7

Alexander

“Welcome to your new prison, inmate.”

Josephine’s voice cuts through the sterile apartment air like a blade wrapped in silk. She’s blocking the doorway like a very attractive, very pissed-off security guard, and I’m pretty sure she’s mentally calculating how many different ways she can make my life hell.

“Prison?” I step inside, letting my duffel bag hit her pristine marble floor with a satisfying thud. “This place screams ‘luxury rehabilitation center for rich boys with impulse control issues.’”

Her apartment is exactly what I expected—cool grays and whites, furniture that probably costs more than most people’s cars, and that subtle feminine scent that makes my brain do stupid things. Everything’s curated, controlled, perfect.

I’m chaos in Italian leather, and she’s a hurricane masquerading as interior design.

“Which room’s mine, warden?” I drag the word out just to watch her jaw tighten.

She pivots with military precision. “Let’s establish some ground rules.”

“Oh, please do.” I lean against her wall like I own the place, which technically the company does, but details.

Her eyes flash. “No women. No parties. No drinking yourself unconscious. No vanishing acts. Nobody enters or exits without my explicit approval. You don’t touch my belongings. You don’t disrupt my schedule. No music after ten. No sleeping until noon. No shirtless wandering. No drowning yourself in cologne—”

“What if she’s really clean?”

“—and if you even consider bringing some random hookup into this apartment—”

“Define random. What if we’ve been introduced?”

“I will personally staple your dick to the welcome mat.”

I grin because this is the most fun I’ve had since getting financially executed. “God, I’ve missed your obsession with my anatomy.”

She inhales like she’s summoning the strength not to commit homicide. “This isn’t summer camp, Alexander. You’re not here to have a good time.”

“Shame.” I saunter toward her kitchen, all swagger and false confidence. “I brought s’mores supplies.”

Her heels click against the floor as she follows. “And stay out of my personal items.”

“Even your underwear drawer?” I glance back with my most innocent expression.

She stops dead. “Try me. I fucking dare you.”

We’re standing maybe two feet apart now, close enough that I can see the pulse jumping at her throat, close enough to smell that perfume that used to drive me insane.

Still does, apparently.

My heart’s hammering beneath my carefully constructed smirk. I could kiss her right now. Should probably kiss her. Want to kiss her so badly my teeth ache.

But not yet. Not like this.

I step back, hands raised in surrender. “You’re a real peach, Huntington.”

“And you’re a walking malpractice suit.”

The fire between us could power the building.

My assigned bedroom feels like a luxury hotel room designed by someone who’s never experienced actual comfort. Firm mattress, sheets that smell like industrial detergent, walls the color of expensive boredom.

I collapse onto the bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers to questions I’m afraid to ask.

I’ve lived in penthouses with champagne on tap and a rotating cast of distractions. But this sterile box feels more like exile than luxury. A holding cell with thread count.

My fingers find the note in my jacket pocket. The paper’s gotten soft from handling, words burned into my memory.

It’s only a matter of time.

Six words. No signature. No return address. Just a promise wrapped in vague menace, slipped under my door like a subscription to anxiety I never ordered.

I told myself it was nothing. Fan mail from someone with boundary issues. But with the Bratva situation, the timing, the fact that someone knows where I live…

I should tell Valesquez. Or Dad. Let them unleash their security teams, turn me into a professional victim.

Except I’m already enough of a liability. Adding “mysterious death threats” to my resume seems like career suicide.

And there’s Josephine.

Sharp-tongued, rule-obsessed, immune to every charm I’ve ever deployed. The absolute worst person to be trapped with right now.

Also the only one I actually want to see the real me. Not the disaster I perform for the world, but the broken pieces still hoping someone might want to put them back together.

She’s a complication I didn’t plan for. A distraction I’d love to explore.

But she doesn’t deserve my baggage. And if I’m being honest, she might destroy me more efficiently than whoever wrote that note.

The apartment’s gone quiet, evening light painting everything blue-gray. I pad to the kitchen barefoot, craving something cold to silence the thoughts circling my brain like vultures.

That’s when I hear her voice.

“—and if we don’t control this narrative, the entire story shifts. Are we clear?”

I slow at the hallway edge, just out of sight.

Josephine’s perched on her couch, blazer discarded, legs crossed, legal pad balanced on her knee like armor. Her laptop screen glows with faces—her team, probably—but I can’t stop watching her.

She’s all sharp angles and controlled energy, but I catch the tells. The way her fingers tap when someone interrupts. The slight head shake. How her lips press together when someone suggests something she thinks is stupid.

She’s unraveling, but only just. Hairline cracks in perfect composure.

I know what to look for.

The call ends. She exhales slowly, then spots me lurking.

“What?”

I raise my hands. “Didn’t say anything.”

“You were eavesdropping.”

“I was getting water. The espionage was accidental.” I move to the cabinet, grab a glass.

Silence stretches between us, but it doesn’t feel hostile. Just… loaded.

I turn to face her. “You’re good at this.”

Her head snaps up like I’ve announced I’m pregnant.

“I mean it,” I say, letting her see the truth behind my usual bullshit. “What you do. You’re really good at it.”

She stares like I’ve sprouted wings. “Then don’t make it harder than necessary.”

She’s beautiful like this—vulnerable, unguarded. I could get lost in her.

But she deserves better than my chaos.

So I smirk. “Too late. I’m extremely hard.”

She groans, turning away. “I regret every decision that led to this moment.”

But I catch it—the way her shoulders drop slightly. The ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

Maybe she needs this banter as much as I do. Maybe we’re both one bad decision away from something we can’t undo.

I lean against the counter, watching her rise from the couch. Her leggings cling to curves that have no business being legal, and my brain immediately volunteers several inappropriate suggestions.

“This should be interesting,” I murmur, voice low enough to carry across her skin.

She pauses at her bedroom door. “This is war.”

My grin spreads slow and deliberate. “I hope you fight dirty.”

She disappears into her room, but not before I catch the flicker in her eyes. Not anger. Not fear.

Interest.