I’ve been staring at the ceiling for four hours, trying to find a flaw in the smooth, pristine plaster, but there isn’t one. There are no water stains. No uneven paint strokes. The guest bedroom in Malcolm Vance’s penthouse is a masterclass in sterile perfection, and it is driving me absolutely insane.
I roll onto my side, pulling the heavy duvet up to my chin. The fabric smells like expensive laundry detergent and nothing else. No trace of the person who lives here.
My left hand rests on the pillow next to my face. Even in the dim light filtering through the sheer curtains, the vintage diamond catches a faint gleam from the city outside.
It’s heavy. Simon’s ring—the commercial, flashy princess cut he bought as an afterthought—used to spin around my finger because he never bothered to get my correct size. This one doesn't move. It sits perfectly flush against my skin, cold and immovable, like a shackle disguised as an heirloom.
My stomach lets out a loud, hollow rumble.
I press my hand against my abdomen, closing my eyes. I haven't eaten a real meal since the day before yesterday, right before Simon’s lawyer handed me the eviction notice. Isurvived yesterday on two Advil, a glass of tap water, and sheer adrenaline. Now, the adrenaline is gone, and my body is aggressively demanding calories.
I look at the digital clock on the nightstand.2:34 AM.
Malcolm said there was a tablet in the kitchen for food delivery, but no restaurant in this zip code is delivering a cheeseburger at three in the morning.
I sit up, pushing the duvet off my legs. I’m still wearing the faded jeans and the oversized cream sweater I arrived in. I didn't unpack. My suitcase is sitting by the closet, still zipped shut. Unpacking feels like a surrender I’m not ready to make yet.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand up. My bare feet hit the hardwood floor.
I walk to the bedroom door and rest my hand on the heavy brass deadbolt.
If you are in my penthouse, you are behind my security doors. You are under my protection.
I turn the lock. The loud, metallicclackechoes in the quiet room. It feels like a massive concession, unlocking the only barrier between me and a man who professionally ruins lives, but starvation is currently winning the war against my common sense.
I ease the door open and step out into the hallway.
The penthouse is completely dark, save for the ambient glow of the Chicago skyline bleeding through the massive living room windows. I walk slowly, keeping my steps light. The floor is cold.
I turn the corner into the open-concept kitchen and stop dead.
I’m not alone.
Malcolm is sitting on one of the leather barstools at the kitchen island. He isn't wearing the bespoke suit anymore. He’s in a pair of dark gray sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt. His feet are bare. He has a pair of reading glasses pushed up into his dark hair, and the glow of a tablet illuminates the sharp angles of his face.
He doesn't look like the Devil of Chicago right now. He looks like a guy working late. It’s a deeply unsettling humanization of a monster, and my brain struggles to process the visual data.
He doesn't look up from the screen. "You're awake."
"I could say the same to you," I reply, my voice sounding rough in the quiet space. I cross my arms over my chest, sharply aware of how messy my hair probably is. "Do you ever actually sleep, or do you just power down and update your firmware?"
Malcolm’s thumb pauses on the screen. He slowly lifts his head, his dark eyes locking onto me. He takes me in—the oversized sweater, the bare feet, the defensive posture—and his gaze lingers for a fraction of a second on my left hand.
I didn't take the ring off.
I meant to. I really did. But the clasp was tight, and then I just... didn't.
He doesn't comment on it. He just sets the tablet face down on the marble counter. "I sleep when it's necessary. Tonight, I had contracts to review."
"Right. Ruining lives requires a lot of paperwork." I walk further into the kitchen, keeping a safe distance between us. "I'm hungry. You said there was a delivery app."
"At two-forty in the morning, your options are limited to convenience store taquitos or a diner that routinely fails health inspections," he says, his tone completely flat.
"I'll take my chances with the health inspector. I haven't eaten in two days."
Malcolm’s jaw tightens. It’s a microscopic shift, but the casual, relaxed energy around him instantly evaporates. He stands up.
I take a half-step back, a pure reflex. He’s much taller when he isn't wearing shoes. It makes absolutely no sense, but the lack of formal clothing makes him seem more dangerous, not less. The black t-shirt pulls across his shoulders, and I notice a faint, jagged scar peeking out from the collar on the left side of his neck.
