Chapter 2: My New Landlord

The door was still closed between us, but his scent slipped through—warm cedar, sweet citrus, and just a trace of trouble. My fingers curled around the doorknob, pulse annoyingly loud in my ears.

“Excuse me?” I finally said, still behind the door. “Did you just say you bought the building?”

“I did,” Jaxon replied easily, as if we were discussing the weather. “Whole block, actually. Was a good deal. I had no idea you lived here until the sale closed this morning. Bit of a surprise.”

I opened the door just enough to see his face.

He leaned against the frame, whiskey bottle in hand, looking like every girl's bad decision in a thousand-dollar suit. His hair was tousled in that deliberate, I-don't-care-but-I-clearly-do kind of way. His smirk was just as irritating as I remembered.

Of course he had to show up today.

“Are you seriously here to rub that in?” I asked.

“Not at all. I’m here to give you this.” He held up the bottle, wiggled it slightly. “And maybe offer you a rent discount if you’ll stop looking at me like I’m the villain in your Omega drama.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You do realize your brother and I just filed for divorce this morning?”

He gave a slow, exaggerated nod. “Yeah. It’s all over the finance tabloids already. ‘Perfect Luna Walks Out on Alpha CEO.’ Bold move.”

“Glad to know you’re keeping up.”

“I always keep up when you’re involved,” he said.

My mouth went dry.

“Are you flirting with me?” I asked.

He grinned wider. “I haven’t decided yet. Can I come in?”

“No.”

He laughed. “Fair enough.”

I should have closed the door. I should’ve told him to leave, block his number, and avoid him like a sensible person. But instead, I stepped outside into the hallway and crossed my arms.

Jaxon’s eyes swept over me, slower than they should’ve. “You look different.”

“Good or bad?”

“Good. Like you’re finally breathing your own air.”

That knocked something loose in my chest, and I hated him a little for it. Cyrus never said things like that. He never noticed anything unless it reflected on him.

“Why are you really here, Jaxon?” I asked. “Whiskey and bad timing don’t feel like coincidence.”

His expression shifted, just slightly. “Cyrus is going to come after you.”

“I can handle Cyrus.”

“Can you?” he asked gently. “You know how he operates. He won’t make a scene. He’ll make moves. He’ll whisper in the right ears, freeze your accounts, isolate you socially—”

“I said I can handle him,” I interrupted.

He nodded once, backing off. “Okay.”

We stood in silence for a few beats. I realized I’d stepped closer. The hallway light buzzed faintly overhead. For a second, I forgot why I ever thought Jaxon Black was the dangerous one. Maybe because, unlike Cyrus, he never pretended to be anything else.

“Do you want this or not?” he asked, holding out the whiskey again.

“I don’t drink anymore,” I lied.

He gave a small shrug. “Guess I’ll drink alone, then. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He turned to walk away, and I felt it—the tug of something that hadn’t existed in years. Not a bond. Not anything primal. Just a very inconvenient curiosity.

“Wait,” I said.

He looked over his shoulder.

“Why did you stop talking to me?” I asked, surprising even myself. “After the wedding. After everything.”

Jaxon hesitated. “Because you married my brother.”

“That didn’t stop you from texting me for six months after.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter. “But it stopped you from answering.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came. And maybe that was the answer.

He turned again and walked down the hall, the sound of his shoes echoing long after he disappeared around the corner.

I exhaled, stepped back inside, and shut the door.

---

Two days passed. No more surprise visits. Just a polite email from the building’s new management confirming that all tenants could expect upgrades “soon.”

I tried to ignore the implication. I tried harder to ignore the fact that I checked the hallway camera feed twice a day, hoping—no, not hoping, just… preparing.

I went about my life. Tea in the mornings. Therapy at noon. Answering the dozens of carefully-worded messages from colleagues trying to gauge whether I was falling apart or glowing up. I even wrote a page of my memoir draft, though most of it was just one long sentence that said “I feel like a ghost with good skincare.”

On the third day, a knock came again.

This time, it was a delivery box.

No note.

Inside: a brand-new electric kettle. Glass and chrome. Top of the line.

I stared at it, then at my old, clunky one on the counter.

Of course.

I texted him. I didn’t have to guess if he still had the same number.

Elara: Did you send me a kettle?

Jaxon: I saw your old one the other day. It looked like it needed mercy.

Elara: Are you stalking my kitchen now?

Jaxon: Relax. I own the building. I’m just protecting my investment.

I almost threw the kettle across the room.

Later that night, my intercom buzzed.

“Elara,” his voice came through, static but unmistakably amused, “Can I come up for five minutes? I brought pizza.”

“Why would I want pizza?”

“It’s the kind with garlic crust.”

A long pause.

“Five minutes,” I muttered and pressed the door release.

He looked entirely too comfortable in my apartment when he arrived. He kicked off his shoes at the door like he lived here, set the pizza on the coffee table, and scanned the space.

“Cute place,” he said.

“Thanks. The landlord’s a little invasive.”

He grinned. “Yeah, I’ve heard that too.”

We sat on opposite ends of the couch. He opened the pizza box like he was unveiling art. The smell hit me immediately. Garlic, cheese, thin crust, maybe mushrooms.

“You remembered my order,” I said before I could stop myself.

“I remember everything you tell me,” he said, biting into a slice.

I ate in silence, because it was easier than responding.

Halfway through a second slice, he asked, “Do you miss it?”

“What?”

“The old life. The Luna title. The staff. The show.”

I considered lying. But I didn’t.

“I miss pretending I was important.”

He looked at me, eyes darker now. “You are important. You were just surrounded by people too self-absorbed to realize it.”

The compliment shouldn’t have hit so hard. But it did. Because no one ever said things like that to me unless they wanted something in return.

And right now, Jaxon didn’t want anything. Not really.

“I hated the silence,” I admitted. “The house was so big, and Cyrus was always working or traveling. I used to put on interviews just to hear people talk.”

Jaxon leaned back, resting his arm over the couch.

“I always thought he was a moron,” he said conversationally. “You don’t leave an Omega like you alone in a house like that.”

“I think he liked it quiet.”

“I think he liked control.”

He wasn’t wrong. I hated how not-wrong he was.

I leaned back too, resting my head against the cushion. For a moment, we both just… breathed.

“Jaxon,” I said finally.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know what this is.”

He looked at me, expression unreadable. “Neither do I.”

“But it can’t be anything,” I said quickly. “You’re his brother.”

He didn’t argue.

Instead, he stood, walked toward the door, and paused with his hand on the knob.

“I won’t touch you if that’s what you want,” he said. “But just so we’re clear…”

I looked up.

“I never stopped wanting to.”

Then he left.

And I sat there, pizza growing cold, the new kettle humming quietly in the background, my heartbeat louder than both.

---

The next morning, I woke to a new email from the building office.

Subject: Notice of Fire Alarm Inspection

Message: Management will be entering your unit briefly today. Please ensure any pets are secured.

I stared at the time.

They were already on their way.

I stood to grab my robe—and realized too late—

I had slept in nothing but one of Jaxon’s old shirts.

From five years ago.

From the night before my wedding.

And it still smelled like him.