VESTED INTERESTE: FOUND

Chapter 4

The apartment wasn't just "company housing"it was a sanctuary of glass, velvet, and unsettling precision. As the heavy door clicked shut behind her, the silence of the space felt thick, as if the walls were holding their breath. Honey dropped her keys on a console table that felt like solid marble. When she turned into the living room, her breath caught. There, arranged perfectly in the center of the room, were the deep charcoal, plush velvet sectional couches she and Harris had spent months pining over in catalogs. They had joked about how they’d need to win the lottery just to afford the ottoman. Now, they were sitting in her living room, brand new and smelling of expensive textile. Her gaze drifted to the wall above the fireplace. It was an original oil painting moody, abstract, and unmistakable. It was a piece by Elara Jones, the niche artist Honey had followed on i********: for years. How? she whispered to herself. The artist rarely sold originals, and when she did, they were gone in seconds. The kitchen was a masterpiece of white quartz and brushed gold hardware. The massive island in the center looked like it belonged in a professional chef’s home. But it was the bedroom that finally made her heart skip a beat. The king-sized bed was draped in layers of silk and Egyptian cotton in a deep, regal purple her absolute favorite shade, the one she always told Harris made her feel like she wasn't just a housekeeper in a small-town luxury hotel She slid the door open, expecting empty hangers. Instead, she found a curated wardrobe. Rows of tailored blazers, silk blouses, and pencil skirts hung in a gradient of colors. Honey pulled a navy blazer from the rack. She had always struggled with off-the-rack clothes; her proportions usually required expensive tailoring she could never afford. She slipped it on. The shoulders hit perfectly. The waist nipped in exactly where it should. It was as if a tailor had measured her in her sleep. Honey stood in front of the full-length mirror, looking at a version of herself she didn't recognize a woman who belonged in a high-rise, The glass of water felt heavy in her hand, the condensation slick against her palm. She sat on the edge of the velvet sectional—the couch that had lived in her "One Day" dreams for years—and felt like she was trespassing. She pulled her phone from her purse, her thumb hovering over Harris’s contact. She needed to hear a voice that sounded like home, something to cut through the eerie, sterile perfection of this place. The phone rang twice before he picked up. "Please tell me you’re calling from a room with a gold-plated toilet," Harris’s voice crackled through the line, followed by the familiar, distant sound of a baseball game on the TV. "Harris," Honey breathed, her voice wobbling. "I’m in the apartment. It’s... it’s insane." "Insane good, or 'I need to come get you' insane?" Honey looked at the Elara Jones painting on the wall. The brushstrokes felt like they were watching her. "I don't know. Harris, the couch. The charcoal velvet one from the catalog? It’s here. Both of them. And the bedroom is purple. Every single sheet, the rug, everything." There was a pause on the other end. She heard him shift in his chair. "Maybe purple is just in style right now, Bee. It’s the city. Everything is probably designed by the same five people." "And the clothes?" she whispered, leaning back into the cushions. "I went into the closet. There are suits, Harris. High-end ones. I tried a blazer on and it fits like I was born in it. How do they know my size? I don't even know my size half the time." "Look," Harris said, his voice taking on that 'big brother' logical tone. "You sent them your ID for the HR paperwork, right? Maybe they have some AI-software-sizing thing. These big companies... they’re thorough. They want you focused on work, not shopping for blazers. They’re investing in you." "It feels less like an investment and more like a... a collection," Honey said, the word tasting bitter. "You’re just overthinking it because you’ve never been treated like a priority before," Harris countered gently. "Take a breath. Drink some of that fancy city water. You’re there because you’re talented. Don't let the perks scare you out of a life you’ve worked for." Honey looked down at her water. "You’re probably right. I’m just tired from the drive." "Exactly. Get some sleep. Tomorrow you walk into that office and show Lucien Vance he got his money's worth. Love you, Bee." "Love you too, Harris." She said then hanged up the phone. As she hung up, the silence of the apartment rushed back in, heavier than before. Harris’s logic made sense, but it didn't stop the prickling at the back of her neck. A woman who wore thousand-dollar jackets. The excitement was there, bubbling in her chest, but beneath it was a cold, sharp realization. It was one thing to check a resume. It was another to know her favorite color, her favorite artist, and her dream furniture. How did they know her exact size? Even the shoes a pair of black pointed-toe heels looked like they would fit her perfectly. The apartment was beautiful, but it felt like a trap. A very, very expensive trap. The cold, clinical perfection of the kitchen became even more apparent when Honey opened the refrigerator. The light flickered on to reveal nothing but rows of empty glass shelves and a single, sealed bottle of expensive sparkling water. No eggs, no bread, not even a stray packet of mustard. The high-end range and the massive marble island felt like stage props—beautiful to look at, but useless for a girl who had spent her life being fed by someone else’s talent. As she sat back down on the velvet sectional, the quiet of the apartment felt heavy. Back home, the kitchen would be a chaotic symphony of sizzling pans and the smell of garlic and onions. Harris would be humming some off-key tune, shifting between the stove and the cutting board with the grace of someone who truly belonged in a kitchen. He had spent years sweating over deep fryers and line-cooking at the local diner, always coming home with tired eyes but a head full of ideas for a menu that Oak Creek wasn't ready for. “One day, Bee,” he’d always say, wiping grease from his forehead. “White tablecloths. Fresh herbs. A kitchen where I’m the boss, not the guy taking orders from the manager.” Honey looked around the multi-million dollar apartment. If this was the lifestyle Vance Global Media provided for a senior marketer, her salary must be astronomical compared to what she made back home. She’d deal with the weird coincidences and the creepy feeling of being watched. Every spare cent would go into a savings account labeled Harris’s Place. Maybe in a year, or two, she could walk back into Oak Creek and hand him the keys to a storefront. It didn't have to be a city skyscraper; it just had to be his. She pulled out her phone and opened a delivery app. The options were dizzying: sushi, authentic Thai, artisan pizza, vegan bowls. It was a far cry from the "Burger or Chicken" menu at the diner. As she scrolled, she settled on a simple pasta dish something that reminded her of the Sunday dinners Harris used to make when they were kids.