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I can control myself for thirty fucking days.

Probably.

Chapter 8

Layla

I am not dazzled by the private jet.

I repeat that to myself somewhere over Virginia.

Not. Dazzled.

It's transportation.

Ridiculously luxurious transportation with cream leather seats, a bedroom in the back, Wi-Fi faster than anything I've ever experienced on the ground, and a flight attendant who somehow knows I want sparkling water before I ask for it.

But it’s simply transportation, nonetheless.

I am a journalist. I have been on private planes before.

Okay, not like this one.

But still.

I’m a professional. And I can certainly act like it.

Then we arrive in New York, and Mitchell takes me to his penthouse apartment on Central Park West. And apparently we're using the word apartment very loosely.

The place is enormous.

Floor-to-ceiling windows.

Central Park stretched out below us like Mitchell Knight purchased the view along with the building.

There's a private lounge available to residents.

A spa.

Pool.

Gym.

Concierge.

Security that makes getting inside feel like applying for admission to a small country.

And the apartment itself? Expensive as fuck.

Beautiful.

Elegant.

But, like his house in North Carolina, it’s surprisingly comfortable and inviting.

It feels, I don’t know lived in. Appreciated. Like there are memories here.

That's the part I keep noticing about Mitchell Knight. The money is everywhere. But the showing off isn't.