The Master Suite was less of a bedroom and more of a museum dedicated to the color gray.
The bed was a vast, charcoal-colored expanse of silk and down that looked like it could swallow my entire studio apartment whole. There were no photos on the walls, no clutter on the dressers, no signs that a human being actually lived here. It was sterile. It was cold. It was perfectly Reid.
I stood in the doorway, clutching my mother's locket through the fabric of my sweater. My suitcase—the one Reid's housekeeper hadn't managed to "incinerate" yet—sat lonely and pathetic in the corner of the walk-in closet.
"The left side is yours," Reid said, his voice echoing in the vast space. He was already shedding his suit jacket, tossing it onto a leather chair with a weariness that made him look human for the first time all day. "I don't move in my sleep, I don't snore, and I wake up at 5:00 AM. Stay on your side, and we won't have a problem."
"And the bathroom?" I asked, my voice small. "Do we have a schedule for that, too? Or do I need to file a formal request for a toothbrushing slot?"
Reid paused, his fingers on the buttons of his shirt. He looked at me, his eyes dark with the remnants of the boardroom adrenaline. "The bathroom has two sinks, Maya. I think a girl who managed an entire diner staff can handle sharing a faucet."
"Managing a staff is easy," I snapped, the fatigue finally winning over my nerves. "Managing a man who treats me like a biological hazard is a little more complicated."
I walked past him, my shoulder brushing his, and ducked into the bathroom. I needed to get away from the scent of him—that sandalwood and rain that was starting to feel like a cage.
I locked the door and leaned against it, my eyes burning. I wasn't going to cry. Waitresses didn't cry over rich jerks and silk sheets. I turned on the tap, splashing cold water on my face, scrubbing away the expensive foundation until my skin was pink and raw.
When I emerged twenty minutes later, wearing an oversized t-shirt with a faded "Queens Architecture Club" logo and a pair of flannel pajama pants, Reid was already in bed.
He was propped up against the headboard, a tablet in his hand, wearing nothing but black pajama bottoms. The sight of his bare chest made my breath hitch. He wasn't the "skinny corporate guy" I'd expected. He was built like someone who spent his rage in a gym—all lean muscle and sharp angles, with a faint, jagged scar running across his ribs.
He looked up from his screen, his gaze traveling from my messy bun down to my mismatched socks.
"The Queens Architecture Club?" he asked, a hint of something—not a sneer, but a question—in his voice.
"It was a dream I had before my life became about egg prices and chemo bills," I said, climbing into the left side of the bed. The silk felt unnervingly smooth against my skin. I felt like I was floating on a cloud made of money. "Don't judge the shirt, Sterling. It's the most comfortable thing I own."
"I wasn't judging," he muttered, turning off his tablet. He slid down into the pillows, keeping a respectable two feet of "no-man's-land" between us. "I was just wondering if there's anything in that head of yours besides spite and coffee orders."
"There's a lot," I whispered, staring at the dark ceiling. "I can tell you the structural load-bearing capacity of this townhouse just by looking at the joists. I can tell you that your lighting is inefficient for a room this size. And I can tell you that you're holding your breath."
The room went silent. I could hear the city hum far below us—the sirens, the tires on wet pavement—but inside the room, the air was thick.
"I don't hold my breath," Reid said into the dark.
"You do. You've been doing it since the Boardroom. You're waiting for the other shoe to drop. You're waiting for me to steal the silver or call a tabloid." I turned onto my side, facing him. In the shadows, he was just a silhouette of a man. "I'm not going to break the contract, Reid. I need that money. I'm not a shark. I'm just a girl trying to pay a bill."
Reid didn't answer for a long time. I thought he'd fallen asleep until I heard the rustle of the sheets. He turned to face me, his face inches away on the shared pillow.
"My uncle Marcus isn't going to stop," he whispered. His voice was different now—lower, stripped of the Ice King armor. "He's going to dig. He's going to find out your mother is in a Sterling-owned hospice. He's going to try to use her against you to make you testify that this is a fraud."
My heart went cold. "He wouldn't."
"He would. This isn't a game, Maya. It's a war for control of a legacy. If you want that five million, you have to be more than a 'waitress in a dress.' You have to be unshakeable."
"I've survived my mother's diagnosis, three evictions, and a diner robbery," I said, my voice hardening. "I think I can handle an old man in a suit."
Reid reached out. It was a slow, hesitant movement, but he tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my temple, his touch surprisingly gentle.
"You're remarkably brave," he muttered. "Or remarkably stupid."
"A bit of both, probably."
His hand didn't move. He kept his fingers against my skin, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. The "no-man's-land" between us felt like it was shrinking, the air growing hot and heavy again. For a second, I saw a flash of something in his eyes—a raw, human hunger that terrified me.
"Maya," he breathed.
"No rules, Reid," I whispered, though my heart was betraying me by racing against my chest. "Rule number one: no touching. Rule number two: no feelings."
Reid pulled his hand back as if he'd been burned. He turned away, staring at the wall. "Go to sleep, Maya. We have a charity brunch at ten."
"Goodnight, Reid."
I closed my eyes, but sleep was miles away. The bed was too soft, the room was too quiet, and the man beside me was far more dangerous than I had ever imagined. Because as much as I hated his world, I was starting to realize that the hardest rule to keep wasn't the one about the money.
It was the one about the heart.