Chapter Five: Hartwell Residences, Unfortunately

If you ever want to feel poor in a way that’s spiritually humbling, I highly recommend walking into a luxury apartment building wearing black thrift store pants and shoes that squeak when you’re nervous.

Hartwell Residences didn’t even look like a place where people lived. It looked like a place where people were displayed.

The lobby was all glass and pale stone and minimalist furniture that screamed, No one has ever eaten pizza on this couch. A wall sized waterfall feature burbled softly in the corner like it was trying to calm everyone down.

It wasn’t working on me.

I stepped onto the glossy floor and immediately became aware of every single thing about myself, my ponytail, my backpack, the fact that my hands were cold, the fact that I was here to clean and not here to… I don’t know, buy a penthouse and name it after my vibes.

A security desk sat near the elevators. Two guards in crisp uniforms stood behind it, both with the posture of men who did not laugh at jokes and did not blink on purpose.

I approached anyway, because being brave is mostly just doing things while your insides try to escape.

“Hi,” I said, keeping my voice polite and normal. “I’m with Westbridge Staffing. I’m here for a four-to-seven shift.”

One of them looked me up and down like he was scanning for hidden cameras or hidden chaos.

“Name?” he asked.

“Quinn Parker.”

He tapped on a tablet. The other guard watched me the way a hawk watches a mouse that might be carrying contraband.

The first guard nodded once. “Phone on silent.”

“It is,” I said quickly, and then immediately wondered if he could hear my heart pounding from across the desk.

He slid a small envelope toward me without smiling. It was labeled with neat black text:

WESTBRIDGE STAFFING — UNIT ACCESS

Under that, a code: B-1708.

“Elevator on the right,” he said. “Service mode. Don’t wander.”

“I don’t wander,” I assured him.

He stared at me like that was the funniest lie he’d heard all day.

I took the envelope, nodded, and walked toward the elevators with as much confidence as a person can fake while wondering if the building can sense fear and will lock you out as a defense mechanism.

Inside the elevator, the buttons didn’t say normal things like 17. They said things like Sky Lounge and Private Terrace and Wellness Deck.

People here didn’t go to the gym. They went to the wellness deck.

I pressed 17 and watched the doors close on my reflection, plain, clean, anxious.

“This is fine,” I told myself quietly. “This is just cleaning. You are a normal person going to a normal job.”

The elevator glided upward in complete silence, because of course it did. Even the elevator here was rich enough to be calm.

When the doors opened, the hallway was carpeted so thick it swallowed my footsteps. The lights were warm and dim and made everything feel like a hotel.

I found unit B-1708 without any trouble, mostly because the numbers were discreetly engraved like the building didn’t want to embarrass itself by being too obvious.

I held the envelope like it might bite me and stepped into the small alcove outside the door.

Okay.

Professional time.

I opened the envelope. Inside: a keycard, a paper with a door code, and a list labeled SITE NOTES.

I scanned it.

Use supplied products only.

No photos.

No interaction with residents unless necessary.

If resident is present, announce yourself and wait for acknowledgment.

If resident requests additional services, refer them to site coordinator.

I frowned.

That last one sounded like I’d be cleaning for someone who was… demanding.

Or someone who had special rules.

Or someone who was.

My brain tried to complete the thought with something ridiculous, and I shut it down immediately.

Stop it.

I slid the keycard through the lock. A soft beep answered.

I paused, took a breath, and knocked anyway, because I had read the site notes and I was not trying to get tased on my first day.

“Hi,” I called, not too loud. “Westbridge Staffing.”

No answer.

I waited a beat.

Still nothing.

Okay.

I entered the code, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

The apartment was… stupid.

That was the only word my brain could supply.

Stupidly nice. Stupidly clean. Stupidly expensive.

The entryway opened into a wide living area with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Westbridge like the city was a painting someone had commissioned just to match the furniture. A pale gray sectional couch sat perfectly arranged, with throw pillows that looked untouched by human life.

Everything smelled faintly like citrus and money.

I stood there for a second, frozen, because it felt like I was trespassing in a magazine spread.

“Okay,” I murmured. “We can do this. Dusting does not care about rent prices.”

I set my backpack down carefully by the door, like the floor might file a complaint if I dropped it too hard, and pulled out the small cleaning kit Westbridge Staffing had issued me, microfiber cloths, gloves, and a little laminated checklist.

Kitchen. Bathrooms. Surfaces. Floors.

Simple.

Normal.

I walked into the kitchen first, because kitchens are grounding. Kitchens are where people leave mugs in the sink and crumbs on the counter. Kitchens prove someone actually lives somewhere.

Except this kitchen looked like it had never experienced a crumb in its entire existence.

The counters were spotless. The sink shone. The fridge looked like it had never been opened by a human hand.

Which was… weird.

Because even rich people eat.

Usually.

