Chapter 7
Rhys stood there.
Tall. Composed. Still wearing his suit from the signing, jacket unbuttoned, tie slightly loosened as if he'd been pulling at it.
His eyes dragged over me, my messy hair, my bare feet, the half-packed suitcase behind me.
And the muscles in his jaw tightened.
"Reece."
My voice barely made it out.
"What are you doing here?"
He didn't enter.
Didn't assume.
He simply held my gaze, the hallway lighting turning his eyes darker than usual.
"You left quickly," he said quietly.
"I needed air."
"And I needed to know you were okay."
Something inside me twisted.
"That's not part of the contract," I said softly.
His expression changed, pain, barely there, swiftly masked.
"No," he murmured. "It's not."
The silence between us stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the muffled hum of distant elevators.
For a moment I thought he'd leave.
But then his eyes shifted past me, landing on the open suitcase.
"You're packing."
"Obviously."
"Let me help."
"No."
He blinked. "Why not?"
"Because I don't want you in this space," I said, the truth cutting through me. "Not yet. This is my past. My life before all... this."
"And you want to evict it alone?" he asked quietly.
"It's not your burden."
He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, something he only did when he was trying very hard to look calm.
"Reece, you signed a contract tying your life to mine for a year. If you think I'm going to let you carry every difficult part alone,"
"You don't get to do that," I snapped.
"Do what?"
"Sound like you care."
His inhale was sharp.
I regretted the words instantly.
But I didn't take them back.
Because they were true.
He closed his eyes for a second, as if steadying himself.
When he opened them again, something raw flickered there.
"May I come in?" he asked, voice softer.
The question surprised me.
The politeness.
The patience.
Rhys Sterling, waiting for permission.
I stepped aside.
He entered slowly, eyes sweeping over the apartment the way you look at a museum piece, careful, quiet, almost reverent.
"This is... very you," he said.
"Small?"
"Warm," he corrected.
Warm.
My chest tightened.
"This part of your life mattered," he added. "You don't have to pretend it didn't."
I didn't know what to say.
He walked to the suitcase but didn't touch it. Instead, he looked at the bookshelf, the messy stack of books beside it, the candle burned halfway down, the chipped coffee mug I'd used as a pen holder.
"I didn't know you liked thrillers," he murmured, fingers hovering near a spine but not touching.
"You didn't know a lot of things."
He turned.
Our eyes collided.
And suddenly the room felt too small, too quiet, too charged with all the things we couldn't say.
I swallowed. "Why did you come here, Rhys?"
"To help," he said.
"No. The truth."
He inhaled deeply.
"I didn't like how we left things."
"You mean the part where we signed a contract declaring emotional distance?"
His jaw tightened.
"Reece..."
"No." I stepped closer. "Say it."
Something inside him cracked, just slightly.
"I didn't like seeing you walk away as if you were preparing for a sentence instead of a partnership."
The words punched the air out of me.
We stood close now.
Too close.
I could feel his breath on my cheek.
Feel the heat radiating between us.
Feel the tether that never really broke, even when everything else did.
He lifted a hand, slowly, toward my face.
He didn't touch me.
He hovered.
Barely an inch away from my skin.
"Are you afraid of me?" he whispered.
"Yes."
His breath hitched.
"Why?"
"Because you make me remember," I said. "And I'm trying so hard to forget."
His hand trembled.
Very slightly.
And then,
He stepped closer.
The gap between us was a breath.
"Reece," he said, voice low, wrecked. "I remember too."
The air thickened.
My pulse roared.
His forehead nearly brushed mine, so close we shared the same breath.
If either of us leaned in, even half an inch,
The contract would shatter.
We would shatter.
Everything would change.
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
My heartbeat lurched painfully.
"Don't," I whispered.
He swallowed. "I'm not touching you."
"You want to."
"Yes."
The admission stole my breath.
His hand dropped from the air between us, curling into a fist at his side as if he physically fought the urge to reach for me.
The tension snapped like a live wire.
I stepped back first.
Because if I didn't, I wouldn't step back at all.
He exhaled shakily, the sound rough, defeated.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For almost crossing the line. For wanting to."
I didn't tell him I wanted to too.
I didn't tell him my knees felt weak.
I didn't tell him I felt the same magnetic pull I'd sworn to bury forever.
Instead, I pointed to the suitcase.
"You came to help? Then help me pack."
The tension didn't go away.
It simmered under every word, every breath, every small brush of proximity as we moved around the room.
He folded my sweaters with military precision.
I shoved my socks into a corner to avoid looking at him.
He handed me my charger.
Our fingers almost touched.
Almost.
It was torture.
Beautiful.
Excruciating.
Unavoidable.
And when we finished, he closed the suitcase with a quiet click.
Finished.
Except nothing felt finished.
He lifted the suitcase effortlessly with one hand, then turned back to me.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"No," I admitted. "But I'm going anyway."
He nodded.
"Then I'll walk with you."
"Why?"
"Because," he said softly, "you don't have to evict your past alone."
I stared at him.
At the man I wasn't supposed to trust.
Wasn't supposed to want.
