Mother didn't lie. The room is really adjacent to Kai's, and there's a fucking interior door.
I stand in the center of my new bedroom and take inventory. The space is easily twice the size of the apartment I rented for the past several years—the apartment I poured my savings into, the apartment that still wasn't enough to keep.
Crown molding traces the ceiling in intricate patterns. A window seat beckons with cushions that look like they've never been sat on. Actual natural light pours through curtains that someone ironed.
The king-sized bed is absurd. The kind of mattress that makes me immediately conscious of how long I have been sleeping badly, how many nights I spent staring at water stains on a motel ceiling.
I should feel grateful. Yet, I feel the specific discomfort of someone who owes a debt she did not agree to and cannot repay.
This is a former nursery. I let that sink in, let the irony settle into my bones.
Kai Becker slept in this room as an infant, probably swaddled in cashmere, probably crying and knowing someone would come. I picture him as a child—demanding, golden, certain the world would arrange itself around him—and decide my imagination is probably accurate.
He is twenty-three and lives in his parents' former master suite now. That tells me everything I need to know about the kind of man he's become.
I begin unpacking what Mrs. Aldén, the housekeeper, arranged when my belongings were delivered. My books look like refugees against the built-in shelves. My clothes take up a third of the closet space, hanging lonely and inadequate.
Everything about this room reminds me that I do not belong here, that my presence is charity dressed up as family.
The interior door opens without warning.
My heart slams against my ribs as Kai walks in like he owns the place—which, I suppose, he technically does.
He simply enters, hands in his pockets, expression open and friendly in a way that immediately puts every nerve in my body on high alert.
And he's handsome—unfairly, irritatingly handsome in that effortless way that makes me want to check if there's a filter on reality.
"That door doesn't have a lock," I say.
"Astute observation." He grins, all teeth and false warmth. "I'll add it to the list of things that need fixing around here, right after my father's taste in wives."
That mouth just said something unforgivable about my mother. She's my mother to resent, and this overgrown trust fund brat doesn't get to take shots at her in front of me.
"Get out," I snap.
"I just got here." He wanders further into the room, trailing his fingers along my dresser like he's testing for dust. "Besides, I wanted to welcome you properly. We're family now, after all."
I fold my arms across my chest and watch him circle the space. I wonder, briefly and against my will, what those hands would feel like on something other than my book spines.
"Let me guess." He pulls my battered copy of Wuthering Heights from the shelf. "You're the type who thinks Heathcliff is romantic instead of a cautionary tale about unchecked obsession."
I watch him flip through the pages with long fingers, and I can't decide if I want to snatch the book back or let him keep talking so I can catalogue more reasons to dislike him.
"I'm the type who thinks strangers shouldn't touch my belongings." I cross the room and take the book from his hands, my fingers brushing his. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt through my nervous system. "What do you want?"
"I want to understand you." He tilts his head, studying me with those dark eyes that seem to miss nothing. "You show up out of nowhere, move into my childhood bedroom, and I'm supposed to just accept that without asking questions?"
"You're supposed to respect boundaries. Though I imagine that's a foreign concept for someone who's never had to earn anything in his life."
The insult lands, and weird satisfaction blooms in my chest as his jaw tightens. But then he laughs—a warm, genuine sound that throws me completely off balance.
"There she is." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—sandalwood and bergamot layered over a hint of leather and black pepper that makes my traitor nose want to lean in for more. "The sharp tongue my dear stepmother warned me about. She said you were difficult. I was hoping she was right."
"I'm not here to entertain you."
"No?" He tilts his head again. "Then why are you here, Skye? Because from where I'm standing, you walked into this house with a suitcase full of secondhand clothes and a chip on your shoulder the size of my father's stock portfolio."
My throat tightens, and I hate him for seeing through me so easily. I hate that he's standing there looking like a cologne advertisement come to life while I seem to forget how to function.
His hand dips into my open bag before I can stop him.
He pulls out a bracelet—rose gold, delicate, with a small infinity charm. He turns it over in his fingers, examining it with idle curiosity.
"Interesting," he says, and his voice has changed, grown thoughtful. "Didn't take you for the cheesy type."
My stomach drops through the floor. Travis, my ex from hell, clasped it around my wrist on our one-year anniversary. He said what we had was infinite, and I believed every word that ever came out of his lying mouth.
I snatch the bracelet from Kai's hand. The motion is too fast, too sharp—it tells him everything he needs to know about the weight of this small object.
His eyebrows rise.
I shove the bracelet into my pocket and refuse to meet his eyes. The silence stretches between us like a wire pulled taut, and I will not fill it. I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing he landed a hit.
Finally, Kai straightens. "My father wants to talk to you," he says. "Downstairs. Something about your new job."
I blink. "New job?"
"Oh." His smile returns, and this time it's all sharp edges. "You didn't know about that part, did you?"
"What job? What are you talking about?" I hear myself ask.
"No idea." He shrugs, but the gesture seems too performative. "He just told me to send you down. Guess you'll find out when you get there."
My mind races, spinning through possibilities like a slot machine rigged to land on disaster.
Heinrich arranged a job for me. Which means references. Which means background checks. Which means someone, somewhere, picking up a phone and asking exactly why I left my last position.
Did he already call? Does he know? Did Diane tell him?
"You look pale," Kai observes, and there's genuine curiosity in his voice now. "Should I be worried?"
"I didn't ask for a job." I pull all the dignity I have left, which isn't much—but it's mine, and I'll be damned if I let him see me accept handouts without at least pretending I had a choice.
"No, you didn't." He moves toward the interior door, then pauses with his hand on the frame. "That's what makes it interesting."
The door closes behind him, and I realize my hands are shaking.
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