Cold cash

Chapter Five

The penthouse had a view that made my chest hurt.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. Manhattan stretched out like a jewel box, all glitter and shadow and tiny cars crawling through canyons of steel. I pressed my palm against the glass and felt it cold against my skin.

"How do you ever leave?" I asked.

Adrian was across the room, pouring something amber into a crystal glass. He didn't look up. "I don't. That's the problem."

I turned away from the window. The penthouse was ridiculous. White couches. Black marble floors. Art on the walls that probably cost more than my entire apartment building. Everything looked untouched. Unslept-in. Unlived.

Like a museum. Or a trap.

"The contract is on the table," he said, nodding toward a glass coffee table that probably weighed more than my car. "Read it. Sign it. Then we'll talk about ground rules."

"Ground rules?"

"You didn't think we'd just wing it, did you?"

I walked to the table. The contract was thick. Pages and pages of legal language, paragraphs that blurred together, words like indemnification and confidentiality and termination without cause.

"Do I need a lawyer for this?"

"You should have brought one."

"I don't have a lawyer. I have a cat and a broken toaster."

Adrian sat down across from me. He'd loosened his tie. The top button of his shirt was undone, and I could see the edge of a collarbone, a whisper of chest hair. I looked away.

"Page three," he said. "The important parts are highlighted."

I flipped to page three.

Duration: Six weeks (42 days).

Compensation: $250,000 upon completion, plus all medical expenses paid in full upfront.

Living arrangements: Subject (Ivy Cole) will reside in Principal's (Adrian Wolfe) residence for the duration.

Physical affection: Hand-holding, brief kissing (no open mouth), and appropriate public displays of affection as determined by Principal. No s****l contact required or expected.

No s****l contact required or expected.

I read that line three times.

"Disappointed?" Adrian asked.

"Relieved."

"Liar."

I looked up. He was smirking again. That infuriating, knowing smirk that made me want to throw the contract at his head.

"There are rules for you too," I said.

"Oh?"

"You don't get to read my texts. You don't get to show up in my room without knocking. And you don't get to ask about my mother."

"The medical bills require updates."

"Ask the hospital. Not me."

He tilted his head. Considering me. Measuring me.

"Fine," he said. "Anything else?"

I looked down at the contract. At the line about physical affection. At the diamond and sapphires still heavy on my finger.

"One more thing," I said quietly. "When this is over—the six weeks, the cousin, all of it—you don't contact me again. No calls. No texts. No 'just checking in.' We're strangers."

Adrian's expression didn't change. But something in his eyes went cold again. Colder than before.

"Agreed," he said.

I signed.

---

The bedroom was bigger than my entire apartment.

A bed the size of a small country. Sheets that felt like butter. A closet that stretched into forever, filled with clothes that weren't mine.

I stood in front of the closet, confused. Dresses. Jeans. Sweaters. All my size. All my style. Even a pair of boots—new ones, expensive ones, with zippers that worked.

"How did you—"

Adrian appeared in the doorway. He'd changed into a gray t-shirt and sweatpants. He looked younger. Softer. Almost approachable.

"Ms. Vane," he said. "She's good at her job."

"She bought me clothes."

"She bought you a wardrobe. There's a difference."

I pulled a sweater off the hanger. Cashmere. Cream-colored. The kind of thing I'd touch in a*****e and put back immediately.

"This is too much."

"It's a costume, Ivy. Nothing more."

He said it like he believed it. Maybe he did.

But when I looked at the clothes again—the careful choices, the right sizes, the broken-in boots—I wondered.

Costumes didn't fit this perfectly.

---

There was a note at the bottom of the closet.

Tucked inside a shoebox. Handwritten. Looping letters on cream-colored paper.

"I've been watching you longer than you think."

My blood turned to ice.

"Adrian?"

He was gone. The doorway was empty. I walked back into the living room, the note crumpled in my fist, but the penthouse was silent.

Then my phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

Text: The ring belonged to my grandmother too. Sleep well, fake fiancée. — L

Liam.

I locked the bedroom door. Then I pushed a chair against it. Then I sat on the butter-soft sheets, still wearing my broken boots, and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up.