Mira's POV
I made a list.
Thirty ways to drive Ryder Kingsley out of my apartment in thirty days. One method per day. By the end, he'd be begging to leave.
Number one: Noise.
I found the oldest, loudest speaker in the apartment closet. Plugged in my phone. Scrolled through my music until I found the perfect weapon.
Death metal. The kind with screaming and drums that sounded like explosions.
At exactly 6:00 AM, I pressed play.
The music blasted through the apartment like a bomb going off.
I waited for Ryder to burst out of his room on the couch, furious and defeated.
Instead, he walked out calmly, went to the kitchen, and made coffee.
While death metal screamed through the speakers.
He poured two cups. Brought one to me.
Then he pulled out headphones from his pocket, put them in, and smiled.
SMILED.
Like I was entertaining him instead of torturing him.
I turned off the music.
Problem? Ryder asked, pulling out one earbud.
You're supposed to be annoyed, I said through gritted teeth.
Why would I be annoyed? You clearly needed to express yourself. I respect that. He took a sip of coffee. The eggs are getting cold, by the way.
He'd made breakfast. Again. While death metal blasted in his ears.
This man was impossible.
Fine, I muttered. Round one goes to you.
This is a competition? He looked genuinely curious.
Everything's a competition.
That's what Marcus always said. Life was about winning. About being better than everyone else.
Ryder just shrugged. If you say so.
I ate breakfast in silence, planning my next attack.
Number two: Reorganization.
While Ryder was in the shower, I went to work. Every single item in the kitchen got moved. Plates where cups should be. Silverware in the wrong drawers. Sugar where he kept salt.
It was petty. Childish. Perfect.
I heard the shower turn off. Footsteps. The bathroom door opening.
I waited.
Ryder walked into the kitchen. Opened a drawer. Frowned slightly.
Victory! Finally, a reaction!
Then he smiled. Oh. You reorganized.
Yes. And you're going to hate it.
Actually... He opened another drawer. Then a cabinet. This makes more sense. I've been doing it wrong this whole time. Thanks.
My jaw dropped. You're THANKING me?
Should I not be?
I'm trying to make you miserable!
I know. He pulled out a pan from a new location. It's kind of obvious.
Heat flooded my face. Then why aren't you leaving?
Because, Ryder said calmly, cracking eggs into the pan, making me miserable requires you to actually succeed at making me miserable. So far, you're zero for two.
I wanted to scream.
Number three: Hot water.
I took the longest, hottest shower in human history. Used every drop of hot water in the tank. Left none for Ryder.
When I came out, wrapped in a towel, feeling triumphant, he was reading on the couch.
Bathroom's free, I announced.
Thanks. He stood up.
Ten minutes later, he came out. Hair wet. Looking completely fine.
How was your shower? I asked sweetly.
Cold. Refreshing. Good for circulation. He sat back down with his book.
You're not even annoyed?
Should I be? Cold showers are healthy.
That's when I lost it.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? I shouted. Normal people get annoyed! Normal people complain! Normal people don't just... just... SMILE THROUGH EVERYTHING!
Ryder closed his book. Looked at me with those too-calm grey eyes.
I'm not normal, he said quietly. And neither are you. That's the point.
What point?
The one your grandmother was trying to make.
I froze. Don't bring her into this.
She's already in this. She put us here. Together. For a reason.
To torture me?
To help you. He stood up. Walked closer. She knew you'd lost yourself. Buried the real you under layers of what everyone else wanted. She wanted to give you space to find yourself again.
By trapping me with a stalker?
Ryder flinched. Actually flinched.
Good. I wanted him to hurt like I was hurting.
I'm not a stalker, he said. I'm
What? My fairy godmother? My guardian angel? The creepy billionaire who's been watching me for five years?
Someone who cares.
You don't even KNOW me!
I know you gave up art for law because your father said dreams don't pay bills. I know you drink coffee with two sugars and cream even though you tell everyone you take it black because it sounds more professional. I know you sketch on napkins when you think nobody's watching. I know your favorite color is yellow, not blue like you tell people. I know you're brilliant and scared and hiding and I know
STOP! My hands were shaking. Stop acting like you know me! You bought a painting! You heard stories from my grandmother! That doesn't mean you KNOW me!
You're right. Ryder's voice got quiet. Dangerous. I don't know everything. I don't know what you're thinking right now. I don't know why you're so determined to push me away when I'm trying to help. I don't know
The thermostat on the wall beeped.
We both looked at it.
72 degrees.
It's too hot in here, I said. Walked over. Turned it down to 65.
Ryder followed. Turned it back to 72.
I glared at him. I like it cold.
You were shivering this morning.
Because YOU made it hot!
I made it comfortable.
For YOU.
For both of us.
I turned it to 60.
He turned it to 75.
I reached for it again. He blocked my hand.
