Chapter 4

Sylvie took the No. 21 bus. By the time she arrived at Islewood Residences, the address Finn had sent, it was 8:40 am.

The security guards at the gate wore neatly pressed uniforms and stood ramrod straight. She'd barely dragged her suitcase over when they stopped her.

Someone had clearly called ahead. Once they verified her ID, they quickly added her temporary access to the entry system.

Sylvie thanked them and walked past the gate.

Islewood Residences covered a huge area. It was lush with trees and so quiet that it felt like a private park.

She followed the GPS to Building 3. It was a low-rise luxury block with only six floors and two sprawling units per floor. Each unit had its own private elevator.

The elevator took her straight to the third floor. When the doors opened, she stepped out into a wide private foyer. She felt her palms go a little clammy as she stood in front of the heavy security door.

This place was worth its weight in gold. In all her life, this was Sylvie's first time setting foot in somewhere like this, much less living here.

She took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock. The door opened almost immediately.

Finn stood there in a sharp suit. He kept his voice low as he said, "Ms. Hart, Mr. Quinton is still resting. Please keep it down."

Sylvie checked the time. It was almost 9:00 am, and Elliott still wasn't up.

She didn't ask questions, though. She just nodded and said, "Okay."

Finn gave her a quick tour. The place was over 3,000 square feet, and the decor ran in black, white, and gray. The apartment itself was spacious and immaculate, but it was so cold it didn't feel lived in at all.

Beyond the living room was a full wall of floor-to-ceiling windows facing the community's central gardens. There was a tea room, dining room, two kitchens for different cooking styles, and a separate entertaining area.

The master bedroom was at the very end, with a medical room next door. The study was locked.

Finn pointed at those few doors, his tone turning stern. "You're not allowed to enter the master bedroom, the medical room, and the study without Mr. Quinton's permission. Most of the time, just pay attention to what he needs and work around that."

Sylvie took it all in carefully. "Alright, got it."

Finn took a call and left soon after.

Sylvie wheeled her suitcase into the guest room next to the study. She didn't have much stuff, but it was almost noon when she finished unpacking.

She'd gone out a couple of times in between, but the master bedroom door had stayed tightly shut, with no sign of movement inside.

She was getting hungry, so she went to check out the kitchen. Since she was living here now, she couldn't afford to blow the first impression she gave her new boss.

Finn had sent her a list of Elliott's dietary restrictions. Drawing on her own experience, she put together three light, simple dishes.

Sylvie had just set the last plate on the table when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and saw a call from her best friend, Noelle Granger.

The second she picked up, an outraged voice blasted through the receiver. "Syl! What the hell is Joe Hart up to? He brought some woman to our restaurant, ordered all the most expensive signature dishes, and even peeled shrimp for her himself! Did he give you a heads-up about this? Is he out of his mind?"

Joe Hart.

Sylvie's heart gave a tiny jolt at the sound of that name.

Joe was really Jonah. She'd been the one to name him that five years ago.

Back then, he'd been covered in injuries, and his memory was wiped clean. He'd looked as pitiful as a puppy someone had tossed out.

She'd looked into his deep-set eyes and almost drowned in that dangerous, smoldering charm. As if under a spell, she'd asked him whether he remembered anything about himself. He told her he remembered his name had something that sounded like "Joe", so she'd gone with that.

Then she'd given him her surname.

Sylvie had once thought that name was a unique bond, something that belonged to just the two of them. She never expected that his real name was Jonah.

She swallowed the bitterness in her throat and said calmly, "Elle, we broke up."

The other end of the line went dead silent. A few seconds later, Noelle practically shrieked, "What? You guys broke up? Did that bastard land himself a sugar mommy or something? He's dressed to the nines today and looking like some big-shot executive. I'm telling you, his suit has to be five figures.

"That asshole. I really thought he only had eyes for you, yet here he is, cozying up to some rich young woman. He even had the nerve to bring her to my restaurant! Watch me go over there and give him a piece of my mind for you!"