I moved quietly, wiping down surfaces anyway because that was the job, and because I didn’t know what else to do with my nervous energy. I cleaned the stove that didn’t look used. I wiped the island that didn’t look touched. I checked the trash, empty.

So either the resident was extremely neat, or they weren’t here much.

The thought should’ve been comforting.

It wasn’t.

Because as I moved toward the living room, I noticed something on the coffee table that absolutely did not belong in a sterile magazine spread.

A notebook.

Not decorative. Not styled. Not intentionally “aesthetic.”

Just… worn.

Beside it: a pen, uncapped, like someone had been writing and dropped it without thinking.

I hesitated, then reminded myself of rule number one of privacy:

Don’t look.

So I didn’t.

I turned my attention to the rest of the space instead, straightening a blanket that was already straight, wiping fingerprints that weren’t visible, trying to exist quietly like I’d been instructed.

And then I heard it.

A voice.

Not loud. Not for anyone else. Just… soft, coming from somewhere down the hall.

Singing.

My hand froze mid wipe.

It wasn’t a full performance voice. It wasn’t the bright stadium sound.

It was half melody, half thought, like someone was testing notes under their breath. There was a slight rasp on the high end, like they’d been doing too much lately.

My stomach did a slow, traitorous flip.

Because I knew that voice.

I knew it the way you know a song you’ve heard a hundred times without realizing you’ve memorized it.

No. No, no, no.

This could not be.

The melody faltered. There was a soft thud, like someone set something down too hard. Then silence.

I stood there in the living room, frozen, my mind sprinting through possibilities.

Maybe it was just someone who sounded like him.

Maybe Westbridge was full of male singers with perfect tone and slight rasp and.

The hallway door at the end of the corridor opened.

Someone stepped out.

Sweatpants. Bare feet. Oversized hoodie. Messy hair. A face that had been on a screen behind a stage the size of a building last night, now lit by soft apartment light like he belonged to this quieter version of existence.

Jace Wilder.

My brain fully blue screened.

He walked a few steps into the hall, not looking at me yet. His shoulders were slumped. His expression was blank in a way that didn’t look like boredom, it looked like exhaustion trying to pretend it was nothing.

He rubbed a hand over his face like he was trying to wipe off the day.

Then his gaze lifted.

And landed on me.

His eyes widened.

For a moment we just stared at each other like two people who’d accidentally walked into the wrong movie.

His expression flickered through recognition so fast it was almost funny, confusion, then certainty, then a kind of stunned disbelief that made his mouth part slightly.

Me? I had no idea what my face was doing, but if I had to guess, it was doing the same thing my brain was doing: panicking in lowercase.

“You,” he said, like the word had escaped him by mistake.

My voice came out before my dignity could stop it. “Hi.”

A beat of silence.

Then, because the universe hates me, I heard voices outside in the hallway, muffled, distant and what sounded like a security radio crackling.

Jace glanced toward the door like he could feel the building breathing around him. Then he looked back at me, and something about his posture shifted.

Not into onstage sunshine.

But into… guarded.

Like he was trying to decide how much of himself I’d just seen.

His gaze dropped to the cloth in my hand. To my plain black outfit. To the cleaning kit on the counter.

“You work here,” he said slowly.

It wasn’t a question.

I swallowed. “I, no. I mean, yes. I’m… cleaning. This is my shift. I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t know either,” he said, and his voice was rougher now, quieter.

We stared again.

Because what are you supposed to do when the boy you helped hide behind a fake plant is suddenly standing barefoot in front of you in a luxury apartment you’ve been assigned to clean?

Nothing in health class covers this.

I cleared my throat, reaching desperately for professionalism like it was a life raft. “I’m Quinn. From last night.”

His mouth twitched like he was fighting something, maybe a laugh, maybe shock, maybe the urge to pretend he’d never been caught being human.

“I know,” he said. “Quinn.”

Hearing my name in his voice again did the same stupid flip to my stomach.

I hated my stomach.

I decided to focus on the safest possible topic: the job.

“I have a confidentiality agreement,” I said quickly, as if that was the first thing he’d worry about. “I won’t tell anyone I’m here. Or that you’re here. Or, anything.”

His shoulders eased a fraction, like that mattered more than he wanted to admit.

“Okay,” he said softly.

Then he glanced around the apartment like he was seeing it through my eyes for the first time: the luxury, the emptiness, the weirdly untouched kitchen.

He looked embarrassed.

Which was… surprising. Because what did Jace Wilder have to be embarrassed about?

I shifted my weight, awkward. “So. Um. I should probably… start somewhere.”

He blinked, like the sentence didn’t compute. “You’re just going to… clean.”

“Yes,” I said, because this was my job and also because if I didn’t anchor us in something normal, I might float out of my body. “That’s why I’m here.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Jace exhaled, slow, like he’d been holding his breath since the hallway.

“Right,” he said. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just.”

