The penthouse smelled like garlic, butter, and something aggressively expensive.
Which honestly?
Made sense.
Because apparently even Adrian’s “sick food” had billionaire standards.
I stood in the kitchen stirring creamy pasta slowly while trying not to burn the mushrooms.
Behind me, Amelia sat dramatically on one of the marble counters eating strawberries directly from the container like a rich house cat.
“This is domestic,” she announced.
“I hate that word.”
“You’re literally cooking for your sick billionaire boyfriend while wearing his hoodie.”
I looked down at the oversized black hoodie swallowing my body.
“…Mind your business.”
Amelia grinned.
“You’re in love.”
Before I could defend myself, my phone buzzed loudly against the counter.
Daniel.
I answered immediately.
“Hey