Wasn't supposed to feel anything for.
But the contract didn't say anything about wanting.
And that was the most dangerous clause of all.
We stepped out of the apartment together.
Side by side.
Close enough to touch.
Far enough not to.
And yet,
Every step felt like the beginning of something neither ink nor law could control.
By the time the car slid into the underground entrance of Sterling Tower, my pulse had settled into a steady, stubborn thrum, it was bracing for impact.
Rhys parked in a private section marked with polished silver numbers. Clean. Precise. Controlled. Everything in his life seemed to obey those rules.
I wasn't sure I ever had.
He stepped out first, lifting my suitcase from the back seat before I could reach for it. He didn't ask. Didn't comment. Just did it with that same effortless strength that made me both irritated and, God help me, aware.
The elevator was waiting for us, doors already open as if summoned.
Private.
Of course.
Rhys pressed his palm against a sensor, and a soft chime sounded.
"Penthouse level," an automated voice announced.
My stomach dropped as the doors closed and we began ascending.
The higher we rose, the quieter the world became. The kind of quiet that felt unnatural, like the silence after a slammed door or before a confession.
Rhys stood on my right, close but not touching, his posture immaculate. His tie was still loosened, the top button undone. It shouldn't have been distracting.
It was.
He watched the floor numbers tick upward. I watched him watch them. And for a moment, I wondered if he was as tense as I was.
Probably not.
He was too good at hiding.
The elevator slowed.
Then stopped.
Then opened into another world.
The penthouse was huge.
Not just big. Not just luxurious.
Vast.
Cold..
Beautiful in the way glaciers are beautiful.
A space that looked like no one lived in it.
A space where warmth didn't stand a chance.
"This is..." I exhaled, unable to finish.
Mine?
His?
Ours?
None of those words felt real.
Rhys set my suitcase down and watched my reaction, arms loose at his sides, expression unreadable.
"Too big?" he asked softly.
"Too something," I murmured.
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, so faint I would've missed it if I blinked.
"You'll get used to it."
I wasn't convinced.
I stepped farther inside, my heels clicking against marble that echoed in ways my small apartment never did.
No photographs.
No clutter.
No softness.
Everything arranged but nothing personal.
A home built like a fortress.
I wondered if he preferred it this way.
Or if he simply didn't know how else to live.
"Your room is upstairs," he said, nodding toward a floating staircase made of glass and steel.
"Your room," I repeated, because the contract, and the ache in my chest, demanded it.
"Yes."
"And mine is... somewhere far away?"
"Far enough."
A flicker of something, regret? relief?, crossed his face before he looked away.
I swallowed and followed him toward the stairs.
The second floor was quieter.
Soft gray carpeting replaced marble. The lighting dimmed to a warm glow. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling windows showing the city from dizzying angles.
"This is your space," Rhys said, pushing open a door.
I inhaled sharply.
The room was stunning, spacious, airy, a massive bed framed by sheer drapes, a reading nook overlooking the skyline, a walk-in closet bigger than my old bedroom.
It was perfect.
It felt nothing like me.
"Rhys..." I murmured, stepping inside. "This is too much."
"It's not."
"It is."
"It's standard."
"For royalty?"
"For you," he said simply.
My heart stuttered.
He didn't meet my eyes.
"You'll be comfortable here," he added, tone shifting back into something safer. "There's a private bathroom attached. If you need anything changed, we can do that."
"Changed?"
"Colors. Layout. Furniture. Whatever makes it feel like yours."
Mine.
The word felt foreign in this space.
A space that looked like it had never been touched.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He nodded once and turned away, like staying any longer would be dangerous.
But something inside me resisted the distance.
"Rhys?"
He paused in the doorway.
I didn't know what I wanted to say.
What I wanted him to do.
What I wanted this moment to become.
Maybe I just wanted him to stay long enough for the panic settling in my chest to ease.
"This feels..." I hesitated. "Final."
"It isn't."
"It feels like I'm stepping into a story I don't belong in."
His eyes softened.
"You belong," he said quietly. "More than you think."
The words hit me harder than they should have.
He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he didn't. Instead, he added:
"Come downstairs when you're ready. I'll make dinner."
That startled me.
"Make?"
His lips twitched.
"I cook."
"You... cook?"
"On occasion."
I blinked at him.
He huffed a breath, almost a laugh.
"I'm not completely unbearable."
"Debatable," I murmured.
And there
For a flicker of a heartbeat
He smiled.
A real one.
Small.
Quiet.
Devastating.
Then he disappeared down the stairs.
Leaving me alone with a room that looked like it belonged to someone braver than I was.
I unpacked slowly.
Folded clothes.
Organized drawers.
Tried not to panic.
Because every time I opened a drawer, the reality pressed harder:
I lived here now.
In a penthouse with a man I once loved.
A man I wasn't allowed to touch.
A man who almost kissed me last night.
A man who was trying
and not trying
and trying too much.
The air grew heavy with the memory of his breath against mine.
I forced myself downstairs.
The kitchen was, predictably, immaculate.
Stainless steel.
Dark cabinetry.
Not a single item out of place.
