The cell door unlocked with a harsh, echoing metallic clang.
Max sat up stiffly on the hard bench, rubbing his face. The precinct had been chaotic when he was dragged in last night, but this morning, the atmosphere shifted. The officers who had shoved him into handcuffs hours ago were suddenly retreating into uncharacteristic politeness, returning his belongings with quiet respect.
The reason became obvious the moment Max stepped out into the blinding morning sun. Standing next to a sleek black sedan was Albert.
Albert, his father's ever-dutiful right-hand man, held the rear door open, his face an unreadable mask. "Morning, Mr. Sinclair," he said flatly.
Max grunted, sliding onto the cool leather seat. He didn't even have time to get comfortable before a sharp, mechanical click echoed from the dashboard, and his father's thunderous voice erupted through the car's Bluetooth speakers.
"This is how you prove yourself?!" Alexander Sinclair's voice shook the windows. "Brawling in a public parking lot like a common thug and spending the night in a holding cell? You are an embarrassment, Max! I gave you a simple task—take responsibility—and you're already failing!"
Max stared out the tinted window, letting the familiar tirade wash over him. He kept his jaw clenched, refusing to give his father the satisfaction of a retort. He waited out the storm until his father's voice cracked slightly with sheer exhaustion.
"Well?" his father snapped through the line. "Do you have absolutely nothing to say for yourself?"
"Are you done?" Max asked, his tone entirely flat.
The silence from the speaker was deafening. Max didn't wait for a reply. He reached over, clicked the end-call button on the dashboard, and popped the car door open, stepping out into the driveway of the precinct. He walked up to the driver's window, tapping the glass. Albert rolled it down.
"Your father believes your vehicle is currently locked away in a police impound lot as part of your punishment," Albert murmured, his voice low. "He doesn't know that I had it towed to a private repair shop instead. The mechanics are working on the side panel now. It should be ready by this afternoon."
Max felt a wave of intense relief. "Albert, you're a lifesaver."
"I also managed to retrieve a few of your suitcases from the penthouse before the lock codes were changed," Albert continued, gesturing to the trunk. "And this." He handed Max a brand-new, top-of-the-line smartphone. "It's a private line. Unlinked to Sinclair Global. Your father won't be able to track it or shut it down."
Max took the phone, a genuine smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. "I owe you. Big time."
"For today, you will have to navigate the city via public transit until the repairs are complete," Albert noted, a faint, amused smirk playing on his lips. "Where can I drop you and your luggage, sir?"
Max pulled the sticky, crumpled index card from his pocket, smoothing it out. "Drop me off a bookstore. Page Turner Books."
The jingle of the bell above the door announced Max's arrival at the quiet shop. He dragged his high-end designer suitcases behind him, his clothes slightly rumpled and faint bruises darkening his knuckles.
Behind the counter, Mrs. Gable looked up. The moment her sharp gaze landed on Max, her eyes narrowed in instant recognition. "Oh. It's you," she said skeptically, her expression souring. "The rude boy from yesterday. If you're here to scream about the internet connection again, you can turn right back around."
Max swallowed his pride, raising his hands defensively. "Look, I apologize about yesterday. I was having a... very bad day. I'm actually just trying to find an address. I was hoping you could help me."
He stepped up to the counter and held out the crumpled index card. "Do you know how to get to this place? Route 4, Apartment 2B?"
Mrs. Gable adjusted her glasses, squinting at the messy handwriting. Her frown softened into a look of pure surprise. "Route 4? That's Simon's apartment."
"Simon?" Max repeated, the name completely slipping past his memory from the day before. "You know there, Is it far?"
"Why on earth are you looking for Simon's place?" she demanded, eyeing his expensive luggage. "You don't look like the type of crowd he usually runs with."
"I'm looking into the roommate notice," Max sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "I need a roof over my head."
Mrs. Gable looked him up and down, clearly processing the absurdity of a guy in a tailored coat looking for a budget room. She knew Simon didn't work today—he only took weekend shifts to help her out because she was elderly, despite her stubborn insistence on paying him.
"Well," Mrs. Gable said slowly, leaning back. "It's downtown. Take the subway three stops over and walk two blocks east. But good luck convincing him. He's a good, principled boy. He doesn't take well to attitude."
The next few hours were an absolute nightmare for Max. Dragging three massive, heavy suitcases down into the crowded, sweltering subway, getting shoved by commuters, and dealing with the screeching train felt like a personalized circle of hell.
By the time he arrived at the Route 4 apartment building, he was sweating, furious, and utterly exhausted. He dragged his bags up to the second floor and knocked on the door of 2B.
Silence. He checked the time. Early afternoon.
"Great. Guess I'm waiting," Max muttered. He leaned against the wall next to the door, letting his suitcases form a barricade around him.
Just as he was about to lose his mind from boredom, his new phone buzzed in his pocket. He snatched it out. It was an unknown number.
"Sinclair," Max answered.
"Mr. Sinclair, it's the auto shop Albert coordinated with," a male voice answered. "The scratch on your Lamborghini has been completely buffed out and repainted. She's locked, loaded, and ready for pickup."
Max practically cheered out loud. "I'll be right there."
Leaving his suitcases tucked securely in the corner of the apartment hallway, Max stormed back down to the street. He endured one final, agonizing city bus ride to the auto shop, cursing the transit system, the lack of legroom, and the smell of cheap air freshener the entire way.
The moment the mechanics rolled up the shop doors, revealing his pristine, matte-black Lamborghini V12, Max nearly shed a tear. He threw himself into the leather driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel like a long-lost lover.
"I am never leaving you again," he muttered, twisting the ignition. The engine roared to life with a fierce, magnificent rumble that completely washed away the trauma of the city bus.
