Chapter 2: Enemies Under One Roof

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the thin curtains. It hit Julia straight in the eyes, merciless and far too bright. She groaned, rolling onto her side—then froze as pain flared through her shoulders.

Right. Last night.

She pushed herself up slowly, wincing at the soreness in her arms from hauling a full-grown man up three flights of stairs. Her tiny apartment felt unfamiliar in the daylight, too quiet, too crowded. The air smelled faintly of rain… and whiskey.

Julia padded into the living room—and nearly tripped over herself.

Brandon sat on her couch, alive and very much awake, one ankle resting casually on his knee as he scrolled through his phone like he owned the place. His tuxedo was gone, replaced by a wrinkled dress shirt he’d clearly slept in. Dark hair fell into his eyes, giving him a lazy, irritatingly handsome look that made her teeth itch.

“Oh good,” he said without looking up. “You’re awake. Where’s breakfast?”

Julia stared at him, brain short-circuiting. “Excuse me?”

He finally glanced up, brows lifting with mild surprise. “You dragged me in. I assumed you’d at least have the decency to serve your guest a meal.”

Her eye twitched.

She marched into the kitchenette, yanked open a cupboard, and grabbed the nearest thing she could find—a pack of instant noodles. She tossed it onto his lap.

“There’s your breakfast. Hot water’s in the kettle. You can read the instructions, right, Mr. Heir?”

Brandon blinked down at the packet, then back at her. “You expect me to cook this… this peasant food myself?”

“Congratulations,” Julia said sweetly, folding her arms. “You’re catching on.”

He squinted at the packaging like it was written in another language. Slowly, carefully, he tore it open—only to rip the seasoning packet too. Powder spilled across the counter.

Julia winced as he poked at the kettle, lifting the lid with his bare hand.

“Hot!” he yelped, shaking his fingers.

She snorted. “You’ve never boiled water before, have you?”

“I have chefs,” he shot back defensively.

He dumped the dry noodles into a mug, poured hot water halfway, then frowned when he realized something was missing. He tried sprinkling the seasoning in, most of it sticking to the rim. The smell of half-cooked noodles filled the apartment.

Julia watched for three seconds before bursting out laughing.

“You—pfft—you really don’t know how to make instant noodles? This is basic survival 101!”

Brandon scowled, cheeks reddening as he slurped a soggy strand. “It tastes like cardboard.”

“That’s because you messed it up,” she said, leaning against the counter. “Consider it karma.”

Her laughter faded when her eyes landed on the stack of unopened bills on the dining table. Utility notices. Rent reminders. Red stamps screaming overdue.

She crossed the room quickly and shoved them under a magazine.

Too late.

The weight pressed against her chest anyway. Double shifts. Skipped meals. Counting coins like they were lifelines. Pride kept her from borrowing, but pride didn’t pay landlords.

“Eat your noodles and get out,” she said flatly. “I have work.”

Brandon tilted his head, studying her. Not mocking. Not amused. Sharp. Like he was peeling back layers she’d spent years building.

Before she could snap at him again, a heavy knock rattled the front door.

“Miss Julia! Rent’s due today. No more extensions!”

Her stomach dropped.

She forced a smile as she cracked the door open. “Mr. Lee, I—I just need a few more days—”

“No more excuses,” the landlord snapped. “By tomorrow, or you’re out. I’ve been patient, but patience doesn’t pay bills.”

The door slammed shut.

Julia stood there, hand still on the knob, lungs burning as if she’d forgotten how to breathe. Her chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.

Behind her, Brandon leaned against the couch, arms crossed. Sunlight caught in his messy hair, shadowing his expression—but his lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.

“So,” he said softly. “You’re broke.”

Her head snapped toward him. “Shut up.”

“It’s an observation.”

“It’s none of your business.”

He stepped closer, voice lowering. “What if I make it my business? I’ll pay your rent.”

Julia froze.

He continued, calm and deliberate. “In exchange, let me stay here. Just temporarily. Until things… settle down.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. The audacity. The humiliation. Depending on him—of all people.

“Are you insane?” she demanded.

“Probably,” he said lightly. “But I’ve got nowhere else to go. And you”—his gaze flicked meaningfully to the door—“can’t afford to kick me out.”

She hated that he was right.

Her jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed no. But eviction loomed like a guillotine.

“Ground rules,” she said finally. “You don’t touch my stuff. You don’t bring anyone here. You don’t act like you own this place.”

Brandon smiled wider. “Deal.”

She pointed at him. “And you sleep on the couch.”

“I wouldn’t dare steal your luxurious bed.”

Julia exhaled sharply, turning away before he could see the crack in her armor.

Her rent. His money.

Her pride. His audacity.

Enemies under one roof.

The game had just begun.