Chapter 32: The Penthouse Discovery
Running into Mr. Chen in the apartment lobby is pure coincidence.
Or maybe not. Maybe the tingle guided me to check my mail at exactly 6:47 PM when he'd be there.
Either way, he's updating the bulletin board when I walk in.
"Ah, Stuart! Good timing. You still in 2B?"
"Yeah. Studio's served me well."
"Might have opportunity for you." He pins a notice to the board. "Penthouse finally ready. Renovation took eight months, but it's done. Beautiful space."
Penthouse. The word hangs there.
I've lived in this building since taking over Stuart's life. The penthouse has been under renovation the entire time—gutted, rebuilt, perpetually "almost ready." I walked past it once during construction: two thousand square feet of raw potential.
"How much?"
"Twenty-two hundred monthly. Fifty percent more than your current, but—" He grins. "—it's the penthouse. Two bedroom, balcony, new everything. Worth seeing."
My brain does immediate math:
Current rent: $800 Penthouse rent: $2,200 Difference: $1,400 Monthly shop profit: $11,000 Investment portfolio: $62,500
I can afford it. Easily.
The realization hits like cold water: I can afford a penthouse.
"Can I see it?"
"Now?"
"If that works."
"Let me grab keys."
I text Melissa while Mr. Chen fumbles with his key ring: Building's penthouse finally finished. Want to see it?
OMG YES. Be there in 10.
She makes it in seven, arriving breathless and excited.
"A penthouse? Really?"
"Just looking."
"Stuart. You're not 'just looking' at anything. If you're seeing it, you're considering it."
Mr. Chen leads us up the extra flight of stairs—the penthouse is technically a sixth floor in a five-story building. The door opens onto space that makes my studio apartment look like a closet.
The main room is massive. Actual living room separate from actual bedroom. Kitchen with granite counters and appliances that look like they cost more than my first car. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Pasadena.
"Two bedrooms," Mr. Chen explains, opening doors. "Master here, second bedroom could be office or whatever. Bathroom's renovated—new fixtures, good tile work."
The bathroom is larger than my entire current kitchen.
But the balcony—the balcony stops me completely.
It wraps around two sides of the building. Maybe three hundred square feet of outdoor space with city views and actual privacy. You could have dinner parties out here. Gaming nights. Sunrise coffee.
Melissa's already there, hands on the railing, grinning like a kid.
"This is amazing."
"It's expensive."
"You can afford it."
"Maybe I should be saving—"
"Stuart." She turns to face me. "Your shop's making eighteen thousand monthly. You've got investments that keep growing. You consult for TV shows. You're planning a second location. You can afford this."
"But—"
"But what? You think you don't deserve it?"
The words land hard because she's right. Some part of me—the part that remembers being broke, that knows this success is built on cheating—thinks I don't deserve penthouses and balconies and granite counters.
"Do you like it?" I ask instead of answering.
"I love it. It's perfect for you. For—" She hesitates. "—us, eventually? If that's where we're headed?"
The future talk. We've been dating seven months. It's coming anyway.
"Yeah. That's where we're headed."
Her smile could power the city.
Mr. Chen clears his throat diplomatically. "I'll give you two privacy. Think about it. But I have another viewing tomorrow, so—"
"I'll take it."
Melissa's eyes widen. Mr. Chen pauses mid-step.
"You'll—just like that?"
"Yeah. When can I move in?"
"November first. Six weeks. That work?"
"Perfect."
We shake hands. Mr. Chen leaves with promises of paperwork. Melissa and I stand in the empty penthouse that's now my penthouse.
"You just signed a lease for a place you saw for ten minutes," she says.
"I did."
"That's very unlike you."
"Is it?" I walk to the master bedroom window. "I walked into this building ten months ago broke and terrified. Rented the cheapest unit available because I couldn't afford better. Now I'm standing in the penthouse about to sign a lease I can actually afford."
"Growth."
"Supernatural growth."
She comes up behind me, wraps her arms around my waist. "Not supernatural. Just success. You built a business. Made smart investments. Worked hard. This is earned."
If only.
But I don't say that. Instead: "Help me furnish it? I have no idea what adult furniture looks like."
"Absolutely. We're burning that futon you sleep on."
"Hey, that futon's been through a lot—"
"It smells like poor decisions and broken dreams. It's getting curbed."
Walking back to my soon-to-be-former studio, I look around with fresh eyes.
Four hundred square feet. Kitchenette that barely fits a person. Bathroom where the shower and toilet are basically the same fixture. Closet that holds maybe ten shirts.
This space represented rock bottom for Stuart Bloom.
For me, it represented a starting point.
Now it's history.
In six weeks, I move to the penthouse. Two thousand square feet. Balcony with city views. Space for Melissa to slowly migrate her things until we're unofficially living together.
Physical proof that the transformation is complete.
From failed artist to successful businessman.
From struggling shop owner to growing entrepreneur.
From studio apartment to penthouse.
The powers made it possible. But standing here, looking at how far I've come, I choose to believe I earned it too.
The tingle's been quiet all evening. No warnings, no affirmations. Just silence.
Maybe that means this decision is all mine.
Or maybe the powers know I don't need guidance anymore.
Either way, I'm taking the penthouse.
Six weeks until I move.
Ten months since I opened the shop.
One year since I died and woke up in this impossible life.
Everything's different now.
And somehow, improbably, beautifully—
It's working.
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