Chapter 2 - THE SKY-LOUNGE SHADOWSThe private elevator ride to the 92nd floor felt like an ascent into another dimension. The digital floor display ticked upward in eerie silence: 89, 90, 91, 92. With every floor, the air pressure changed, making Willa's ears pop.
When the doors slid open, she stepped out into a sprawling penthouse suite of glass, steel, and midnight-blue leather. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic, dizzying view of the snow-swept Manhattan skyline, glittering like a sea of diamonds beneath a slate-gray sky.
In the center of the vast, minimalist room stood Kendrick Ashford.
He had removed his suit jacket, leaving him in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing lean, corded muscles and faint, jagged scars mapping an violent history. He was kneeling on the plush rug, speaking softly to his daughter, Penny, who was busy feeding a slice of roast beef to Titan.
The massive Neapolitan mastiff looked up as Willa entered, letting out a low, welcoming huff that rattled the windows.
"Sit," Kendrick said without turning around.
Willa remained rooted near the elevator doors, her fingers digging into the edge of her serving tray. "I'd prefer to stand, Mr. Ashford."
Kendrick slowly stood up. He was taller than she had realized—well over six feet—with a presence that seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room. He turned, his icy gray eyes locking onto hers with a piercing intensity that made it difficult to draw a breath.
"You have spirit," Kendrick said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. "Most people who enter this room—even high-ranking politicians and syndicate captains—are shaking so hard their teeth chatter. Yet you stand there ready to argue about rent."
"I have nothing to lose, Mr. Ashford," Willa said, her chin lifting defiantly despite her inner terror. "People at the bottom don't have the luxury of being afraid of rich men for very long. If you brought me up here to fire me, or worse, just say it. I just want to go home."
Kendrick took a slow step forward. Then another. He stopped just two feet away from her. The scent of expensive cedar, ozone, and cold winter air washed over her.
"Home?" Kendrick repeated softly, tilting his head. "Where is home, Willa? A two-room tenement in Hell's Kitchen? A damp basement where the radiator knocks all night?"
Willa flinched. How did he know that? She hadn't filled out a full background check; it was just a cash-in-hand catering gig through an agency.
"How do you know my name?" she demanded, her voice cracking slightly.
Kendrick didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached out a long, scarred hand. Willa instinctively braced herself, expecting him to grab her or strike her, but his hand simply brushed past her face.
Clack.
May you like
The sound of a heavy brass key dropping onto the glass coffee table echoed sharply.
"Starting tonight, your home is here," Kendrick said smoothly. "And as for your rent? You won't be needing to worry about it ever again."
