Episodes 5: House Rules
1440 Words
The elevator doors parted without a sound, opening straight into the penthouse—no foyer, no threshold, just gray marble underfoot and forty feet of floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking Midtown. Chloe stepped out holding two suitcases and a cardboard box of basil plants that had gone limp during the drive from Brooklyn. She felt less like a new resident and more like a museum visitor who had’ lingered past closing hours.
"Ms. Reed."
A woman stepped around the corner of a dark wood partition—silver hair pinned in a pristine twist, a fitted cardigan buttoned to the collar.
"I’m Mrs. Gable," she said, her voice measured. "I oversee the household."
"Chloe is fine."
"We'll see." Mrs. Gable’s eyes dropped briefly to the box in Chloe's arms. "Herbs require direct sun. The west guest room faces north, but Mr. Vance asked that you be placed in the east suite instead. It catches the morning light."
Chloe noted the detail without commenting, following Mrs. Gable down a wide corridor. Large, frameless abstract canvases hung along the plaster, but there were no personal photographs—no family, no travel, no evidence of a life lived outside corporate hours.
The east suite was vast, finished in slate and pale linen. The walk-in closet was larger than Chloe’s entire bedroom in Astoria, its built-in shelving completely bare except for six cedar hangers spaced at precise intervals. Mrs. Gable placed the smaller bag onto a velvet bench at the foot of the bed.
"Dinner is serve’d at seven when Mr. Vance is in residence," Mrs. Gable said. "Marcus cooks Tuesdays and Thursdays and leaves provisions for the rest of the week. Housekeeping handles the linens every morning. If you need anything, dial nine from the nightstand."
"Thank you, Mrs. Gable."
"Congratulations on the engagement," Mrs. Gable added, her delivery so unreadable that Chloe couldn't tell if it was genuine politeness or an exercise in professional duty.
---
Julian arrived just after seven-thirty, his suit jacket draped over his forearm, his collar unbuttoned. He entered the dining room, where a long mahogany table was set for two at the far end.
"The board meeting ran late," he said, pulling out a chair. Within moments, a plate of seared trout and winter greens appeared from the kitchen pass. "Did Mrs. Gable get you settled?"
"She put me in the east room."
"It gets better light," he said, cutting into his meal without looking up. "Your plants looked like they needed it."
The casual observation lingered in the quiet room. They ate for a few minutes without speaking, the distance between them filled only by the faint, muffled hum of Manhattan forty stories down.
"We need to establish ground rules," Julian said, laying his fork across his plate. "Since we’re sharing a roof."
"I'm listening."
"I leave for the office by six-thirty and rarely return before eight. Your work, your schedule, and your firm remain entirely on your own," he said cleanly. "In public, we present a united front. Inside these walls, we’re two professionals sharing a residential address for sixteen weeks."
"Agree," Chloe said. "And the audit remains separate. The logistics contract isn't tied to what happens in this apartment."
"Naturally." A dry shift touched his eyes. "Anything else?"
"Don't touch the basil," Chloe said. "And I make my own coffee."
"The kitchen has an automated espresso machine—"
The soft chime of the elevator echoed through the foyer.
---
Julian’s posture shifted in an instant—his spine straightening as the brass doors slid back.
A woman stepped into the entryway, a tailored red coat draped over her shoulders and oversized sunglasses pushed into her dark hair. She moved into the room with the smooth, practiced authority of someone who owned a stake in the floorboards.
"Well," she said, stopping at the edge of the dining room to take Chloe in with cool, gray eyes. "So this is the logistics consultant."
Julian rose, his movements deliberate. "Sloane. I didn't realize you were in New York."
"I flew in from London because my brother announced an engagement over a text message," Sloane said, folding her arms. "To a woman I’ve never heard of, whose name I had to read on Page Six." Her gaze slid back to Chloe, sharp and unblinking. "I wanted to see the person who managed to lock down Julian Vance in six days."
Chloe stood up, extending a hand across the mahogany. "Chloe Reed. Nice to meet you, Sloane."
Sloane took her hand, her grip brief and surprisingly firm. "Eight months, according to the official statement. Curious—Julian usually consults me before he commits to a major acquisition or a personal decision." She looked at her brother, tilting her head. "Prove it, then. Because from where I’m standing, this looks like a very neat PR arrangement."
Julian didn't answer immediately. He walked around the head of the table in two long strides, stopping inches from Chloe. Without breaking eye contact with his sister, his hand came up, his thumb resting flat against the line of Chloe’s jaw as he turned her face toward his.
"Sloane," Julian said, his voice dropping low, "give us a minute."
He leaned down and kissed her—a firm, deliberate press of his mouth against hers, his other hand coming around to settle against the small of her back. Chloe’s breath hitched in her throat, her fingers instinctively catching the edge of his lapel, the boundary between the arrangement and the room dissolving instantly under the weight of his grip.
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