Rhys stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring something that smelled far too good for a corporate shark.
He glanced over his shoulder as I entered.
"Hungry?"
"Confused," I corrected.
"About?"
"You."
He stilled.
"Reece..."
"No, don't smooth it over. You showed up at my apartment last night. You almost. " I cut myself off. "Then today you bring me here and act like this is normal."
His grip tightened on the wooden spoon.
"It's not normal," he said quietly. "None of this is."
"Then what is it?"
He turned to face me fully.
The city lights behind him, the soft kitchen glow on his features
He looked dangerously human.
"It's me," he said. "Trying."
The words struck something deep.
Something raw.
Something I wasn't ready to name.
I moved closer without meaning to.
He swallowed hard.
"Dinner will be ready soon," he murmured.
"Rhys..."
He looked at me then.
Not with anger.
Not with distance.
With something that made my breath catch.
"Reece, if you come any closer, I'm not going to be able to pretend this is simple."
My heart pounded.
"I didn't ask for simple."
His jaw clenched.
"And I can't offer anything else."
The air between us thickened.
Charged.
Alive.
I was the one who stepped back.
Because if I didn't
We both knew exactly what would happen next.
Rhys exhaled shakily and returned to the stove, silently battling whatever storm lived behind his ribs.
I sank into one of the bar stools, pulse still racing.
This penthouse wasn't sterile.
It wasn't empty.
It wasn't cold.
It was full of landmines.
And the most dangerous one was standing at the stove, sleeves rolled up, trying not to look at me like he was remembering everything we once were.
And everything we weren't allowed to be now.
The next morning, the penthouse felt different.
Last night it had been overwhelming, cold, glossy, enormous. Today it was quiet in a way that pressed on my skin, like the whole space was waiting to see what I would do next.
Rhys was already awake.
Of course he was.
I heard him moving somewhere on the other side of the penthouse, the soft rustle of cloth, the muted tap of polished shoes across marble. The sounds were distant enough to remind me how large this place was.
Large enough to get lost in.
Large enough to hide in.
Large enough to never have to see each other unless we chose to.
Maybe that was the point.
I splashed water on my face, took one deep breath, then another, then forced myself to open my bedroom door.
He was standing at the railing overlooking the lower floor, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly damp from a shower. He looked like someone who had already lived an entire day before breakfast.
When he heard my footsteps, he turned, and paused.
His eyes swept over me, not lingering, just... taking inventory.
"You slept?" he asked.
"A little."
He nodded once, like that was all the answer he expected.
"All right. Let me show you the rest of the place."
It wasn't phrased as an offer.
It wasn't phrased like a command either.
Just... something he assumed would happen.
I followed him down the floating staircase, my fingers brushing the cool glass railing to keep myself balanced.
For a man who lived in a space this stunning, he moved through it like it barely existed, like it was just another office floor to power-walk through.
"This is the main living area," he said.
His voice echoed against marble.
He gestured across the room.
Minimalist couch.
Minimalist rug.
Minimalist art that looked expensive and emotionless.
No photographs.
Not a single one.
I wondered if that was intentional.
I wondered if he ever let memory take up physical space.
"And here," he continued, "is the dining area we'll use when we eat at home."
"When?" I repeated, eyebrows lifting. "You mean you actually eat here?"
He shot me a dry look.
"Contrary to popular belief, I do not photosynthesize."
It startled a breath, almost a laugh, from my chest.
He continued before I could say anything else.
"There's a private gym down that hallway."
"And the office is behind the glass partition on the left."
"There's a guest suite on this floor, if you ever prefer it."
I turned my head sharply.
"What do you mean if I prefer it?"
He didn't hesitate.
"You're not confined to the master suite upstairs. You can stay wherever you feel... comfortable."
My steps slowed.
He didn't look at me when he said it.
Which made the words feel even heavier.
"Is that your way of saying you want distance?"
"No."
He stopped walking.
"No, Reece. It's my way of saying you get to choose distance if you want it."
Something tugged at the center of my chest, something unwelcome and too warm.
He kept moving.
"This floor has a media room," he said, nodding toward a darkened doorway. "And a terrace that wraps around the north and east sides."
"A terrace?" I echoed.
He slid open a tall pane of glass.
Cold morning air rushed in. I stepped outside, breath catching as the city unfolded beneath us, endless glass, steel, and motion.
The wind whipped my hair around my face.
Below, cars crawled like ants.
From up here, everything felt far away, unreal.
"You can come out here anytime," he said.
"Do you?"
He hesitated.
"Sometimes."
It sounded like no.
He slid the door closed again, sealing out the wind, sealing us back inside his glacier of a home.
"Come on," he said quietly. "There's one more thing you need to see."
I followed him up the stairs again, but this time we turned left at the landing, toward a hallway I hadn't noticed last night.
He stopped in front of a wide double door.
"These are the master suites."
"Suite...S?" I repeated.
"Plural, yes."
"You have two master bedrooms?"
"Yes."
"And neither of them is supposed to be mine."
He exhaled slowly, measured, controlled.
"Right."
I crossed my arms.
.