Chapter 7

Maya 

The neon glow of the streetlamp flickers through the thin curtains of my tiny London apartment.

I sink onto the faded velvet sofa, surrounded by towering stacks of medical journals, dog-eared books, and potted plants that somehow thrive despite my erratic schedule. The apartment is barely big enough to stretch out in, but for the first time all day, I can be myself.

A sharp knock at my front door shatters the quiet.

I frown, checking the time on my phone. It’s nearly midnight. I pull my cardigan tighter around my shoulders, walk over, and peer through the peephole. My stomach drops.

Marcus, Ethan's agent, is standing in the hallway, looking around frantically like a man fleeing a crime scene.

I unlock the deadbolt and pull the door open. "Marcus? What are you doing here at this hour?"

"We have a massive problem, Maya," Marcus gasps. Without waiting for an answer, Marcus slipped past me and into the apartment. He runs a hand over his balding head, holding up his tablet. "The paparazzi followed your taxi from the gala. Look at this, the story has been live for over an hour."

I look at the screen. A prominent gossip blog has already posted a grainy photo of me walking into my apartment building, still wearing the emerald green silk dress.

The headline screams: THE GREAT FOOTBALL CHARADE? DR. BENNETT SPOTTED RETURNING TO HER OWN APARTMENT AFTER INFAMOUS GALA KISS. IS ETHAN CROSS’S ROMANCE A TOTAL FAKE?

"The comments are already exploding," Marcus groans, pacing back and forth, stepping dangerously close to my favorite monstera plant. "Alistair is furious. The sponsors are panicking again. If the media proves this is a PR stunt, the club loses everything, and your brother's surgery contract is null and void."

The mention of Leo’s surgery feels like a physical punch to my gut. My hands lock into fists. "So what does the board want me to do?"

"You have to move in with him. Tonight."

I freeze. The air leaves my lungs completely. "Excuse me? Move into his penthouse? Absolutely not. That completely destroys whatever boundaries I have left."

"Maya, please listen to me," Marcus begs, stopping his pacing to look at me with genuine desperation. "The paparazzi have already set up a camp outside your building. Look out the window."

I step over to the glass, parting the curtains just a fraction. Down on the rain-slicked street, three black SUVs are parked across the road. Men with massive camera lenses are leaning against the hoods, staring straight up at my building.

A cold wave of dread settles in my chest. The one place where I could disappear has just become another stage.

"Ethan’s penthouse has underground security, private elevators, and high-level surveillance," Marcus says softly. "The media can’t get to you there. And more importantly, when the paparazzi see your suitcases being loaded into his car, it solidifies the narrative. You aren't his paid handler. You are his live-in girlfriend."

My mother's old words surface before I can stop them. "If I don't do it myself, it crashes” her toxic voice echoes in my head. I have always been the one to sacrifice my own comfort to keep my family afloat. I can't let my pride cost Leo his legs.

I let out a long, defeated breath, I look around my apartment one last time. The faded sofa.The crooked bookshelf. Leo's birthday photo.The tiny kitchen. Home… "Give me twenty minutes to pack a bag."

Thirty minutes later, the luxury sedan pulls into the underground garage of Ethan's Luxury apartment complex.

The silence down here is absolute. The concrete walls are pristine, lined with multi-million-pound sports cars. Marcus grabs my two suitcases from the trunk and guides me toward a private elevator that requires a biometric scan.

The elevator doors glide open, revealing Ethan's penthouse.

It looks exactly like his character profile: the floors are a seamless, cold grey marble. The walls are stark white, devoid of any personal photos, art, or warmth. The furniture is minimalist and dark. It doesn't look like a home. It looks like a high-end hotel room for a transient guest.

Ethan is standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the London rain. He has already changed into a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, but his shoulders are tense.

He turns as the elevator doors click shut. His eyes narrow into sharp slits as they land on my suitcases, then move up to my face.

"What is she doing here, Marcus?" Ethan’s voice is a low, dangerous growl.

"The paparazzi busted her apartment," Marcus explains quickly, dropping my bags by the door. "The board ordered the move-in effective immediately to save the narrative. Marcus's gaze darts between Ethan and me. Whatever he sees on our faces seems to convince him this conversation is hopeless. He forces an awkward smile, clears his throat, and edges back toward the elevator. "Right... I'll let you two sort this out. Goodnight." 

Before either of us can stop him, the elevator doors slide open, and he disappears inside.

The penthouse falls into a suffocating, heavy silence. The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on.

Ethan crosses his massive arms over his chest, his athletic frame casting a long shadow over the marble floor. He looks at me like I am an invading army.

"I believe I made myself clear in the car, Doctor," he says, his voice dropping into a chilly, arrogant register. "This is strictly professional. "You're here because the board says so. Nothing more."

I lift my chin, refusing to let his hostility push me back. I drag my suitcase a step closer, my eyes locking onto his stormy hazel gaze.

"Trust me, Mr. Cross, I would rather be anywhere else than in this frozen museum of an apartment," I reply, my voice smooth and cutting like glass. "But my apartment is surrounded by journalists because of your punch and your impulsive kiss. I am here to secure my brother's future. So cut the alpha attitude, show me to the guest room, and stay out of my way."

Ethan’s jaw clenches so hard a muscle twitches violently in his cheek. He steps toward me, invading my personal space until I can smell the clean scent of his metallic cologne, but I refuse to blink.

"Fine," he spits out, his eyes burning with an intense, frustrated fire. "Guest room is down the hall to the left. Don't touch my things. And don't expect me to play host."

He turns his back on me and walks down the opposite corridor, slamming his bedroom door shut.

I look around the cold, empty penthouse. My skin is tingling from his proximity, and my heart is hammering against my ribs. Six months, I remind myself, gripping the handle of my bag. Just survive six months.