Signed to a Stranger

Chapter Four: Rules for Living with the Enemy

The next morning I woke up at five fifteen. That was nothing new. My brain treated sleep like it was optional, especially when something was bothering me. And right now, something definitely was.

I lay there in the east wing bedroom my own space, with my own entrance, my own kitchen, and a study that was perfectly arranged, just how I liked it. I stared up at the ceiling, ticking through a mental list of what I actually knew.

So: The agreement was a contract, with a clear end date. There was an exit clause. After a year, I had six months to decide if I wanted out. Damian Ashford operated on transactions I’d pegged him right there but I was starting to see that “transactional” wasn’t the same as “unkind.”

But other things? I had no idea. Like why he set up the study for me. Or what was in his face for that split second when I walked into the negotiation room. Or what he wanted to tell me whenever I was “ready to believe it,” whatever that meant.

I made coffee. Scrambled eggs just muscle memory from years of early site visits. Checked my calendar, just to pretend I had everything handled.

By seven fifteen, he knocked on the doorframe between our wings.

He looked like he’d been up for hours. No jacket yet, but his shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up, that sharp focus you see in people who’ve already put their morning in order. He walked in far enough to count as in, but not enough to intrude, standing there with the same kind of steady, controlled stillness I’d noticed yesterday.

That stillness seemed to be his natural setting.

"Ground rules," he said. "For the household. I’ve got a few. Figured we’d get them out in the open now instead of tripping over them later."

"I have some too," I said.

"Figured as much. Mine’s easy." He barely moved most people fidget in new situations, but not him. "I usually work until nine at night. Sometimes earlier, but if I’m home before seven, I’ll text you. I run at five thirty in the morning. Try not to make noise before seven. Call with Tokyo every Tuesday at six a.m."

"So, you’re giving me your schedule," I said.

"So you aren’t surprised to find me in what’s supposed to be your own home." He paused, like he wanted to make sure I understood what he really meant. "I thought you’d appreciate a heads up."

He was right, and the fact that he knew he was right, without asking, was interesting.

"Tuesdays I’m out early for site visits usually by seven," I said. "Thursdays, I'm home all day, either in my wing or the shared study. Wednesday nights I have client calls after six they run late. I don’t like loud music. I won’t eat fish in shared spaces. I work best in silence, but I don’t expect it from others." I took a sip of coffee. "And I don’t talk before my second cup. I’ll tell you that once, not again."

Something flickered in his face. Almost a smile. Almost.

"Noted," he said. "I don’t cook. Mrs. Park handles meals, if you want them, or you do your own. Either’s fine with me."

"I’ll cook for myself."

"Same here."

We stood there, in the kind of silence you get when two people are trying to figure out how not to accidentally step on each other. It felt a lot like kicking off a new project drawing lines, marking territory, agreeing on the rules before the construction starts.

Practical. Doable. That was the idea.

"One more thing," I said.

He waited. He was really good at that waiting, not rushing in to fill up the quiet. I’d met a lot of men who talked just to make sure I remembered they were there. He didn’t need to do that. He seemed to understand that sometimes presence is loudest when it’s silent.

"Don’t be kind to me as a move," I said. "The study. The way you corrected someone at dinner last night whatever that was. If any of it’s some kind of strategy, just say so. I’d rather get the straight version."

"It’s not calculated," he said.

"And how am I supposed to know that?"

"You don’t. Not yet." He didn’t look away. "That takes time."

"I don’t exactly trust time."

"I know." He picked up his jacket from the chair. "I read the Meridian project file. The full documentation with six months of warnings you gave that the three senior architects ignored, then six months lost fixing it when it turned out you were right." He paused at the doorframe. "Time isn’t always reliable. I get that. But, it’s what we have."

He left.

I stood in my kitchen with cold coffee, staring at where he’d been. I thought about old project files, about being right for six months while people ignored me, and about what kind of person actually reads all that before they even meet you.

Maybe invasive. Definitely thorough. Something in between that I hadn’t quite nailed down.

I filed it under the things I couldn’t call malicious just yet.

That list was getting longer a lot faster than I expected.

And that kind of list well, in my experience, it usually meant you’d either found something genuine, or you were dealing with someone who managed appearances very, very well. The only way to be sure was time.

And I still didn’t trust time.

I went back to my eggs.

They were cold. I ate them anyway.

I washed my mug, left it on the rack, and sat down at the drafting table. For twenty minutes, I stared at the Thornfield preliminary sketches without picking up a pencil. I couldn’t stop thinking about that line that time isn’t always trustworthy especially coming from someone who actually read my internal files. Not just the PR versions. The real thing, spelling out six months of warnings that didn’t move the needle until it was too late. He’d read all that. He went looking for it. And even so, he still believed that time was the best tool on hand. I wondered what it cost him to hold onto that belief.