PENTHOUSE
882 Words
ELISE
I’m locking my apartment door when my phone buzzes.
Matilda.
That alone makes me pause.
I step back inside and check the message.
" Morning, Elise. Change of plans. Mr. Hale will be working from home today. A driver will be picking you up in 20. Address attached. Please confirm."
Working from home?
I type back.
" Confirmed. I’ll be ready."
I grab my jacket again, mind already adjusting.
I check myself in the mirror by the door.
This is still work.
Even if the ground keeps shifting.
My phone buzzes again.
" Driver arriving. "
I lock the door behind me and head downstairs.
The building is exactly what I expected.
Tall. Glass. Private entrance.
The driver says nothing as we pull into the underground parking. Polished concrete. Discreet lighting. No other cars in sight except a lineup that costs more than most people’s homes.
I step out, smooth my jacket, and follow the concierge to a private elevator.
The ride up is silent and fast. My reflection in the mirrored walls looks composed.
The doors open directly into the penthouse.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the entire living area. The city sprawls beneath it . Marble floors. Dark wood. Clean lines. Minimal furniture, all expensive enough to look effortless.
“On time.”
His voice comes from behind me.
“Of course,” I reply.
His eyes sweep over me, then he nods toward a sleek dining table that’s been repurposed into a workstation. Laptop open. Files arranged neatly.
“We have three calls before noon,” he says. “Sit.”
I move toward the table, aware of the quiet in a way that feels different from the office. No staff outside the door. No intercom.
Time moves faster here.
Without the interruptions of the office, the morning folds into itself. By the time the last call ends, sunlight has shifted across the marble floor.
“It’s past one,” he says, glancing at his watch.
I check my tablet. He’s right.
“I’ll order something,” I start automatically.
“You won’t,” he replies.
I look up.
“I don’t order,” he says simply.
As if on cue, a door I hadn’t noticed earlier opens near the kitchen. A man in a crisp white jacket steps out, composed and silent.
Of course. Private chef.
Lunch is set at the long dining table near the windows. Nothing excessive—just perfectly plated food that looks effortless and expensive. Grilled sea bass. Seasonal vegetables. Fresh bread.
I hesitate for half a second.
“This is unusual,” I say carefully.
“For you,” he replies.
“For us.”
His gaze lifts at that.
“Yes,” he says.
“You work differently here,” I add.
“How so?”
“You’re less guarded.”
One brow lifts faintly. “And in the office?”
“You perform control,” I say. “Here, you don’t need to.”
“And you?” he asks after a moment. “Are you different outside the office?”
There it is again.
“I’m consistent,” I reply.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I take a measured breath. “I don’t blur lines.”
“Neither do I,” he says.
Lunch finishes slowly.
When I stand to gather the plates out of instinct, he stops me.
“Leave it.”
The lights cut. The hum of the penthouse dies with them. I glance at my phone.
No signal.
“Backup should kick in,” I say.
“It hasn’t,” Ethan replies, already checking his own.
“Well,” he says after a moment, voice quieter in the dim light, “we’re useless for the next hour.”
The emergency lights haven’t come on yet. Only daylight spills through the windows now.
I expect him to pace.
Instead, he walks toward the bar.
“You drink during office hours?” I ask.
He doesn’t look back. “Only when the office disappears.”
A low clink of glass.
“Relax,” he says. “We’re off the clock.”
Our fingers brush this time.
The city glows beyond the windows, and afternoon sun washing the room in gold. We move toward the windows instinctively, standing side by side instead of across from each other.
“So,” he says after a sip, tone different now. “Who are you when you’re not scheduling my life?”
I take a slow drink before answering. “Someone who prefers quiet.”
He glances at me. “You’re good at it.”
“You’re not intimidated by me,” he says.
“No.”
“Why?”
I meet his gaze directly.
“Because you don’t scare me.”
He steps a fraction closer. Not touching. Just narrowing the air between us.
“And what do I do?” he asks quietly.
“You observe.”
“And what do you see?” he asks.
The space between us feels charged now.
“I think,” I say carefully, “you’re used to people wanting something from you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“And you don’t? "
“I want to do my job well.”
The lights flicker once,flooding the penthouse in white and golden hues.
- Writer
