“It’s 6:04.”
“Four minutes is late.”
“My grandmother was in surgery because your phone apparently needed to be made from diamonds and national secrets.”
“It was titanium composite.”
“I do not care.”
His gaze flicked to the stain on my blouse, then back to my face. “Mrs. Alvarez will give you instructions.”
“I thought your household staff was on leave.”
“They are. Mrs. Alvarez manages the residence remotely.”
A tablet lit up on the kitchen counter. A woman with silver hair and sharp eyes appeared on the screen.
“Mara Coleman?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I am Mrs. Alvarez. I have run this residence for nine years. Mr. Park eats at precise times, drinks coffee at 6:30, 10:00, and 2:15, takes no dairy, no shellfish, no mushrooms, no artificial sweeteners. He dislikes lilies, lavender, unsolicited conversation, and anyone moving the objects on his desk.”
“Does he enjoy anything?” I asked.
Mrs. Alvarez’s expression did not change. “Efficiency.”
Behind me, Adrian said, “I’ll be in my study.”
“Try not to leave a seventy-thousand-dollar phone lying around,” I muttered.
He paused.
For one impossible second, I thought he might laugh.
He did not.
The first week was war.
Adrian Park did not shout. He did not have to. He weaponized silence. He noticed fingerprints on chrome, water spots on glass, a book shifted half an inch from its usual angle. He sent corrections through Mrs. Alvarez instead of speaking to me directly whenever possible, which made me feel less like a person and more like a malfunctioning appliance.
I learned his routines.
He woke before dawn and worked until midnight. He ate because schedules required it, not because he seemed to taste anything. He never had guests. He never played music. Every room in that penthouse looked untouched, as if warmth itself had been denied entry at the door.
And he never removed his gloves around me again.
Not once.
That annoyed me more than it should have.
On Thursday, I burned his omelet.
Not badly. Just enough for the edges to brown.
Adrian looked at the plate.
Then at me.
“I assume this is intentional.”
“Yes,” I said. “I woke up and thought, how can I personally wound a billionaire with eggs?”
“You’re careless when tired.”
“I work three jobs.”
“You resigned from the cleaning company.”
“You forced me to.”
“I paid your grandmother’s medical debt.”
“You bought my labor.”
“Correct.”
The word landed between us.
I picked up the plate. “I’ll make another.”
He watched me turn away.
Then he said, “How is she?”
I stopped.
It was the first time he had asked.
“She woke up yesterday,” I said, keeping my back to him. “She asked for peach tea, cursed at a nurse, and told me I looked like roadkill.”
“Good.”
I turned. “Good?”
“Defiance indicates neurological strength.”
“You could just say you’re glad she’s alive.”
His jaw tightened. “I said what I meant.”
“No. You said what was safe.”
Silence.
The kitchen seemed to shrink around us.
Adrian removed one glove finger by finger.