The Locked Door

The first rule told Zariel where she could stand, the next told her how she was allowed to feel.

She read them at Kaelen's kitchen island, turning the pages of the folder he had dropped in front of her. Her duffel rested on the floor beside her foot, the only familiar object in the room.

"No changes to the decor," she read aloud. "No public appearances without approval. And you actually wrote emotional neutrality into a household agreement?"

Kaelen unbuttoned his vest. "This arrangement must remain manageable."

"You could have bought a second refrigerator. It would obey every one of these rules."

He leaned against the other side of the island, waiting for her to finish. Beyond him, the windows showed the city spread out below, thousands of people going home without a folder instructing them how to live.

"I won't interfere with your private life," she said.

"But I have one too. You haven't hired furniture."

"You have been hired to fulfil a specific role."

"Which doesn't require permission to experience an emotion in my bedroom."

Kaelen looked at the page she was holding. His expression gave her no help, yet she noticed how his fingers pressed against the edge of the marble.

"My first marriage was arranged," he said. "It served our families. Affection was not part of it."

Zariel lowered the folder. She knew he had been married, although no one at work treated it as something they could mention casually.

"Your wife died," she said, keeping her voice low.

"In an accident. I spent years asking whether the distance between us helped put her there."

She watched him instead of the clauses. He hadn't raised his voice, but the space after that sentence stopped her reaching for another joke.

"You think rules would have changed what happened?" she asked.

"I think I will not repeat the arrangement that preceded it."

"We're already in an arranged marriage, Kaelen."

She touched the folder. "Writing down that nobody can feel anything doesn't make us different people."

He straightened away from the island, his hand leaving the marble. The conversation had reached somewhere he was unwilling to remain.

"This is a paid agreement. The boundaries keep it that way."

She could have asked about the accident, the guilt, the woman whose absence had become a set of instructions. Instead she closed the folder. Her family's debt had been cleared, and her job was to play his partner, not coax his history out of him.

"Then remember my boundaries too. I am your temporary partner, and I expect you to remember the difference between that and ownership."

"Your position is understood," he said, picking up his tablet.

She didn't believe him quite as readily as he expected. On the far wall, a small camera faced the central gallery, and she wondered how much understanding mattered to a man who watched every entrance.

"Martha has placed your belongings in the east wing," he continued. "She manages the household. The west wing contains my bedroom, study, and servers."

"And that wing is forbidden," Zariel said, reading his expression.

"At all times. You also remain in your quarters after midnight. The cameras detect movement in the gallery, and an unverified presence can trigger lockdown."

She looked down the corridor. "Does your house know I'm living here?"

"Follow the restrictions and there will be no difficulty."

"Very welcoming. Which way to my assigned existence?"

He indicated the corridor to her right and turned toward the kitchen terminal. Lines of figures appeared on its screen before she had picked up her bag.

Zariel left him there and walked through the gallery. Black marks crossed white canvases along the walls, art she would have needed someone to explain. She kept her bag clear of them as she passed.

Her bedroom door was heavy, finished in black, with a metal handle that felt cool beneath her palm. She opened it and stood just inside.

Kaelen had returned to work without checking whether she had found the room. She kept her footsteps quiet anyway, then caught herself doing it. Even here, after office hours, she was moving as though she might interrupt something more important than herself.

The bed was enormous. White linen lay smooth across it, and the wardrobe stood open on clothes chosen by someone who had never asked what she liked. Glass covered the outer wall, giving her a view she could never have afforded.

She put the duffel on the bed and unzipped it. Her blanket looked faded against the linen. Zariel spread it over the corner anyway, smoothing the edge with a stubborn little satisfaction.

At least she could recognize that part of the room.

From the doorway she could still hear Kaelen working at the terminal. She wanted to stop hearing him, stop wondering whether he would come down the hall with another instruction.

She crossed the room and closed the door behind her.

A motor sounded outside, followed by a hard click.

Zariel tried the handle. It moved beneath her hand, but the door stayed shut. She pushed harder, then pulled, feeling the mechanism refuse her.

"Kaelen?" She knocked with her knuckles against the wood.

No answer came. She tried the handle again, her palm slipping on the metal, and put her shoulder against the door.

"Mr. Sterling, the door has locked. I can't open it."

The silence beyond it made her raise her voice.

She struck the wood with her fist, then pressed her ear to it, listening for footsteps.

"Let me out. I am not asking for permission to walk around, I am telling you I can't open my door."

Her room had a view over the whole city and no way into the hallway. She turned toward the bed, then back again, unwilling to step away in case someone finally answered.

The handle remained still beneath her fingers. She slid down against the door, holding her knees close while the air system hummed above her.

She had saved Brenda's home. Now she could not leave her own bedroom.