The elevator doors opened to silence and marble. I stepped inside, heels clicking like a metronome counting down the seconds until this farce began. The penthouse smelled like money — cold, polished, untouched. And there he was: Peter, hands in his pockets, wearing the same thrift-store coat from graduation day, staring at a painting like it held answers.\n\n"You’re late," he said, not looking at me.\n\n"I don’t answer to you."\n\nHe finally turned. That calm. That infuriating calm. "We’ve got six days left. Try not to set the place on fire."\n\nI dropped my suitcase. "You first."\n\nThen the lawyer’s email pinged on both our phones: Surveillance active. Compliance required. This wasn’t just about sharing a roof. Every move watched. Every word recorded. One slip, and millions vanish.\n\nMy phone buzzed again — a photo of us entering, already trending online. Peter exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "So. Bedroom situation?"