The convoy of black SUVs rolled up to my crumbling apartment building like a funeral procession for my old life.
I stood on the sidewalk in jeans and an oversized hoodie (the only thing that still hid the tiny bump), clutching a single duffel bag and a dying pothos plant I refused to abandon.
Noctis stepped out of the middle car.
Still in a suit. Still unfairly gorgeous. Dark sunglasses hiding those dangerous golden eyes.
He took one look at my single bag and frowned.
"That's everything?"
"I travel light," I muttered.
He didn't argue. Just took the bag from my shoulder like it weighed nothing and handed it to a stone-faced bodyguard.
Then he reached for the pothos.
"Don't you dare," I hissed. "Mr. Sprout is coming with me in the front seat."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. Amusement or annoyance; I couldn't tell.
"Mr. Sprout," he repeated flatly.
"Yes. He's sensitive."
Noctis stared at the half-dead plant like he was calculating how many private jets it would take to replace it with a jungle.
In the end, he opened the passenger door of the lead SUV himself and carefully set Mr. Sprout in the center console like it was made of glass.
I tried not to find that endearing.
I failed.
The drive to his building (his building, the entire thing) took twelve minutes. Twelve minutes of me pretending to stare out the window while actually watching him in the reflection.
He never took his eyes off me.
When the elevator opened directly into the penthouse, my jaw dropped.
It wasn't an apartment.
It was a palace suspended in the sky.
Black marble floors. Walls of glass. A living room bigger than my old high school gym. A chandelier that probably cost more than my soul.
And in the middle of it all, an army of staff in crisp uniforms waiting in perfect rows.
Noctis didn't even glance at them.
"Everyone out," he ordered.
They vanished like smoke.
Then it was just us.
He finally removed the sunglasses.
Gold eyes raked over me, slow and possessive.
"Welcome home, Tanya."
I hugged Mr. Sprout to my chest like a shield. "This isn't home. This is… hostage chic."
A low chuckle. "You'll get used to it."
He started walking. I followed because what else was I going to do? Run into the hallway and hope the elevator loved me more than he did?
He gave me the tour like a bored king showing off his kingdom.
Kitchen the size of NASA.
Home theater.
Gym that made professional athletes look poor.
A library with books older than my country.
Then he opened a door and my breath caught.
A nursery.
Still empty, but the walls were already painted soft silver-gray. A massive window overlooked the city. A rocking chair sat in the corner. A mobile of tiny crystal moons hung above where a crib would go.
I turned to him, throat tight.
"You did this already?"
"I started the day I found out," he said quietly. "I wasn't sure you'd come willingly. But I hoped."
Something warm and dangerous bloomed in my chest.
I squashed it.
He led me to the final stop: two doors at the end of the hall.
"This one is yours." He opened the left. A bedroom suite done in creams and silvers, bigger than my old apartment. Walk-in closet already half-filled with maternity clothes in my exact size. A balcony with a view that made my knees weak.
"And this one," he opened the right door, "is mine."
The connecting door between them was wide open.
Of course it was.
I glared. "Separate rooms, remember?"
"For now," he said again, like it was a prayer and a threat.
I stepped into my room and slammed the connecting door in his face.
Locked it.
Leaned against it breathing hard.
Thirty seconds later, a soft knock.
"Tanya."
"Go away."
"I had them stock your bathroom with every brand of peppermint tea on the planet."
Damn it.
Another knock. "And the fridge in your room has pickles, ice cream, and those weird spicy chips you bought at 2 a.m. last week."
I yanked the door open. "Have you been stalking me?"
Golden eyes gleamed. "I prefer the term 'protecting my investment.'"
I tried to slam it again. His hand caught it easily.
"Dinner in one hour," he said. "Wear something comfortable. Or nothing. I'm flexible."
The door closed. This time he let it.
I looked around my new prison.
Silk sheets. Fresh flowers. A TV bigger than my old bed.
And on the nightstand, a single black card with a silver moon.
Next to it, a note in sharp, elegant handwriting:
You can lock every door you want, little fox.
I'll still find my way in.
Welcome home.
I hated how much I wanted to smile.