Lara-Jean POV
"You're really doing this. You're moving in with a billionaire."
Maya stood in my empty studio apartment, arms crossed, watching me tape shut the last box.
"It's in the contract. Separate bedrooms. It's professional."
"It's professional to share a penthouse with a man who looks at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
Three suitcases. Four boxes. That was it. A lifetime reduced to what I could carry. My mother's photo—the only one I'd saved from my aunt's house after my parents died. My sketchbooks, filled with designs I'd never built. A chipped mug from my first apartment, the one Mark had called "embarrassing." I'd kept it anyway.
Now it was going into a box labeled "kitchen things," destined for