We stood there, facing each other, my hand trapped in his.
His palm was warm. Rough. Like he'd worked with his hands.
This isn't about the temperature, Ryder said softly.
Yes, it is.
No. His thumb brushed across my knuckles. Just once. It's about control. You want to control something because everything else in your life is chaos.
I jerked my hand away. Don't pretend to understand me.
I'm not pretending.
Then what are you doing? Really? Because this whole thing I gestured around the apartment is insane. You own this building. You knew my grandmother. You have my painting. You've been... what? Waiting? Planning? For what?
For you to be ready.
Ready for WHAT?
Ryder looked at me for a long moment. The air between us felt heavy. Electric.
To come home, he said finally.
This isn't my home. This is my grandmother's apartment that you're squatting in!
This apartment isn't your home, Mira.
The way he said my name made something flip in my stomach.
Then what is it? I whispered.
He stepped closer. Close enough that I could see gold flecks in his grey eyes.
It could be, he said quietly. Give it thirty days. Give me thirty days. Stop fighting long enough to see what your grandmother saw.
Which was?
That you deserve better than what you've been accepting.
My heart was pounding. Too fast. Too hard.
I don't need you to save me, I said.
I'm not trying to save you. His voice was barely above a whisper. I'm trying to give you space to save yourself.
We stood there. Too close. The apartment suddenly feeling very small.
Then my phone rang.
We both jumped apart.
I grabbed it from the counter. Unknown number. Against my better judgment, I answered.
Hello?
Mira Chen? A woman's voice. Professional. Cold.
Yes?
This is Patricia Hartwell from Hartley & Associates. The senior partners have called an emergency meeting regarding your employment status. We need you in the office tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM.
My blood went cold. My employment status?
Given recent events and concerns about your judgment, the partners feel it's necessary to discuss your future with the firm. Attendance is mandatory.
She hung up.
I stood there, phone in my hand, the world tilting again.
They were going to fire me. Because Marcus humiliated me. Because I was the victim but somehow I was the problem.
What happened? Ryder was watching me carefully.
Work. Emergency meeting. They're going to fire me.
They can't do that. You haven't done anything wrong.
Doesn't matter. Marcus is a senior partner. I'm just an associate. He wins.
Not necessarily.
I laughed. It sounded broken. You don't understand how this works. He has power. I have nothing.
You have me.
I looked at him. What's that supposed to mean?
It means
My phone buzzed. Another text. Unknown number.
Tomorrow's meeting isn't about firing you. It's about forcing you to quit. Marcus wants you gone so Vanessa doesn't have to see you. He's been planning this all week. But there's something he doesn't know. Ask Ryder who really owns Hartley & Associates. Ask him why the partners will do whatever he says. Ask him what else he's been controlling in your life.
The phone slipped from my fingers.
Mira? Ryder picked it up. Looked at the screen. His face went white.
Is it true? My voice shook. Do you own my law firm?
Silence.
ANSWER ME!
Not the whole firm, Ryder said carefully. Just... a controlling share.
The room spun.
How long?
Six months.
Six months. I could barely breathe. You bought controlling shares in my law firm six months ago.
Mira
Before my grandmother died.
Yes.
Before I even knew about this apartment.
Yes.
You've been controlling my job. My career. MY LIFE.
No! I haven't interfered. I just
Just WHAT? Just stalked me? Just bought pieces of my life? Just waited for everything to fall apart so you could swoop in like some kind of saviour?
It's not like that!
Then what is it like? I screamed. Tell me the truth! All of it! Right now!
Ryder looked at me. Really looked at me. And for the first time, I saw something in his eyes that scared me.
Desperation.
I can't, he whispered.
Why not?
Because if I tell you everything now, you'll run. And I can't His voice cracked. I can't lose you before you even give me a chance.
Lose me? You never HAD me!
I know. He stepped back. You're right. This is... I went too far. I should have told you. About the firm. About everything. I just
Just what?
I just wanted to protect you.
From what?
He didn't answer.
My phone rang again. I grabbed it.
What?!
Mira? It's Jade.
My best friend. The only person I wanted to hear from.
Jade
Listen to me very carefully, she said. Her voice was shaking. I just got a very weird call from someone who says they know what Ryder's really planning. They want to meet. Tonight. They say they have proof of everything. They say She took a breath. They say your grandmother didn't die of natural causes.
The world stopped.
What?
They say Ryder knows what really happened. And that's why he's doing all this. It's not about love or protection. It's about guilt.
I looked at Ryder. He was staring at me, his face pale.
What did my grandmother die from? I asked him quietly.
Heart failure. You know that.
And you had nothing to do with it?
Of course not! Mira
Then why does someone think you did?
His jaw tightened. I don't know.
Liar.
We stared at each other across the apartment.
Twenty-nine days left.
And I'd just discovered my roommate might be a murderer.