Rain slapped against the black-tinted windows of Silver Heights Tower, the city's most exclusive residential building. Jace Carter adjusted the strap on his duffel bag and stared up at the twenty-four-story marvel, its marble foyer glowing with gold-trimmed lighting and cold silence.
He didn't belong here. Not with twenty-seven dollars in his bank account and a phone with a cracked screen. Not with boots caked in mud and a hoodie that still smelled faintly of motorcycle oil.
But the keycard in his back pocket said otherwise.
Unit 2401. Penthouse. Free rent, private room, fully furnished.
All because of a stranger's Craigslist ad that read:
"Looking for a quiet male tenant. Must not bring guests. Must follow house rules. No questions." Rent: \$0.
Sounded like a scam. But when he met her—Elara Quinn—everything became real.
And even more unreal.
She was older. Ten years, maybe fifteen. Skin like cream and steel. Voice like winter. Eyes like something you shouldn't look into unless you were ready to drown.
She didn't shake his hand when he arrived. She didn't ask about his job, school, or family. She just unlocked the door, handed him the keycard, and said, "There are rules. Don't break them."
Now, as the elevator dinged and opened directly into a marble hallway, he stepped inside.
Silence. Not even a hum of music or signs of life.
"Home sweet home," Jace muttered.
The penthouse looked like something out of a billionaire's wet dream. Open kitchen with black quartz counters. Living room the size of his old apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a full view of the city skyline, blinking red and white in the rain.
And at the far end, sitting cross-legged on a leather chaise with a glass of wine in her hand—Elara Quinn.
"Take off your shoes," she said without looking up. "No dirt in this house."
Jace didn't argue. He toed off his boots quietly, setting them by the entrance.
"You're late," she added.
"I got caught in traffic."
"I don't care." She took a slow sip of wine. "That's not an excuse. Next time, text. You have my number. I don't tolerate inconsideration."
He raised a brow but nodded. "Got it."
Elara finally looked at him.
Jace wasn't easily shaken. He'd fought grown men in alleyways over debts and dodged more punches than he could count growing up. But the way she stared—dissecting him with icy detachment—it made his skin crawl and blood warm.
"You'll stay in the guest room. First door on the left. Kitchen's open after 8 a.m. Don't touch anything labeled with a red tag. Do not enter the main bedroom. No guests. No parties. No loud music. And no questions."
He tilted his head. "Not even a simple 'how was your day?'"
Her expression didn't flicker. "I don't believe in small talk."
He gave her a crooked smile. "Right. Of course not. That'd be... too human."
Silence stretched between them.
Then—unexpectedly—her lips curved into something resembling a smirk. "Don't try to be charming, Mr. Carter. I've seen your kind before. Cocky, reckless, undisciplined."
"Is that what you think I am?"
"No." She stood, walked past him, close enough that he could smell her perfume—smoke and jasmine. "That's what I know you are."
She disappeared down the hallway. Her heels clicked, then faded.
And Jace stood in the center of the penthouse, stunned but smirking.
She was cold. Distant. Sharp.
And that only made him want to break every rule she'd written.
Later that night, he couldn't sleep. The rain had softened, but his mind buzzed.
He wandered into the kitchen, shirtless, grabbing a glass of water. The fridge light spilled across his chest, highlighting old scars and faint tattoos.
Then he saw her.
Standing in the hallway, arms folded, watching him silently.
Her eyes dropped to his torso. Slowly. Deliberately.
"You're not wearing a shirt," she said.
"You're not wearing a bra," he replied.
The air turned electric.
She didn't deny it.
She turned, walking away.
No comment. No insult. No threat.
Just silence.
Jace grinned to himself, pulse rising.
Let the games begin.