When the ceiling of your apartment gave way beneath the weight of a burst pipe from the unit above, everything seemed to happen at once. Murky water poured through the light fixtures, soaked the furniture you had spent years collecting, and left half your belongings ruined before maintenance even managed to shut the water off. By the end of the day, the building manager could only offer an apologetic smile and the promise that repairs would take several weeks.
You had absolutely nowhere else to go.
"I've got a place you can stay."
Your best friend Ethan barely gave you the chance to argue before tossing a set of keys into your hand. He had always been the type to solve problems first and explain them later.
"It's just a spare apartment,"
he said with a shrug as he helped carry another box toward his car.
"I barely use it. Honestly, I only keep it around in case I need somewhere quiet for work or if I have to clean it before my brother ever decides to show his face."
"You have a brother?"
"...Older brother,"
he replied casually.
"He's almost never in the country. Business overseas. Trust me, you're not going to meet him."
He laughed, waving away your concern before unlocking the expensive black SUV.
"Stay as long as you need. Just don't judge my decorating skills."
"You decorated it?"
"...Okay, maybe ninety percent of it was already furnished."
By the time evening settled over the city, the apartment felt less like somewhere temporary and more like something pulled from the pages of an interior design magazine. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked glittering streets below, polished marble reflected the warm lights overhead, and every piece of furniture looked far too expensive to belong to someone your best friend insisted was
"barely ever home."
After helping you carry in the last few boxes, he checked the time and sighed.
"I have to head back. My place is on the other side of town, and I've already promised someone I'd stop by tonight."
He tossed you another smile before walking toward the door.
"Make yourself at home. The fridge is stocked, Wi-Fi password is on the counter, and if anything breaks..."
He paused, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish grin.
"Actually... maybe don't break anything. My brother can be... particular."
Before you could ask what exactly that meant, he was already gone.
The silence that settled over the apartment felt strangely comforting after the chaos of the day. You unpacked a few essentials, placed your phone on the kitchen island, and eventually decided there was nothing in the world that sounded better than a long, hot shower.
---
Steam quickly filled the spacious bathroom, washing away the lingering exhaustion clinging to your muscles. For the first time since waking up to a collapsing ceiling and ankle-deep water, you finally felt yourself relax. You absentmindedly hummed to yourself as the hot water poured over your shoulders, blissfully unaware of the apartment door quietly unlocking somewhere beyond the bathroom walls.
The man who stepped inside stopped the moment he noticed unfamiliar shoes resting near the entrance.
A suitcase.
Half-opened moving boxes.
Someone else's jacket draped over the sofa.
Every instinct honed through years in the criminal underworld sharpened in an instant.
Finn Lowell closed the apartment door without making a sound.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with the effortless confidence of someone accustomed to giving orders rather than receiving them. Damp strands of dark auburn hair had fallen loose across his forehead from the rain outside, framing sharp, aristocratic features that somehow looked both refined and intimidating. Pale green eyes swept over the apartment with chilling precision, missing nothing. His tailored black three-piece suit fit him like it had been stitched directly onto him, a silver watch glinting beneath the cuff of his white shirt as one gloved hand disappeared beneath his coat.
The familiar weight of cold steel settled naturally into his palm.
The faint sound of running water echoed from deeper inside the apartment.
Someone was here.
The shower finally stopped.
You reached for a towel, wrapped it securely around yourself, and pushed the bathroom door open, still drying the water from your hair as you stepped into the hallway.
You barely had time to register the figure standing in the darkness before a powerful hand seized your arm, spun you around, and slammed your back against the nearest wall.
The impact knocked the breath from your lungs.
Something hard and unmistakably metallic pressed firmly against your temple.
Your eyes lifted.
A stranger towered over you, his expression unreadable, his finger resting calmly along the trigger guard of the pistol aimed at your head.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
His gaze swept over you once, lingering just long enough to take in the towel, the wet hair, and the obvious confusion written across your face. There wasn't an ounce of panic in his own expression, only the quiet calculation of a man deciding whether the person beneath his gun was a threat.
His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was low enough to send a chill through the room.
"You've got exactly five seconds to explain why you're standing in my apartment."
His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
"The last person I found inside my home stole from me."
The barrel remained perfectly steady against your temple.
"He didn't leave."
