ARIA
I woke up slowly, the deep, unfamiliar mattress feeling both incredible and utterly wrong. For one blissful second, I was just Aria Davis in a very comfortable bed. Then, the memory of the last forty-eight hours crashed down on me. The hospital. The eviction. The penthouse. Dalton.
My body still felt heavy and weak from the collapse, a dull ache in my limbs a permanent reminder of my own failure. Sunlight, sharp and unobstructed by neighboring buildings, spilled across the room. This wasn't my dim, cozy apartment. This was a glass palace in the sky.
My first, desperate instinct was to run back to The Grind. To lose myself in the steam of the espresso machine and the simple, predictable problems of rude customers and milk foam. If I could just go to work, I could pretend my life hadn't been completely hijacked by a controlling billionaire.
I stretched, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and grabbed my phone from the minimalist nightstand. I had to call Mel.
"Good morning," a calm voice said from the living room, making me jump. Of course, he was already awake. He was probably born fully dressed and sipping espresso. "Don't even think about going into work today."
I froze, my thumb hovering over Mel's contact. "What?"
"Doctor's orders. You fainted yesterday. Your body requires rest, not caffeinating the city's population. I am not negotiating." His tone was final, like a judge delivering a sentence.
My jaw dropped. "You mean.."
"Yes. You are calling in sick. End of discussion."
I groaned, flopping back onto the ridiculously expensive pillows. "I don't even know what I'll tell them. I mean, I can't exactly say, 'Sorry, Mel, I can't come in because my new billionaire roommate/boss/warden has mandated bed rest in his five-star medical facility of an apartment.'"
"Say whatever you want," Dalton replied, his voice smooth and utterly unconcerned. "A stomach bug. A migraine. The truth. Just stay here. Eat. Hydrate. Avoid collapsing again. It's terribly inefficient."
The truth was, I didn't want to explain anything. Not to Mel, not to Ben and Lena. How could I explain that I was here because my world had fallen apart so completely that this man this infuriating, logical, impossibly persistent man was the only structurally sound thing left? It was humiliating.
"Fine," I muttered, the fight draining out of me along with my energy. "I'll stay."
There was a pause, then his voice came again, closer this time. "Good. I've also arranged for a moving crew. They'll collect your things from your old apartment tomorrow morning. The eviction notice expires, and I prefer this isn't left to last-minute chaos."
I groaned again, louder this time. "Of course. My life is now a military operation. Do I get a uniform?"
"Exactly," he said, and I could almost hear the hint of pride in his voice. "Follow orders, survive, and maybe you'll learn something about routine and organization."
I rolled my eyes but couldn't stop a small, reluctant smile. As much as I hated to admit it, he wasn't wrong. My version of "organization" was a stack of unpaid bills and a prayer.
DALTON
I watched her from the kitchen entrance as she rolled over in the bed, the picture of reluctant obedience. Yesterday's system failure the fainting had been a stark data point. Allowing a repeat performance was illogical. The added variable of the eviction notice created a firm deadline. Leaving her to her own devices was no longer a viable strategy.
"Moving crew tomorrow," I stated, watching her scowl into the pillows. "You'll have a few hours to supervise the extraction of your belongings if you wish, but they are professionals. They will handle the heavy lifting."
She muttered something unintelligible, likely an expletive directed at me. I chose to ignore it. Her passive compliance was an acceptable outcome for now. I had a brief internal debate about the ethics of such control, but it was quickly overridden by the higher priority: her stability. Chaos was not a sustainable environment for recovery. I would provide the structure she lacked, whether she appreciated it or not.
ARIA
By late morning, a restless energy had replaced the exhaustion. I was stranded in this beautiful prison. If I couldn't work, I could at least try to… belong. To not feel like a piece of lint on a perfect black suit.
I found a note from Mrs. Higgins about the breakfast dishes. Okay. I could do dishes. How hard could it be? I grabbed a sponge, trying to ignore the fact that it was probably made from woven angel hair, and started tidying the kitchen. I was so nervous, moving like a bomb disposal expert in a room full of shiny, expensive explosives.
I loaded the dishwasher carefully, I thought, remembering my past failures. But this machine was a spaceship control panel. There were no clear instructions. Which way did the plates face? Could these fancy glasses touch? I sighed, decided winging it was my only option, and just went for it.
The moment I closed the door, Dalton entered the kitchen.
"Aria." His voice was calm, but it had that specific edge that meant he'd spotted an error in his code.
"Yes?" I asked, my heart doing a little tap dance of panic.
He looked at the dishwasher, then back at me, his expression unreadable. "The wood cutting boards are porous. Bacteria thrives in the grooves. The detergent will degrade the finish and cause warping."
I blinked. He'd examined my loading job in the two seconds since he walked in. "Wow. A eulogy for a cutting board. Did you have a bad day at the office, Mr. Gray?"
He didn't flinch. He never flinched. "My day is irrelevant. The parameters of the system are not."
I groaned, throwing my hands up. "You make everything sound so… serious! It's a dishwasher, not a nuclear reactor."
"Everything is serious," he said, arching one perfect eyebrow. "Especially this."
I stared at him, caught between sheer exasperation and a weird sense of awe. Here I was, a girl from a world of instant noodles and late bills, having a heated debate about dishwasher efficiency with a man who probably owned the company that made the dishwasher. And the crazy part was, he cared. He cared about the system, yes, but in his own twisted way, he was trying to teach me. To bring me into his world, one incorrectly placed spoon at a time.
DALTON
Watching her fumble was a study in contradiction. Her intention was positive a desire to contribute, to integrate. Her execution, however, was a masterclass in operational chaos. The warring impulses of frustration and a strange, unwelcome admiration left me unsettled.
"Stop," I said finally, stepping forward. I opened the drawer and retrieved the manual. "The operational guide for the dishwasher is here. Read it. Learn the principles. Then we will attempt this again."
Her face twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile, but wasn't a scowl either. "Yes, sir," she said, a spark of amusement in her eyes that I found… not entirely disagreeable.
I ignored it. There would be time for iterative learning. The primary goal was establishing competence.
But first, a more critical system required her attention.
"Tomorrow," I announced, "I will show you the coffee machine. It is non-negotiable. Mastering it will be your primary morning task. Routine provides structure, and structure is what you currently lack."
She tilted her head, and for once, curiosity seemed to outweigh her instinct for sarcasm. "Coffee? That's… it? That's my big responsibility?"
"It's everything," I said firmly. The morning coffee ritual was the cornerstone of a productive day. Entrusting it to her was a significant transfer of responsibility.
Her lips twitched. Then she laughed softly, a quiet, warm, thoroughly human sound that seemed to vibrate in the sterile air of the apartment, challenging the very silence I had always cherished.
ARIA
By the time I surrendered to the couch, I was emotionally spent. This house, this life, was a beautiful, overwhelming wave I was constantly trying not to drown in. I missed the sticky floors of The Grind. I missed Lena's gossip and Ben's dramatic sighs. I even missed the simple, manageable panic of being late on rent.
Dalton leaned against the kitchen counter, a silent, observant statue waiting for my next unpredictable move. I didn't have the energy to fight him anymore. My way had led me to a hospital bed and homelessness. His way came with dishwasher manuals and a view that cost more than my life.
And if this stubborn, impossible, strangely devoted man wanted to teach me about coffee machines and routines, about how to navigate a world I was so clearly not built for… maybe, just for today, I'd let him.