Chapter 3

The digital clock on Avery’s nightstand read 6:42 AM.

She lay awake, staring blankly at the unfamiliar minimalist ceiling of her new bedroom. The mattress was incredibly comfortable, but the silence of the east wing felt heavy and alien.

Unable to sleep any longer, Avery tossed back the duvet, threw on a silk robe, and decided to venture out.

According to the Domestic Cohabitation Addendum, the kitchen belonged entirely to Vivian until exactly 7:00 AM. But Avery just wanted a cup of coffee. Surely, Vivian wouldn't initiate a legal dispute over a handful of coffee beans.

She padded barefoot down the hallway, the herringbone floors cool beneath her feet. As she rounded the corner into the open-concept kitchen, she froze.

Vivian was already there. She was perched on a sleek barstool, looking absurdly put-together for the early hour in a crisp charcoal grey blouse, tailored trousers, and her hair neatly pinned up.

She held an iPad in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other.

The moment Avery’s bare foot stepped onto the kitchen tile, Vivian’s eyes snapped up. She pointedly tapped the face of her luxury watch.

"You are eighteen minutes early," Vivian stated, her voice smooth and entirely awake.

Avery rolled her eyes, walking straight past her toward the built-in espresso machine. "Good morning to you too, sunshine. I’m just getting caffeine. I won't breathe on your side of the island."

"The contract was designed to prevent overlap, Avery. Overlap breeds friction," Vivian said, returning her gaze to her iPad screen. "If we begin adjusting the parameters on day one, the entire structure collapses."

"It's a kitchen, Vivian, not a Swiss watch," Avery muttered. She opened a cabinet, searching for a mug, only to find rows of identical, matte-black ceramic cups. Everything in Vivian's kitchen looked like it belonged in a museum of modern art—cold, sterile, and devoid of personality.

Avery grabbed a mug and reached for the espresso machine's bean hopper. It was empty. She began opening drawers, searching for coffee.

"Looking for something?" Vivian asked, not looking up.

"Where do you keep the actual coffee?" Avery asked, shifting a drawer full of pristine, identical silver spoons. "Or do you just survive on corporate ambition and the tears of your employees?"

Vivian set her iPad down on the marble with a soft clack. "The premium espresso blend is in the climate-controlled pantry cabinet to your left. Third shelf. And for the record, I prefer my employees motivated, not crying."

Avery found the bag, noting the obscure Italian label. She filled the machine, pressed the button, and watched the dark liquid grind and brew. The rich aroma instantly filled the air, cutting through the sterile atmosphere of the penthouse.

"See? No friction," Avery said triumphantly, leaning against the counter and taking her first sip. "We are two consenting adults successfully sharing a room."

"Your sleeve is in the butter," Vivian adjusted calmly.

Avery blinked, looking down. The flowing sleeve of her emerald silk robe was, indeed, dragging directly across a small porcelain butter dish Vivian had left open on the counter. Avery quickly pulled her arm back, leaving a greasy smear on the expensive fabric.

"Dammit," Avery swore under her breath, grabbing a paper towel to dab at the silk.

"Friction," Vivian murmured, picking up her iPad again. "As predicted."

"This isn't friction, it's a minor domestic hazard," Avery snapped, her morning grogginess entirely replaced by sharp annoyance. She looked at Vivian’s pristine, unbothered posture and felt an overwhelming urge to disrupt her perfect equilibrium.

Avery deliberately took her coffee mug, walked over to the island, and sat down on the barstool directly next to Vivian. Not two seats away. Right next to her. Their shoulders were practically brushing.

Vivian froze. She slowly turned her head, her emerald eyes narrowing as she looked at Avery, who was currently smiling with artificial sweetness.

"What are you doing?" Vivian asked, her voice dropping an octave.

"Enjoying my morning coffee in the communal, neutral territory," Avery said cheerfully. "The contract says the kitchen is shared. It doesn't say I can't sit here."

"It says my slot is from six to seven," Vivian countered, her jaw tightening slightly. "You are encroaching."

"Oh, come on, Thorne. Live a little," Avery teased, leaning in just a fraction closer, taking delight in the way Vivian's posture stiffened even further. "Are you really that terrified of a little company?"

Vivian stared at her, her gaze dropping briefly to Avery’s messy, sleep-tousled hair, then to the slight smudge of butter on her robe, before locking back onto her eyes.

For a fleeting second, the icy composure in Vivian's expression flickered, replaced by something dark and intensely focused.

The kitchen clock silently flipped to 7:00 AM.

Vivian stood up smoothly, picking up her iPad and her empty mug. "Your time slot has officially begun. The space is yours."

She walked toward the sink, rinsing her cup with methodical precision before placing it in the dishwasher. She turned back to Avery, her expression perfectly unreadable once more.

"Tomorrow, Avery, please wear clothes with tighter sleeves," Vivian said quietly. "I prefer my breakfast without textile fibers."

With that, she turned and swept out of the kitchen, leaving Avery alone at the massive island. Avery took another sip of her coffee, a slow, genuine smirk spreading across her face.

The corporate ice queen was definitely testy in the mornings—and Avery couldn't wait to push her buttons again tomorrow.