeter. But what happens inside these walls stays between us."
I turn back to the kitchen island and pick up the small, black velvet box resting next to my laptop.
"Before you unpack," I say, holding the box in my palm. "We have a logistical issue to resolve."
Audrey takes a hesitant step forward. Her eyes drop to the velvet box, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. The reality of the fake engagement is no longer just ink on a contract. It is a physical object.
"The ring," she murmurs.
"If we are going to ruin Simon, we need to sell the narrative," I say, stepping closer to her. I don't stop until I am standing just inside her personal space. She doesn't back away, but I can hear the slight hitch in her breathing. "Simon proposed to you with a two-carat princess cut from a commercial jeweler. It was flashy, expensive, and entirely devoid of personality."
Audrey’s jaw tightens. "He told me he spent months picking it out."
"He had his assistant buy it on a Tuesday afternoon," I correct her ruthlessly.
The truth hits her. I see the flash of pain in her eyes, followed instantly by a cold, hard anger. Good. Anger is useful. Pain is just a liability.
