The Move-In

The knock came at 6:00 a.m. sharp.

Amelia cracked the door open, mug in hand, eyes still hazy with sleep. Four men stood in the hallway, flanked by a woman in heels and a clipboard. "Miss Hart?" the woman asked. "We’re here to relocate your belongings. Mr. Blackwell’s instructions."

She blinked. "You're... moving me?"

"Yes, ma'am. Everything’s been arranged."

She stood aside because arguing wouldn't help, and maybe because some part of her expected it. Jane appeared behind her, arms folded. “Is this normal rich-people behavior, or are we in get-out-now territory?”

“They’re packing my cereal,” Amelia muttered.

"Definitely get-out-now."

Boxes moved fast. Her framed degree. Her overwatered houseplant. The books she swore she'd reread someday. All wrapped, sealed, and wheeled away like she was already someone else. She didn’t stop them. By 9:00 a.m., her life was in a truck she didn’t own, headed to a home that wasn’t hers.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t blink. She just left.

The penthouse was cold, clinical, quiet in a way that didn’t feel restful. The doorman knew her name. The elevator didn’t have buttons-just a card scanner and a silence that pressed too close. She arrived to white walls and glass furniture, a space so curated it felt unlived. Frederick was on the phone when she walked in, pacing by the window, voice low and firm. He didn’t stop when he saw her. Just gave her the smallest nod.

“You’re early,” she said when he hung up.

“You’re late. I expected you before the boxes.”

“I would’ve appreciated a warning.”

He shrugged. “You’re here now.”

“I’m not a product. You don’t just ship me when it’s convenient.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and something in his expression shifted. Not softened. Just paused.

“You’re right,” he said. “It was a misstep.”

She blinked.

He continued. “The third door down the hall. It’s yours.”

She hesitated. “Is it locked?”

His mouth twitched. “Only from the inside.”

She didn’t say thank you. Just picked up her duffel and disappeared into the hallway.

The room was too nice. That was her first thought. Gold-framed mirror, rainfall shower, sheets softer than logic. She sat on the bed and stared at the walls, still wrapped in a hoodie that smelled like her old apartment. Her new life looked perfect. It didn’t feel that way.

By evening, the silence had stretched too long. She wandered into the kitchen around eight, not expecting him to be there. He was still in his shirt from earlier, sleeves rolled, glass of something dark in one hand.

They ate in silence. She had pasta. He had steak. It was awkward, in a polished kind of way. Like they’d rehearsed this separately and never shared a script.

She stood to rinse her plate. He followed, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. Their hands brushed. She froze. So did he.

He stepped back first. “You don’t have to pretend here.”

“I’m not pretending.”

He gave her a look. “We’re both pretending.”

“I’m just quieter about it.”

That earned a pause, and something close to a smile. She walked away before it could turn into anything.

She didn’t sleep.

The bed was too big, the quiet too loud. Around midnight, she gave up. Threw on a robe and padded into the hallway, bare feet soundless against the wood floor.

The kitchen light was already on.

Frederick stood by the island, elbows braced on the counter, head bowed like he was holding the whole city in his spine. He looked up when she stepped in.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Too quiet,” she said. “And your floors are too smooth. I almost slid into a wall.”

That earned a faint huff. “I’ll have them replaced.”

She grabbed a glass, filled it from the tap. “Please. I’d like something grippable.”

He leaned against the counter. “How’s the clinic holding up?”

Her fingers paused. “You want to talk about the clinic?”

“Is that off-limits?”

“No, I just..” she smiled, real and fast, “..I’m not used to anyone asking.”

It caught him off guard. He stared at her for a second too long.

She leaned back against the sink. “It’s holding, barely. We’re running on fumes. One of our portable ECGs just died mid-shift. A twelve-year-old coded, and we had to improvise with a blood pressure cuff and a prayer.”

“You saved him?”

“Barely.”

He nodded. “You’re good at that.”

She snorted. “Improvising?”

“Saving people.”

Her smile slipped. “Not always.”

He looked like he wanted to ask something else, but didn’t.

She kept the silence alive with a sip of water, then said, “It’s kind of nice. Talking about something that isn’t my contractually obligated smile.”

He tilted his head. “You hate it that much?”

“I don’t hate it,” she said. “I just don’t know how to fake it the way you do.”

“I don’t fake anything.”

“You lie with your eyebrows.”

That made him laugh. Actually laugh.

It was short and caught him off guard, but it was real.

The sound did something to her chest she didn’t like. Or maybe she did. She looked away.

His voice was quieter now. “Thank you. For moving in.”

She raised a brow. “Don’t make it sentimental.”

“It wasn’t.”

She looked at him again. Then, hesitantly, “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“Is there anyone who doesn’t want me here?”

His body went still.

She held his gaze. “Just a feeling. Like I’m being... watched sideways.”

His jaw ticked. “Someone said something?”

“No. Just a bad vibe.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her like he was trying to figure out if this was something he could control.

“There are people who don’t like surprises,” he said. “And you... weren’t part of my blueprint.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the closest one I’m willing to give at midnight.”

She set her glass down. “Then I guess I’ll try to sleep.”

“Let me know if you can’t,” he said.

“Why? You’ll send more wine?”

“No,” he said. “I’ll sit with you.”

Her throat tightened.

She didn’t say anything else.

She just left the room quietly, knowing he was still standing there long after she was gone.