Chapter Three: First Night
534 Words
The apartment was absurd.
It wasn’t an apartment—it was a kingdom floating above Manhattan. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Black marble floors. A fireplace big enough to fit a car. And of course, a view that screamed You’ll never be this rich.
Isabelle dropped her overnight bag onto the Italian leather sofa like a rebellious protest against everything too expensive to touch.
“You call this home?” she asked, turning in slow disbelief.
Alexander, who hadn’t removed his coat, glanced at her like she was quaint. “It’s functional.”
“It’s sterile.”
“It’s private.”
“It’s soulless.”
He arched a brow. “Do you prefer clutter and cats?”
“I prefer warmth and personality,” she said, folding her arms. “This place has the charm of a villain’s lair.”
He smiled—just a flicker—and walked toward the kitchen, pouring two glasses of red wine.
“I’ll have tea, thanks,” she said.
“This is twenty-thousand-dollar Bordeaux.”
“I still prefer tea.”
He handed her the glass anyway. “You’ll get used to the taste of power.”
She took it, sniffed it, sipped once. “Still tastes like feet.”
His laugh surprised both of them. Deep. Brief. Gone too fast.
That night, she explored the place like a museum visitor.
Her designated room was at the far end of the penthouse, overlooking Central Park. It had a walk-in closet, a reading nook, and a bed so big it could legally be registered as a state.
She didn’t unpack.
It felt wrong.
Like camping on a glacier.
Around midnight, she padded into the kitchen in leggings and an oversized T-shirt, looking for tea—or chocolate. Or both.
She didn’t expect him to be there.
He stood barefoot by the window, shirt sleeves rolled up, whiskey in hand, city lights painting golden shadows across his profile. The view should have been the focus.
But he was the view.
“You can’t sleep either?” she asked softly.
He didn’t turn. “I don’t sleep much.”
She opened a cabinet. Found tea. “Insomnia or guilt?”
“Control.”
She looked over. “You try to control your dreams?”
“I try not to have any.”
There was a silence between them. A sharp, electric silence.
She poured water into the kettle. “You don’t scare me, you know.”
He turned then. Walked slowly toward her.
“I should,” he said.
Her heart thudded. She didn’t move.
He stopped just inches away. Not touching. Not yet.
“But you don’t,” she whispered.
He leaned in, breath brushing her ear. “Maybe you’re just too stubborn to see what I am.”
Her pulse skipped.
“Or maybe,” she whispered back, “you’re just too used to people being afraid.”
Their eyes locked.
Something moved between them. Not quite desire. Not quite danger.
Something in between.
And then—
He stepped back.
“Good night, Miss Hart.”
She stood there, stunned, as he disappeared into shadow.
She hated him a little for walking away.
But hated herself more for wishing he hadn’t.
- Writer
