Morning spilled into the penthouse like liquid gold, reflecting off glass walls and polished steel. The city stretched below, horns blaring faintly in the distance, but up here it felt like the world had been put on mute.
Ethan stood at the breakfast counter, his hair sticking out in defiance of combs, staring at the tray Walter had laid out. Silverware in perfect order. Napkin folded with military precision. A plate of eggs gleaming as though even the yolk knew it was expensive.
Walter stood across from him, arms folded, expression carved from stone. "Knife in your right hand. Fork in your left. Posture upright. Shoulders square. And for heaven's sake, do not shovel food into your mouth like a construction worker."
Ethan puffed his chest, as though preparing for battle. "Excuse me, sir, but I'll have you know—I'm an artist. And artists eat with flair."
He jabbed the fork dramatically into the egg. The yolk burst, bleeding across the plate like a crime scene. Ethan winced. "Okay… maybe that was abstract art."
Walter shut his eyes, inhaling slowly. "This is torture."
"Hey, you're the one who kidnapped me into billionaire boot camp," Ethan shot back with a grin. He swapped the fork and knife clumsily, nearly losing both in the process. "Honestly, I think people would respect Adrian more if he ate like a normal human. Nothing says power like licking the plate clean."
Walter's glare was sharp enough to cut steel.
Ethan leaned back, surrendering with a sigh. "Fine, fine. I'll do it your way." He carefully cut a sliver of egg, lifted it to his mouth, chewed dramatically, and raised his pinky finger like a duchess at tea. "How's this? Do I look like Wall Street's finest?"
Walter rubbed his temples. "You look like a circus act playing Wall Street's finest."
Ethan grinned wider. "Perfect. That's my specialty."
Walter muttered under his breath. "We'll never survive tomorrow…"
The words should have annoyed Ethan, but instead, they made him smirk. He was used to being underestimated. In Queens, people underestimated him every day—when he worked odd jobs, when he stood on stage with greasepaint smeared on his face, when he cracked jokes just to make the audience forget their rent for an hour. He liked it that way. He was good at it.
But here, the stakes weren't small laughs in a neighborhood theater. They were billion-dollar deals, sharp-eyed investors, and a world that could smell fraud like sharks scenting blood.
Still, as he balanced the fork between his fingers like a juggler with pins, Ethan thought: If this Adrian guy can live his whole life without joy, then maybe the world needs a clown in a penthouse.
Walter broke his silence, his voice softer now. "You don't understand, Mr. Miller. Appearances are everything. In a world like this, one wrong move, one careless slip… and people will devour you."
Ethan set down the fork, suddenly more serious than usual. "Yeah, but you ever think maybe that's the problem? Maybe Adrian spent so long playing perfect that he forgot how to be human."
For the first time, Walter hesitated. His lips pressed thin, but his eyes betrayed the flicker of a memory. "Adrian…" He stopped himself, straightened, and adjusted his tie. "We are not here to debate philosophy. Again."
Ethan chuckled, though it sounded a little hollow. He picked up the knife and fork again, forcing himself to cut more carefully. "Alright, coach. One more round."
They went on like that—Walter correcting posture, Ethan cracking jokes, eggs growing cold as the lesson dragged on. By the end, Ethan's back ached from sitting stiff, and Walter's patience frayed like thread stretched too tight.
But something else had changed too.
The penthouse, usually a mausoleum of silence and polished surfaces, had been filled with noise—Ethan's laughter, Walter's scolding, the clatter of silverware against china. It was ridiculous, yes. But it was alive.
And as Walter gathered the plates with mechanical precision, he allowed himself a fleeting thought he would never voice aloud:
For the first time in years, this place felt less like a tomb.
It felt like someone had breathed life back into it.
And that, more than posture or polish, was what Adrian Arden had never managed to do.
Morning spilled into the penthouse like liquid gold, reflecting off glass walls and polished
steel.
But now, the silence wasn't quite so heavy.