Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Damn him. Why is he always so collected when I’m falling apart at the edges?
For a moment, I imagine that this is the last elevator ride of my life, that we’re both being hauled up to some kind of execution, and the part of my brain that’s seen too many movies wonders whether Trevor will even let me out once the doors open. Maybe he’ll just take me apart, floor by floor, and I’ll never get to see the sun again.
But then the doors ding, and we’re there.
He steps out first, no hesitation. I follow, careful not to catch my heel in the gap. The penthouse is silent, except for the gentle hum of the climate control. It smells like cedar and whiskey and a little like the ocean—whatever Trevor uses for aftershave, it makes the air feel electric.
He doesn’t wait for me. He walks straight into the living room, which is a fever dream of luxury: floor-to-ceiling glass throwing the Minneapolis skyline into the room at every angle, deep sofas that moan when you sit, a bar cart loaded with bottles I can’t pronounce, every surface glossy and hard and cold. The lights are low, amber and gold, and they make the entire place look like it’s underwater, slow and warm and just a little bit dangerous.
I hang back by the door, almost afraid to enter.
Trevor stands in the center of the room, staring out at the city, his back to me. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just lets the silence spool out until I start to think maybe I should leave, or at least say something.
Finally, when I can’t take it any more, I walk toward the nearest sofa and reach out to touch the fabric. I’m about to sink down, just to have something under me besides nerves and air, when Trevor’s voice stops me.
“Don’t sit. You’re not a guest here, Kayleigh.”
It’s soft, but the kind of soft that slices straight through your ribs. I freeze, my hand inches above the cushion, heart pounding so hard I’m afraid it’s going to break through my chest.
He turns, and there’s nothing gentle in his face. His eyes are blue and bright, and his mouth is curved in a smile that isn’t a smile at all—it’s more like the slow opening of a knife.
“You have a debt to pay off,” he says idly, perfectly relaxed.
I stare at him, uncomprehending, my fingers still hovering above the sofa. “What are you talking about?”
He laughs once, low in his throat. “I didn’t just spend a million dollars for a rerun, sweetheart. You know what happens next.”
My brain tries to make sense of this, and for a second I wonder if he’s joking, or if this is some twisted new way of reminding me that he owns every situation. But the look on his face says he means it, every word.
He walks toward me, unhurried, every step measured. When he reaches me, he lifts my chin with two fingers and looks down, his gaze hot and careful.
“You owe me, Kayleigh. You knew that when you bid.”
I want to say something clever, or at least defiant, but all that comes out is a thin, high “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he slips his hand down to my elbow, holds it in a grip that’s gentle but absolute, and steers me away from the living room. We walk past the bar, past the kitchen—polished stone, all chrome and blue under the lights—into a hallway I’ve never noticed before. I glance back over my shoulder and see the city through the glass, all lights and motion, but it looks like a different planet now.
He stops at a door at the end of the hallway. It’s plain, unmarked, nothing like the rest of the apartment.
He lets go of my arm and looks at me for a second, like he’s deciding whether to say something else. Then he opens the door and stands aside, gesturing for me to go in first.
I hesitate, just for a second, then step inside.
The room is nothing like what I expect.
It’s small—barely the size of my childhood bedroom—and almost entirely white. There is a single narrow bed, made up with a crisp white coverlet. There’s a wooden desk, plain and old-fashioned, and a lamp with a small, severe shade. On the desk is an alarm clock and nothing else. The floor is bare concrete, waxed to a shine, and the air smells faintly of lemon and something else—maybe soap, maybe bleach.
There’s a bathroom attached, visible through an open door: pedestal sink, a toilet, and a shower with a glass door so thin it could shatter if you looked at it too hard.
I turn back to Trevor, my pulse so loud I can barely hear myself think.
He’s leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, the top button of his shirt undone. He looks relaxed, but there’s something in his eyes that isn’t relaxed at all.