Page 45 of Broken Blades

She'd expected beer cans. Pizza boxes. Gym socks draped over furniture. The stereotype of an aging bachelor athlete clinging to glory days through laziness and denial.

Instead, she got military discipline. Cold order. A life stripped down to function.

I didn't explain it. Didn't justify it. Just let her absorb it.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "It's very… clean."

I almost laughed. Almost. The word hung there like an accusation disguised as a compliment.

"Cleanliness is control." I moved toward the hallway. "And control is survival."

She didn't respond. Just followed. Silent. Wary.

I stopped at the first closed door. Put my palm flat against it. Didn't open it.

"My office." My voice dropped half an octave. Not threatening. Just final. "You stay out of it."

She nodded once. Quick. Obedient.

I continued down the hall. Stopped at the second closed door. "Gym." I glanced back at her. Let my eyes travel down her frame. “You can use it if you want. But put everything back exactly where you found it. And for fucks sake, wipe it clean."

Her jaw tightened. She hated being looked at like that. Like an object. A variable. Something to be measured and categorized.

I climbed the stairs. Felt her hesitate at the bottom before following. Her footsteps lighter than mine. Tentative. Like she expected the wood to give way beneath her.

Second floor opened into a short hallway. Three doors. All closed.

I pointed to the first. "Your room."

Then the second. "Bathroom. We share it."

She stiffened. "Share?"

I raised an eyebrow. "It's a house, not a hotel. There's one upstairs bathroom, and it’s not in the master. You'll survive."

Lie.

Of course there was a bathroom in the master. She didn’t need to know that, though.

Her cheeks flushed. Anger or embarrassment, couldn't tell. Didn't care.

I nodded toward the third door at the end of the hall. Farthest from hers. Intentional.

"My room." Pause. "Don't knock unless the house is on fire."

She hugged herself tighter. "I wouldn't."

"Good."

I set her suitcase down outside her door. Stepped back. Put three feet of space between us.

"Thirty days," I said. "You stay out of my way. I'll stay out of yours. We show up together when required. Smile for cameras. Play the part."

She stared at the suitcase. Then at me. Something flickered across her face—defiance? resignation?—before she buried it. "And after thirty days?"

I shrugged. "You go back to your perfect life. I go back to mine. And your father learns what it costs to destroy people."

Her eyes narrowed. "What did he do to you?"