“Tired,” I supplied, because it was obvious in the set of his shoulders, in the way his eyes looked dull around the edges.

His brows lifted slightly, surprised by my bluntness.

Then his mouth did that almost smile thing again, small and reluctant. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Tired.”

I nodded once, like that explained everything. “Okay.”

He stared at me like I’d just done something unusual.

Which, I guess, I had, most people didn’t treat him like a person who could be tired. Most people probably treated him like a concept.

He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you, like, allowed to be here alone?”

I lifted a shoulder. “I checked in downstairs. They gave me the keycard.”

He looked toward the hallway behind him again, then back at me, and his voice dropped. “Do you… know where the coffee is?”

It was such a normal question that it hit me harder than it should have.

Because it made him sound like… a teenager. Like a tired kid in a hoodie who didn’t know how to function without a routine.

I glanced at the pristine kitchen. “I can try to find it.”

I moved toward the cabinets, opening one carefully, then another. I found mugs that looked unused, stacked perfectly. A coffee machine that looked expensive enough to have its own social security number.

“Okay,” I murmured, staring at the machine like it had personally challenged me. “Sure. Totally. I know how to operate a spaceship.”

Behind me, I heard a sound that was definitely a laugh this time, quiet and short, like it surprised him too.

“Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t sound sorry.

“Don’t apologize,” I said, still staring at the machine’s seventy two buttons. “If I break this, I’ll simply move to another country.”

I finally found a container of coffee pods in a drawer so clean it squeaked. I picked one up and examined it like it was a rare artifact.

“This looks… threatening,” I said.

“I can do it,” Jace offered, taking a step forward.

“Absolutely not,” I said instantly, then realized how that sounded and corrected myself: “I mean, sit. You’re tired. I’m here to work.”

He paused, like no one had ever told him to sit down in his own apartment.

Then, slowly, he did.

He perched on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, watching me battle the coffee machine with an expression that was somewhere between amused and quietly grateful.

I got the pod in. I filled the water. I pressed a button that looked correct.

The machine whirred ominously, like it was judging me.

Then, miracle of miracles, coffee started pouring.

I exhaled like I’d just survived a survival show.

“Victory,” I said.

Jace’s head dipped, like he was smiling at the floor.

I poured the coffee into a mug, one of the many perfect ones and carried it over, holding it out like an offering.

“Here,” I said. “One coffee. Made by someone who definitely belongs in this building.”

He took it carefully, fingers brushing mine for the briefest second.

My brain tried to make it a moment.

I refused.

It was just hands.

Hands happen.

“Thanks,” he said again, quieter than last time.

I nodded, then backed up like I needed space to remember I wasn’t in a fever dream.

“Okay,” I said briskly, because briskness was armor. “Where do you want me to start?”

He blinked up at me over the mug.

“You’re really… just going to treat me like a normal person,” he said, like it was a statement he hadn’t expected to say out loud.

I crossed my arms. “Is that allowed?”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I don’t know. No one gave me a rulebook.”

“Same,” I said. “But I think it’s underrated.”

He stared at me for a second, like he was trying to decide if I was real.

Then his gaze flicked to the hallway, toward the room he’d come from and the gloom crept back in around his eyes. Not dramatic. Just… heavy.

Like the moment he stopped performing, gravity returned.

I pretended not to notice, because noticing felt too intimate for day one.

“I’ll start with the kitchen and bathrooms,” I said, moving back toward my supplies. “If you need anything, you can.”

He cut in softly. “Quinn.”

I looked back.

He was holding the mug with both hands now, like it anchored him.

“About last night,” he said. “Why did you help me?”

My throat tightened, because the honest answer was messy.

Because I didn’t want you to get hurt.

Because you looked scared.

Because I knew what it looked like when a smile was a costume.

Because I’ve been tired too.

Instead, I gave him the version I could say without spilling my whole chest onto his carpet.

I lifted a shoulder. “I told you. I paid too much money for that ticket.”

For a second, his eyes stayed on mine.

Then he huffed a quiet laugh and looked down into his coffee.

“Right,” he said, voice soft. “The ticket.”

I turned back to the counter, because if I looked at him too long, my brain would start writing songs and my life would become a fanfiction against my will.

I pulled on my gloves, grabbed the cloth, and got to work.

Behind me, Jace took a sip of coffee.

And for the first time since I’d stepped into the building, the air felt slightly less tense, like something small and good had slipped into the room.

Not romance. Not destiny. Not love at first sight nonsense.

Just… relief.

Which was, honestly, a pretty great bright side for a Tuesday.

Still.

As I wiped down the counter, I couldn’t stop one thought from surfacing, unwanted and sharp:

This job was supposed to be simple.

And I had just been assigned to clean the private apartment of the boy I’d helped hide behind a fake plant.

If the universe was trying to prove a point, I wished it would stop being so creative about it.