BOUGHT BY THE RUTHLESS WILD BILLIONAIRE

LOT NUMBER SEVENThe contract arrives at my apartment the next morning via courier. Not email. Not mail. A person in a suit hands it directly to me at my door like it's something that requires verification of receipt. I sign for it even though I haven't read it yet, and the moment my signature is on that clipboard, I'm thinking about how I've just confirmed that my life is no longer entirely my own.The documents are thick. There's a confidentiality agreement that makes the previous one look like a napkin sketch. There's a compensation package that's tied to performance metrics and client satisfaction scores. There's a section about availability that seems designed to own all of my time, not just the business hours. There's a clause about discretion that essentially means I can't tell anyone about the events I plan or the clients I work with or any part of my day that falls under the umbrella of my new job. There's a three-page section about professional appearance and deportment that

ONE NIGHT, HE SAID"I want to take you to dinner."Dominic says it in his office three days after the first meeting, when Nora has managed to impress exactly two of his three potential clients and the third one is on the fence but leaning toward commitment. He doesn't ask. He states it like it's a foregone conclusion, like her availability is something he's already accounted for in whatever mental calculation he does about the world.Nora looks up from her laptop where she's been reviewing venue options for his mother's gala. Her boss buying her meals has the potential to be either completely professional or completely complicated, and she hasn't yet figured out which category this falls into. The problem is that she suspects it might be both."Is this a working dinner?" she asks. "Because if it is, I need to charge it differently.""No," he says. He's standing by the window with that posture that suggests he's never been uncomfortable in his own body. "This is personal."The word land

THE PENTHOUSEThe penthouse is designed by someone who understands that luxury is about space and simplicity and the complete absence of anything unnecessary. Floor to ceiling windows frame the entire city like it's been arranged specifically for his benefit. The furniture is minimal. The color palette is concrete and steel and cream. It's beautiful in a way that feels purposeful but also deeply lonely.Nora walks through it like she's walking through a museum exhibit about a man she's trying to understand. There are no photographs on the walls. There are no personal touches. There are no signs that anyone actually lives here except for the desk in one corner covered with work and the kitchen that looks like it's never been used for cooking."You really do this, don't you," she says. "Build spaces that are completely functional and completely empty at the same time.""I spend twelve hours a day in my office," he says. "This is where I sleep. Everything else happens somewhere else."She

SHE DOESN'T FLINCHShe shows up at the office the next morning and he's not there. Not in his office. Not in the conference room where she waits for the morning strategy meeting. Not anywhere that she can find without asking his assistant, which she won't do because asking will admit that she's looking for him, and she won't give him that satisfaction. So she works instead. She coordinates with the florist about his mother's gala. She updates the seating chart. She sends three emails about lighting specifications. She does everything perfectly because perfection is the only thing she can control right now.He finally shows up at three in the afternoon. He walks past her temporary desk without acknowledging her and goes directly into his office. He doesn't close the door completely, which means she can see him through the glass partition, which is exactly the design flaw she identified yesterday morning when she was trying to understand what he was thinking. The walls are made of glass.

HER EXIT, HIS SILENCEShe arrives at his penthouse at six fifty-five because she's the kind of person who shows up early, and he opens the door at exactly seven which means he was waiting behind it watching the time. His kitchen smells like disaster. Something is burning on the stove while something else is simultaneously undercooked on the counter. He's wearing jeans and a gray t-shirt that looks like he actually owns clothes that aren't tailored for corporate intimidation, and he looks so far outside his element that she almost laughs. Almost. But the moment she steps inside and he closes the door behind her, the weight of everything that's happened crashes back and laughing becomes impossible."I made pasta," he says, gesturing toward the kitchen like it's a crime scene he's hoping she won't investigate too closely. "It's probably terrible."She walks over and looks at the stove. The pasta is simultaneously overcooked and somehow still crunchy in a way that suggests he pulled it fro