Sylvie panicked when she heard Noelle getting ready to storm over. "Don't go!"

Only after blurting that out did she remember someone else was in the apartment. She quickly dropped her voice.

"There's nothing between us anymore, okay? Don't do anything rash. And he didn't latch onto some rich woman. He's the rich kid."

Sylvie let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. As if the Emerson heir needed to leech off a rich woman.

Noelle was just like her—they were both ordinary young women who'd clawed their way up from some tiny town. Noelle had worked hard to land a decent job at an upscale private dining restaurant in Whithaven. Sylvie couldn't drag her into this and have her offend Jonah on her behalf, lest she get fired with one word from him.

Noelle was thrown on the other end of the line. "Hold up. Syl, run that by me again. What do you mean he's the rich kid? Isn't he broke?"

She was about to press for details when there was a sudden sound of a door opening behind Sylvie.

Sylvie's spine went rigid. She hurriedly lowered her voice and whispered into the phone, "I'll explain later. I have to go."

She hung up and turned around.

Elliott was standing in the master bedroom doorway. He wore a loose gray silk loungewear set, the collar falling open slightly to reveal a stretch of his collarbone.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and long-legged. His tousled hair fell over his forehead, softening his sharp edges a little, but it couldn't hide the detachment that came from deep in his bones.

His features were strikingly deep-set, with high brows, a straight nose, and thin lips that were almost bloodless. His eyes were beautiful; the outer corners tipped down just a touch.

There wasn't much emotion in them, but they were as cold as if a layer of fog lay between him and the world. It was like he was looking at people, and at the same time, no one really registered.

Sylvie's breath hitched. She tightened her grip on her phone without thinking.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" she asked, a little flustered. "I'll take my calls in the bedroom from now on."

Elliott said nothing. His gaze swept over her, cool and indifferent, before he walked past her toward the dining area. At six-foot-three, he carried an almost tangible pressure. As he passed, Sylvie instinctively shifted half a step to the side.

He stopped at the dining table, his eyes settling on the three dishes laid out. Creamy vegetable soup with soft bread quietly bubbled in a pot, sending up a faint aroma.

"You made this?" he asked, arching a brow. His voice was rough with sleep.

"Yeah." Sylvie hurried to ladle out a small bowl of soup and handed it to him. "Mr. Davies said you haven't had breakfast yet. This is easy on the stomach. I'm not sure if it's to your taste."

Elliott took the bowl, sat down, and picked up a spoon for a sip. The soup was thick and creamy, and the vegetables and bread had perfect texture. It all went down warm and velvety, spreading a gentle heat through his stomach. It felt good.

With a fork, he speared a piece of sauteed zucchini.

"Not bad." His tone stayed flat, but he didn't stop eating.

Sylvie let out a silent breath of relief and sat down opposite him, still feeling awkward and self-conscious. She kept her head down and sipped her soup, but her mind was all over the place.

How much of that call with Noelle had he heard? Did he think she'd dumped her ex to marry him for money?

Her phone suddenly buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out to see a message from Noelle—a photo and a voice message.

In the photo, Jonah was sitting in a private room at the restaurant, dressed in a sharp suit and tie. Next to him was Michelle, who'd been hanging off his arm outside the presidential suite that day.

She was beaming, her head tipped back as she chatted with him. His face was turned slightly toward her, the corner of his mouth hooked in the faintest curve.

His gaze was gentle and patient, just like the way he used to look at Sylvie.

Her fingers stiffened over the screen, but her chest didn't hurt the way it had two days ago. She only found it all mocking.

She meant to press and hold the voice message to convert it to text, but her fingertips were slick with sweat. The audio suddenly blasted out loud.

"Look at this bastard! Right after breaking up with you, he—"

Noelle's furious, booming voice exploded through the quiet dining room.

Sylvie's face paled. She fumbled to turn the audio off, but half of the message had already landed in Elliott's ears, loud and clear.

He slowly lifted his eyes to her, his gaze cool and laced with a frosty kind of scrutiny.