The sound of Ariana's footsteps echoed softly against the marble floors as she entered the penthouse's main living area. The sun had just begun to rise over the city, casting a warm, golden light through the endless glass walls. The skyline stretched for miles—rows of sleek skyscrapers and the hum of life far below them. It didn't feel real.
She padded barefoot across the polished surface, holding a mug of coffee with both hands. Her thick, dark hair was tied into a messy bun, and a soft, oversized sweatshirt hung loosely over her shorts—one of the few pieces she'd brought from her real life.
Everything else was new.
Clothing. Cosmetics. Even the toothbrush in her new bathroom had been unopened in its original box, wrapped in satin ribbon. Leo didn't do secondhand.
She hated how nice it felt.
The penthouse had the sterile elegance of a luxury hotel and the intimidating quiet of a museum. Gray-and-gold furniture, a statement fireplace in the center, built-in bookshelves with first editions that probably hadn't been touched in years. Every piece screamed curated wealth. Even the air smelled expensive—like leather and cedar and something impossibly clean.
Ariana sat on one of the velvet barstools near the kitchen island and stared at the untouched appliances. She didn't dare open the fridge.
This is your life now.
Not forever. Just a year.
One year of pretending, of playing dress-up in this billionaire's dollhouse. Then she'd be free—with enough money to start her own firm, live without fear, never worry about rent again.
She just had to survive living under the same roof as Leonardo Maddox Cross.
And speak of the devil...
Leo walked in without a sound, already dressed in a crisp charcoal suit, tie knotted, shoes polished. Not a single dark hair out of place. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of a Forbes cover shoot.
Ariana tried not to react to how good he looked. Or how tall he was—easily 6'3", towering when he stood too close. His frame was built from discipline, his expression as sharp as the tailored lines of his suit.
"You're up early," he said, noting her presence with a glance.
"I could say the same for you."
"I never went to sleep."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's healthy."
Leo walked to the counter, retrieved a bottle of spring water, and twisted off the cap. "You'll get used to it."
"I don't plan to."
A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed his face. "You slept well?"
"Define well."
"No nightmares? No regrets?"
Ariana sipped her coffee. "Not yet."
He leaned back against the counter, his expression unreadable. "You'll be meeting with Camille at ten. She's the household manager. She'll walk you through your schedule, security protocols, staff access, and any restrictions."
Ariana tilted her head. "Restrictions?"
"There are areas of the penthouse you don't enter. Files you don't touch. Rooms that remain locked."
"Sounds romantic already."
Leo ignored her sarcasm. "You'll also meet with Arthur—my media consultant. He'll go over public behavior, your social media presence, and how we'll handle the narrative of our engagement."
"Let me guess. You wrote the narrative yourself."
"I provided a framework. You'll be the story."
She narrowed her eyes. "You really believe people are that easy to manipulate?"
His voice was calm. "They want to believe in beautiful things. We're beautiful. They'll believe."
Ariana snorted into her mug. "Your ego's astounding."
"And your skepticism is endearing."
She stared at him, trying to decipher if that was a compliment or a jab. With Leo, it could be both.
He checked his watch. "I have a call in three minutes. Camille will be here shortly."
Then, just as abruptly as he entered, he left—disappearing down the hallway without another word.
Ariana blew out a breath and muttered to herself, "Yeah. This'll be easy."
---
Camille arrived precisely at ten.
She was in her fifties, elegant in a navy blazer and sensible heels, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a sleek bun. She carried a digital tablet and a small leather folder, and when she smiled, it was genuine—but brisk.
"Good morning, Mrs. Cross," she said.
Ariana winced. "Just Ariana is fine."
Camille gave a small nod. "Understood. Let's begin the orientation."
They moved room by room, Camille rattling off notes with the precision of a military strategist. Ariana barely kept up.
The private elevator required biometric scans. A panic button was hidden beneath the bedside table. Security staff rotated every 12 hours and were instructed to treat her as a primary asset.
"Primary asset?" she asked, stopping in the hallway.
"Standard protocol for anyone tied to Mr. Cross's public image," Camille explained. "Your safety is now integrated into our operational flow."
"I'm not an operation."
"You are now."
Ariana didn't like how heavy those words felt.
They ended the tour in her studio—a gorgeous, sun-drenched room with skylights and floor-to-ceiling storage. A brand-new drafting table sat in the center, surrounded by shelves filled with every tool, pen, and material she could imagine.
She ran her fingers along the edge of the table, her throat tight. "He did this?"
"Yes," Camille said. "He had it delivered the same day the contract was signed. He remembered you preferred natural light for your work."
Ariana turned to her. "He remembered that?"
"He remembers everything."
---
By noon, she was mentally fried.
She escaped to the studio and began to sketch—nothing major, just mindless lines and curves, shapes that slowly formed into the beginnings of a concept for a hotel lobby she'd seen once. The rhythm of it grounded her.
The click of the door startled her.
She turned, expecting Camille.
Instead, Leo stood in the doorway, holding something in his hand.
"Thought you might want these."
He walked in and placed a leather-bound sketchbook and a set of graphite pencils on her table. High-end. Italian. The kind professionals whispered about but rarely bought.
Ariana blinked. "Where did you get these?"
"You left a note beside my coffee machine that said your old ones were wearing out."
She blinked. "I didn't leave a note."
He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket—her handwriting. A to-do list she'd scribbled while half-asleep that morning and left on the kitchen island.
Her jaw dropped. "You read that?"
"You left it in plain sight."
"It wasn't for you."
"It was in my kitchen."
Ariana opened the sketchbook, running her hand across the thick, creamy paper. She hated how much it touched her.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
He didn't reply.
Instead, he looked at her drawing. "Is that a cantilevered ceiling?"
Her eyes widened. "How do you know what that is?"
"I've built more properties than I can count."
She gave him a look. "I didn't think tech moguls cared about architecture."
"I care about detail. Design is strategy."
Ariana studied him for a beat, her voice softer. "Do you ever turn it off?"
He looked at her. "What?"
"That part of you. The strategist. The control."
Leo was quiet. Then, almost too quietly, he said, "No."
And before she could reply, he turned and left again.
---
That evening, she stood on the balcony, watching the city lights flicker on one by one. The sky turned deep blue, and the air was warm enough to stand without a coat.
She sipped another glass of wine, this time from a bottle she'd picked herself.
The penthouse was silent again.
But it didn't feel empty anymore.
Behind her, the sound of footsteps broke the stillness.
Leo joined her, holding a tumbler of whiskey. He didn't speak at first—just stood beside her, watching the skyline.
Ariana spoke quietly. "It's beautiful."
"The city?"
"No," she said. "The quiet."
He nodded. "Most people don't know what to do with it."
"I think I need it."
He turned to her. "Then take it."
They stood there in silence. Not comfortable, not intimate. But something in between.
Then Leo said something that surprised her.
"You did well today."
She looked at him. "That's the closest thing to a compliment I think I'll ever get from you."
"You'll get used to it."
"I don't want to get used to it."
He turned, facing her fully. "Why did you sign, Ariana?"
She froze.
He'd never asked that.
She could lie. Say it was for the money. The security. The escape.
But instead, she looked out at the city again and whispered, "Because I needed something to believe in. Even if it's fake."
Leo's voice was low. "What if it becomes real?"
She didn't turn.
She didn't answer.
And neither did he.
They just stood there, together, watching the city pulse below them—two strangers, bound by ink and silence.
---