CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER TWO

Vivian

The elevator hummed softly as it carried me higher and higher until it finally dinged open to reveal the fifty-ninth floor. The air felt different up here—cleaner, lighter, like it had never been touched by the chaos downstairs. I dragged my suitcase into a small private lobby and immediately noticed two doors facing each other. Only two penthouses per floor. For a second, I wondered who my neighbor was.

My key clicked smoothly into the lock, and when I stepped inside, I had to pause. The entire place looked like it had been stolen from a glossy magazine. The walls were painted the palest blue, not cold but calm, like the sky before dawn. The floors were pale hardwood, sleek and warm beneath my shoes. The furniture was minimalist—low white sofas, glass tables, silver accents that caught the evening light streaming through the wall-to-ceiling windows.

The view almost stole my breath. The entire city of Avron stretched beneath me, sparkling like it had been scattered with diamonds. I walked closer until my hand pressed against the cool glass. For the first time in years, I wasn’t on a runway or in front of flashing cameras. I was simply… me.

Dragging my suitcase into the bedroom, I found it decorated in soft whites and shades of sky blue. The duvet was fluffy, the curtains light and airy, the kind of room that begged you to rest. I sat down on the edge of the bed and let my hand smooth across the sheets. It felt like freedom.

But then the memory slammed back—the broad shoulders, the careless shove, my bag flying out of my hands. The stranger who didn’t even look back. My jaw tightened. “Rude doesn’t even begin to cover it,” I muttered. Whoever he was, I hoped I wouldn’t run into him again.

A buzzing sound pulled me out of my thoughts. Fallon was calling.

“Ivie, dinner at seven sharp. Yvonne insists. And trust me, you don’t say no to her when she’s cooking.”

I laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

By the time Fallon pulled up outside again, the sky had shifted into pinks and golds. As we drove, he told me Yvonne’s house was only ten minutes away. My chest warmed. After years of feeling like an outsider in Seoul, I suddenly had family so close.

When we arrived, Yvonne was waiting at the door, her smile wide enough to light up the block. She pulled me into her arms, and for a moment, the exhaustion I’d been carrying melted away.

Yvonne was half Black and half Brazilian, with skin that glowed like bronze under the porch light and curls that framed her face in a halo of wild beauty. She was everything vibrant and alive. Her movies had won ten major awards, she’d co-written Korean blockbusters, and her storytelling was so sharp it could make entire nations cry. And yet here she was, barefoot in a casual dress, welcoming me like a sister.

“You look like you fought a storm and won,” she teased, pulling me inside.

“More like lost,” I admitted, laughing.

The dining room smelled like heaven. On the table was a spread of dishes so colorful it almost looked like art. Spicy shrimp, roasted vegetables, rice, fried plantains, even chocolate cake. My stomach growled, but my first instinct was guilt.

A memory flashed—my mother standing in our Seoul kitchen, eyes narrowed as she inspected my plate. “No carbs after six. No sugar. No fried food, ever. Models don’t eat like civilians, Vivian.”

I blinked away the voice and sat down, determined to drown it. “This looks incredible.”

“That’s because it is,” Yvonne said proudly. “I made sure you’d taste freedom on your first night here.”

Fallon set down a bottle of wine, shaking his head. “She wouldn’t let me touch a single pot. Said it was a sister-welcome thing.”

We dug in, and I almost moaned at the first bite of the shrimp. The flavors exploded across my tongue—spicy, rich, nothing like the bland salads I used to survive on.

“This,” I said with my mouth full, “is happiness.”

Yvonne grinned. “Exactly. From now on, I’ll make sure you eat like a queen, not like a prisoner.”

We talked for hours, laughter spilling as easily as the wine. Yvonne told me about her new script, Fallon joked about his clients, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged at a table.

It wasn’t until Fallon leaned back in his chair and said, “Oh, by the way, Vincent’s been asking about you,” that the warmth in my chest faltered.

“Vincent?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, Vincent Evans,” Fallon replied casually. “He’s a good friend of mine. Funny enough, he’s right across from you. The other penthouse. I told him you were moving in.”

Yvonne shot him a quick look, one that carried more than she said aloud. “Solid might be pushing it,” she murmured.

I sipped my wine, hiding my curiosity. The name meant nothing to me—Vincent Evans could be anyone. But Fallon’s ease and Yvonne’s hesitation made something twist in my gut.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, the image of those broad shoulders lingered.