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“I want you to live with me for thirty days.”

I reply with silence.

Complete.

Utter.

Silence.

I stare at him. Mitchell Knight stares back. And I wait for the punchline.

Thirty seconds pass, and it doesn’t arrive.

“You want me to what?”

“Live with me.”

“For thirty days.”

“Yes.”

“In this house?”

“Primarily.”

Primarily?

I laugh. I can't help it. One sharp, incredulous burst.

“Oh my God.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That's a have you lost your fucking mind?”

“No.”

“You just asked a journalist you met tonight to move into your house.”

“I know.”

“For a month.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you want a story.”

I go still. He leans back in his chair like he hasn't just suggested something completely insane.

“You want to know who Mitchell Knight really is.”

My pulse jumps. He notices.

Of course, he notices.

“You want access,” he continues. “Real access. Not what my PR team comes up with for press releases. Not corporate biographies. Not whatever recycled bullshit comes up when you search my name.”