Page 32 of Glitched Play

But the longer I stand there, the more I notice details that have nothing to do with money.

The remotes are lined in a perfect row on the coffee table, exactly parallel to the edge. Coasters sit centered on each side table even though no drinks are anywhere near them. There are labels on the inside of the pantry shelves, and when I peek into the kitchen, every glass is arranged by height, and every mug is black, identical, and facing the same direction.

I don't know whether to be impressed or terrified.

Maybe both.

The place feels like a luxury hotel built by a man who doesn't trust chaos.

I set my box labeled MORE IMPORTANT STUFF near the island because every surface looks too expensive to touch. Then I immediately feel guilty because my cardboard box ruins the entire aesthetic. If this penthouse were a game level, my stuff would be the random clutter the designers forgot to render properly.

Still, Dara gave me the code. Dara seemed like the kind of woman who could organize a hostile takeover before lunch and still remember her dry cleaning ticket.

So, I choose to trust Dara. This place obviously doesn’t have someone living here. It’s too sterile. Too untouched. Or there’s a daily maid, only used when visiting CEO’s come for a meeting.

The guest suite is bigger than my bedroom at home, which feels unnecessary and also amazing. There are soft white sheets, a sitting area, a bathroom with a shower big enough to host a team meeting, and a closet that looks like it could store my entire life with room left over for emotional baggage. I should probably be overwhelmed, but mostly I'm too exhausted to process anything beyond the fact that I made it to Austin.

Tomorrow I start at Synatrix.

Tomorrow I work for Witt O'Ryan.

Tomorrow my entire life changes.

Tonight, I need a shower before I collapse.

By the time I step out of the bathroom, my hair is wet, my pajamas are on, and my brain is doing the thing where it refuses to shut down even though my body is begging for mercy. I should go straight to bed. I should sleep like a responsible adult with a first day of work tomorrow. Instead, I realize I left my pixel-heart mug on the kitchen counter, and for reasons I can't explain, retrieving it feels urgent.

Maybe because it's mine.

Maybe because everything in this penthouse is so perfectly Witt that I need proof I exist here too.

I pad down the hallway barefoot, still towel-drying the ends of my hair, and stop cold when I reach the kitchen.

Witt O'Ryan is standing beside the island.

In shorts.

And an Armadillos tank top.

Sweating.

I have seen this man in a suit. I have sat across from him during an interview while he calmly dissected my ideas like a surgeon with a spreadsheet. I have mentally labeled him brilliant, intimidating, strange, and possibly allergic to unnecessary conversation.

None of those labels prepared me for bare legs, broad shoulders, and the kind of forearms that make a woman forget her own name.

He's not bulky in a gym-rat way. He's lean and defined, like someone who doesn't care about looking strong but somehow is anyway. The soft cotton of his T-shirt stretches across his chest, and the sight of him standing in his kitchen like this—casual, quiet, real—scrambles every professional thought I've ever had.

He stares at me. Well, he looks just beyond my ear, not really looking me in the eye.

I stare at him. My stomach doing somersaults.

"I'm sorry," I blurt, clutching the towel against my chest like it's some kind of legal document. "Dara gave me the code. I can leave. I mean, not permanently. Or permanently, if this is weird. I can get a hotel."

His gaze flicks to my mug.

Then my box.

Then me. His focus on my legs moves up and stops at my shoulders. "No." He says, sharp and immediate.