Aria's POV
437 Blackstone looked exactly like the kind of place that came with a plot twist.
Tall, glassy, and dead silent, it stood there like it was judging me from the moment I stepped onto the sidewalk. The building had no personality. No cracks, no chipped paint, not even a dying plant by the door to make it feel human. Just shiny black tiles and that weird air-freshener smell that rich people must spray into the walls. I half expected it to ask me for a retina scan before letting me in.
My fingers hovered over the buzzer for 7B. I told myself I could still walk away. Go back to the cafe, order another bitter regret-latte, and crash in the bathroom stall until morning. But my feet didn't move.
Instead, I pressed the buzzer.
A loud click.
The door unlocked immediately.
Well. That wasn't creepy at all.
The hallway inside was dim and way too quiet. My footsteps echoed like I was walking through a tomb, which, you know, comforting. I found the elevator, hit the button for the seventh floor, and tried not to let my nerves show. The elevator ride was short, smooth, and silent. No music, no ding. Just cold steel and that same expensive-clean smell.
When the doors opened, I stepped out and found myself facing apartment 7B.
Deep breath.
I knocked.
A few seconds later, the door swung open.
And sweet mother of tall, dark, and dangerously rude.
There he stood. Leaning against the frame like some broody vampire who'd been alive for three hundred years and hated every second of it.
He was tall—like, 6'4"-can-you-please-move-I-can't-see-the-screen tall. Dressed in black from head to toe. His shirt hugged his shoulders like it had been custom-stitched by sins, and his jeans fit a little too well for someone who didn't care about appearances. His jaw was sharp, covered in a day or two of stubble. Eyes? Icy grey, like storm clouds with commitment issues.
Basically, he looked like someone who either starred in a high-budget perfume ad or buried bodies on the weekend. There was no in-between.
I stared.
He raised one eyebrow. "You gonna stand there drooling, or are you coming in?"
Oh. Right.
My brain rebooted. I scoffed, stepping past him into the apartment like I hadn't just spent a full five seconds mentally making out with his face.
"I wasn't drooling. I was judging. Big difference."
He snorted. Shut the door behind me.
Honestly, I wasn't sure if I wanted to punch him or frame his face and hang it in an art museum titled "Hot, Rude, and Probably a Sociopath." Like, seriously—who just stands there looking like he walked out of a gothic billionaire romance novel and then acts like you're the inconvenience? His cheekbones could cut glass, and those eyes? Yeah, they were the kind you only see on villains who end up stealing your heart and ruining your life in the best way. I hated that I noticed. I hated that I cared. But let's be real—I'd been eating sadness and caffeine fumes for dinner three nights in a row. If my heart wanted to flutter over a walking red flag in a tailored black shirt, who was I to judge it? Still, I had to snap out of it. This wasn't a fairytale, and Kael Wolfe definitely wasn't anyone's prince charming. He was more like the final boss you had to defeat with therapy and a taser. But even as I told myself that, I couldn't shake the feeling that behind the sharp tongue and permanent scowl… something was broken. And maybe, just maybe, I was stupid enough to want to find out what.
The place was just like the building—modern, cold, expensive-looking. Black leather couch, clean glass coffee table, no decorations. No pictures. No clutter. Nothing personal. It looked like the kind of place someone rented for the weekend and never touched again.
He moved around the kitchen like he'd done it a thousand times, grabbed a folder, and tossed it on the counter without looking at me.
"NDA's inside. Read it, sign it, or don't. Doesn't matter. Just don't complain later."
I wandered closer, flipping the folder open. It was thick. Pages and pages of legal mumbo jumbo I didn't have the energy to translate.
"This is a lot of paperwork for a place with zero snacks, dude."
He shot me a look. Cold. Bored.
I shrugged and grabbed the pen. "Fine. I'll sign your little soul-stealing contract. Do I get a free toaster with it?"
No laugh. Nothing.
Tough crowd.
Once I finished scribbling my signature, he laid out the rules like he was reciting a grocery list.
"Don't go into my room. Don't ask questions. No guests. No drama. Don't touch anything that isn't yours. Don't be nosy. And don't expect us to be friends."
I gave him a slow blink. "Wow. And here I was, already planning our matching pajamas."
He didn't even blink.
Cool cool cool.
He pointed to a hallway. "Room's at the end. Sheets are clean. Don't make noise."
Then he turned and walked off, disappearing into the mystery cave he called a bedroom.
I stood there for a second, wondering what kind of human hurricane I'd just signed a lease with.
The guest room was small but clean. White walls, small bed, empty dresser. No warmth, no personality, but it had a door. And that was enough.
I dropped my backpack on the floor and flopped back on the bed with a groan. The mattress was firmer than I liked, but it didn't smell like stale fries and broken dreams, so we were off to a good start.
Somewhere down the hall, I heard a door shut.
Silence.
Finally.
I turned onto my side and let my eyes close.
Tomorrow, I'd figure out what kind of mess I'd walked into.
But for now? I had four walls, a roof, and a locked door.
That was more than I'd had in weeks.