Chapter Three: Rules of the House

He had a list. Of course he had a list.

I found it on the plane. Octavia, his assistant, met me at the airport with a slim black folder. Razor-sharp, efficient, polished. She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak more than necessary. She handed it over, gave me a precise nod, and left. Her posture alone screamed: Do not waste my time.

Inside: a two-week schedule, a penthouse layout, a roster of staff and their names, and a single page titled Expectations.

I opened it. The rules weren’t cruel. They were thorough. I was to be present at public events. I was  discuss the arrangement with anyone, including family, without prior approval. I wasn’t to bring guests to the penthouse unannounced. I wasn’t to interfere in his business or speak to the press.

The back of the page was blank. I found a pen in my bag and started writing.

*He will not make decisions about my schedule without my input. He will not speak to me in front of staff the way he speaks to a board member. He will not enter my private rooms without knocking. He will give me one week before the first public event.*

I photographed the page and texted it to Octavia.

By the time we landed, she replied: Mr. Marcello has reviewed your addendum. He accepts two of four points. She didn’t say which two. I’d find out soon enough.

---

The penthouse was everything I expected. Cold. Expensive. Controlled. And somehow… not uncomfortable.

Art on the walls didn’t look acquired; it looked chosen. Books on the shelves weren’t just for decoration, I could tell by the spines someone had actually read them. Each detail suggested he cared enough to maintain appearances but not enough to make it feel warm.

I got the east wing. Private entrance from the elevator hall. I could come and go without crossing his space. He had thought of that. I didn’t know whether to admire it or resent it.

The staff seemed like extensions of him. Names memorized, movements precise, polite without smiling. One glance at a uniformed butler told me this apartment ran on a silent clock, and I would have to learn the rhythm fast.

I unpacked the essentials: laptop, chargers, document folder, two changes of clothes. Everything else could arrive at leisure with the car service. I moved through the space, taking note of each door, each nook, the tiny details that might matter when someone like Dominic was observing.

---

At nine, he arrived. I was in the kitchen, eating takeout from a place that delivered in under thirty minutes. He stopped in the doorway. I didn’t get up.

"Which two?" I asked, not looking up.

"The schedule," he said. "And the knock."

I looked at my plate. "Which two did you reject?"

He poured water from the filter on the counter. "The board member comment was vague. And a week is too long before the first event."

"How long?"

"Four days."

I considered it. "Fine."

He took his water and left without another word.

I sat there, chewing, thinking. Negotiating with him was like dancing with someone who already knew the steps, who expected you to keep pace but would never lead you. I hadn’t lost or won. I’d simply existed in his rhythm. That was… strangely satisfying.

---

By midnight, Octavia emailed me the first event: a gala. I almost closed it before I saw the guest list. Third names down: Garrett Shaw. Priya Nair.

Four days. I had four days.

I leaned back in the chair and studied the email like a chessboard. Every name, every connection mattered. I could feel the gears in my head turning, already calculating how I would show up, how I would present myself. Every decision I made now was a move in a larger game.

I thought about the Expectations page again. About my own list. About what he had accepted and what he had rejected. It wasn’t just rules. It was a structure. I would navigate it. I would bend it to my advantage without breaking it.

The city lights of New York twinkled beneath me through the penthouse windows. It was beautiful. Controlled. Mine, in a sense, because I was determined to make it mine.

And yet… I couldn’t stop thinking about Garrett. About Priya. About the fact that four days from now, at the first event, I’d see them again. I had a window. Not much, but enough.

I set my phone on the counter. I didn’t need to reread the email. I already knew. Every second counted.

I would arrive. I would stand. I would be present. And they would see me.