He sped back to Route 4, revving the engine loudly as he pulled into the apartment complex's parking lot. He parked, cut the engine, and walked back up to the second floor, only to find the door to 2B still completely locked. Simon wasn't back yet.
Sighing, Max walked back down to the parking lot to wait by his car where he could at least listen to music. But just as he reached the pavement, a sensible, modest sedan pulled into the lot, heading straight toward his car.
The sedan stopped abruptly right in front of his bumper. The driver's side door opened, and out stepped a familiar figure carrying a large bag of groceries—the unbothered clerk from the bookstore.
Simon stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes darting from the quarter-million-dollar supercar to Max standing next to it. His brow furrowed in immediate annoyance.
"Hey," Simon called out, crossing his arms. "What are you doing in my parking spot?"
Max blinked, looking at his Lamborghini, then back at Simon. "Your what?"
"This space. Number 2B. It's my assigned spot. You're blocking it," Simon said, his voice instantly tight. Then, his eyes widened slightly as he recognized Max's face. "Wait. You're that rude guy from the bookstore yesterday. What the hell are you doing here?"
Max's jaw dropped as the pieces finally clicked together in his head. This was Simon. The guy Mrs. Gable was talking about. The guy from the flyer.
Max quickly forced his best, most winning billionaire smile, stepping forward. "Listen, it's a funny story. I saw your poster at the cafe. I fished your flyer out of the trash, and well... "
"The trash? How'd it get there?" Simon asked
Max blinked, "I... I'm interested "
Simon let out a sharp, mocking laugh, looking from Max's bruised knuckles to his flawless luxury car. "You? Want to be my roommate? Seriously? Even with you looking like you just walked out of a mugshot, I'm getting massive, spoiled rich-boy vibes. Why would a guy driving a Lamborghini need a budget room?"
Max's smile faded, replaced by raw desperation. "Because I'm completely broke. My father froze every single one of my accounts. I don't even have enough cash to pay you the first month's rent upfront."
Simon scoffed, turning toward the building entrance. "Then we have nothing to talk about. I'm not looking for a charity case."
"Wait!" Max lunged ahead, blocking his path. "I don't have the cash right now, but I will by the end of the month. I'll pay you double. With interest. And as proof that I'm good for it..." Max snapped his wrist, dangling his matte-black Lamborghini keys directly in front of Simon's face. "...you keep the keys to my car. It's my collateral. If I don't pay you by the end of the month, the car is legally yours."
Simon stared at the keys, then at the magnificent car, and finally back at Max's desperate eyes. While Simon was doing perfectly fine on his own, a high-value asset like that sitting in his driveway was an absolute guarantee that his timeline wouldn't be compromised.
Simon lowered his arms, his expression serious. "I don't do interest. I'm a man of principles, and I'm not looking to squeeze anyone. You pay the standard rate by the first of the month, or I'm keeping the car. Deal?"
Max let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Deal."
Simon unlocked the building door, gesturing for Max to follow. "Alright, rich boy. Grab your bags. Let's see if you can survive my rules."
The next morning, Simon shuffled into the kitchen, dark circles under his eyes, nursing his third massive cup of coffee. Max had set up his high-end portable speakers the night before, blasting bass-heavy music through the thin apartment walls until 3:00 AM, entirely ignoring the printed rules Simon had given him.
Max strolled out of his bedroom looking flawlessly refreshed, stretching like he'd just had the best sleep of his life. "Morning, roomie," Max said cheerfully.
Simon turned around, his eyes blazing with pure exhaustion. He slammed a white envelope onto the kitchen counter. "Envelope. Counter. Take it and get out."
Max frowned, picking it up. "What's this?"
"Your car keys," Simon growled, his voice trembling with anger. "You broke rule number one on day one. No loud music. My brain is on vacation, my ears are ringing, and I've already got two noise complaints from the neighbors. I'm not that desperate for a roommate. Get out."
Max smirked, entirely unbothered. "Come on, it wasn't that bad. I thought I made a great first impression."
Simon pointed a shaky finger toward the front door. "Get. Out." Simon stood up, coffee still in had as he walked into the share bathroom at the end of the hall. "I need you out by the end of the day. Got it?" He poked his head out the bathroom and yelled into the hallway.
An hour later, Simon had dragged himself to his primary day job at Sinclair Global's sub-company, Apex Tech. He was currently on his fifth cup of coffee, staring blankly at his computer screen.
"Wow, you look like absolute garbage," Simon's best friend and coworker, Britney, said as she leaned over his cubicle wall. "Did you sleep in a dumpster?"
Simon groaned, rubbing his temples. "Don't ask. Did you need something, Britney?"
"I was just wondering if you heard about the new boss," she whispered excitedly. "The corporate headquarters apparently shipped in the big chair's son to take over as CEO. Guess who has to deliver the quarterly metric files to him right now?"
Simon sighed, picking up a heavy stack of folders from his desk. "Great. Another entitled executive coming to ruin my day. Let's get this over with."
Simon walked down the executive hallway, his boots heavy on the plush carpet. He pushed open the double doors to the CEO's massive corner office, keeping his eyes downcast as he stepped inside. "Good morning, sir. I have the updated performance metrics for Apex Tech—"
"Excellent. Lay them on the desk, Simon."
Simon froze. The voice was instantly recognizable.
He snapped his head up. Sitting behind the grand mahogany desk, leaning back in the leather executive chair with a massive, triumphant smirk on his face, was Max. He was wearing a flawless, custom-tailored suit, casually adjusting a silver nameplate that read: MAX SINCLAIR - CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER.
Simon's jaw dropped. He blinked, the coffee completely draining from his system as horror set in. "You've got to be kidding me."
Max's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight. "Morning, landlord. This just got a whole lot more interesting."