The penthouse was nothing like Ethan had imagined. He expected stiff furniture, cold marble floors, and people whispering in tuxedos. Instead, it was eerily quiet—like a museum that someone forgot to fill.
He trailed behind Walter across the gleaming floors, his sneakers squeaking against the polished wood. Chandeliers dangled like upside-down crystal forests, throwing fractured rainbows on the walls. Everything was too clean, too still, too staged. Ethan shoved his hands into his pockets and muttered, "So this is where Mr. Moneybags lives, huh? Kinda creepy. Doesn't anyone ever laugh in here?"
Walter did not answer. His polished shoes clicked against the marble as he carried his leather briefcase to the long dining table. With one precise motion, he set it down and flicked open the locks. "We begin immediately," he said without turning. "Sit."
Ethan flopped into the nearest chair, slouching like a teenager in detention. "Yes, sir, coach."
Walter's hand dipped into the case and came out holding… a pair of chopsticks. He slid them across the table with solemnity, as though they were a judge's gavel. "First lesson," he said. "Japanese dining etiquette. The Arden Group is in the middle of delicate negotiations with Kameda Holdings. If you cannot handle these properly, you will insult half the room."
Ethan picked them up, holding them like drumsticks. His grin widened. He crossed them like swords and made a buzzing sound. "Vvvmm. Vvvmm. Feel the force, Walter."
Walter's jaw tightened. "This is not Star Wars."
"Tell that to my inner child," Ethan quipped, fencing the air with exaggerated swings.
Walter smacked the table, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. "Concentrate!"
Ethan attempted again, fumbling. The chopsticks slipped from his fingers, bounced off the table, and clattered to the floor. He bent to retrieve them with a groan. "Bet Adrian never had to fight with toothpicks."
"Adrian mastered five languages before college," Walter said crisply. He slid a sheet of paper across the table with neat characters printed on it. "You will begin with basic phrases. Repeat after me: Hajimemashite."
Ethan squinted at the paper. "Hashi—mesh? Like sushi?"
Walter closed his eyes as if praying for patience. "Again. Slowly."
"Haji… mema… sheet?"
Walter exhaled through his nose. "Close enough. For now."
Ethan grinned, puffing out his chest. "See? I'm a natural."
Walter pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, "This is going to kill me."
But Ethan didn't notice. He was already distracted by the way the penthouse swallowed sound. Every laugh, every misstep, every word echoed like it didn't belong. He drummed the chopsticks against the table and pushed back his chair. "You know what? I need a break. Can't dive into billionaire boot camp on an empty stomach."
Walter opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. He folded his arms, his gaze following Ethan as he wandered off.
Ethan padded through the halls, his fingers brushing against glass cases and polished surfaces. The place felt more like a set than a home, like someone had carefully curated a museum of wealth. Rows of untouched books lined the shelves, their spines stiff. Portraits of stern-faced Ardens glared down from gilded frames. The kitchen gleamed as though no one had ever cooked a meal inside it.
He muttered under his breath, "Man, this guy must've lived like a robot. No wonder he crashed."
The silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating. Ethan shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and wandered into a sitting room where the Manhattan skyline stretched wide beyond the glass. The city glittered like a thousand sequins, alive and loud in the distance, yet unreachable through the barrier of spotless glass.
For a fleeting second, he saw his reflection. Not his own. Adrian's face—refined, cold, severe—stared back at him. He startled, blinking, and it was only himself again: messy hair, tired eyes, a clown in borrowed shoes.
"Guess I'm living in a ghost house now," he muttered, forcing a laugh.
From the doorway, Walter's voice carried, softer than usual. "This is not a house, Mr. Miller. It is a stage. Everything here is meant to project an image."
Ethan turned, startled. Walter stood in the shadows, hands folded neatly, studying him with the same sharp eyes as before.
"A stage, huh?" Ethan said. He gave a crooked smile. "Well… lucky for you, I know a thing or two about performing."
Walter's expression didn't change, but his silence spoke volumes.
Ethan turned back toward the window. The towers of Manhattan stabbed into the night sky like blades of light. He pressed his forehead to the glass, feeling the cold seep into him. He didn't belong in this world. Not even for pretend. But deep inside, that same reckless spark buzzed in his veins—the thrill of a bigger stage than he'd ever dreamed.
The penthouse was still nothing like Ethan had imagined. Cold, polished, and too perfect—but now, under Walter's watchful eye and the weight of borrowed shoes, it didn't feel like a museum anymore. It felt like a stage. And for better or worse, Ethan was about to perform.