The clock on the wall of the breakroom was a taunt. 12:45 PM.
Sloane Sterling stood in front of the high-end vending machine, the kind that served organic kale chips and artisanal sparkling water for five dollars a pop, and felt a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with illness. It was pure, unadulterated hunger.
She had searched her designer tote three times. Her wallet was gone. She must have left it on the tiny, makeshift nightstand in Unit 4B, or worse, it had been lost in the chaos of the move. She had exactly zero dollars on her person, and her digital banking app showed a balance of $1.12—just enough to remind her she was broke, but not enough to buy a single bagel.
"Decisions, decisions," a smooth, mocking voice sounded behind her.
Sloane didn't need to turn around. The scent of sandalwood and expensive laundry detergent told her exactly who it was.
Arthur Hayes was leaning against the doorframe, a brown paper bag from a nearby gourmet deli in his hand. The smell of toasted sourdough and roasted turkey wafted from it, hitting Sloane like a physical blow.
"I'm just checking the calorie counts," Sloane lied, her voice steady despite the trembling in her hands. She turned away from the machine, smoothing her skirt. "I have a late lunch meeting."
Arthur raised a skeptical eyebrow. He stepped closer, his gaze dropping to the empty slot of the vending machine and then to her pale face. "A lunch meeting? With whom? I checked the department calendar. You're free until the 2:00 PM briefing."
"It's private, Arthur. Not everything I do is on the public server," she snapped, moving to push past him.
Arthur didn't move. He blocked the exit, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. He was a man who noticed details, it was why he was so good at his job. He noticed the slight tremor in her fingers. He noticed that she hadn't touched a drop of water all day.
"You didn't eat breakfast," he noted coolly. "And you're staring at a bag of pretzels like it's a gold bar. Did you forget your 'Sterling' credit card today, Sloane?"
Sloane's jaw tightened. "My lunch habits are none of your concern. Move."
"You're right," Arthur said, his voice turning icy. He stepped aside, his expression shifting into one of hard indifference. "In this firm, we eat what we kill. If you didn't prepare, that's your failure. I'm not here to be your safety net."
He walked past her, sat down at one of the sleek glass tables, and began to unwrap his sandwich with agonizing slowness. The crunch of the bread sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Sloane didn't stay to watch. She walked out of the breakroom, her head held high, and retreated to her cubicle. She tried to focus on the merger documents on her screen, but the numbers began to swim. Her stomach let out a low, traitorous growl. She drank three glasses of tap water from the cooler to stop the cramping, but it only made her feel bloated and hollow.
By 1:45 PM, she was lightheaded. The "Ice Queen" was melting under the heat of a New York afternoon and a lack of glucose. She began to pack her things for the briefing, her movements sluggish.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over her desk.
She looked up, expecting a junior clerk with more filing. Instead, she saw Arthur. He looked annoyed, his mouth set in a thin line. Without saying a word, he set a small, white paper bag on her desk.
Sloane stared at it. "What is this?"
"It's a ham and Swiss croissant," Arthur said, his voice low so the surrounding cubicles wouldn't hear. "The deli gave me an extra by mistake. I was going to throw it out, but I hate waste. It's a blemish on efficiency."
Sloane looked from the bag to Arthur. The bag was warm. The deli he frequented didn't give out "accidental" six-dollar croissants, and it certainly didn't hand them out in separate, neatly folded bags.
"Arthur....."
"Eat it," he hissed, leaning down so his face was inches from hers. His gray eyes were intense, devoid of their usual mockery. "If you faint during the 2:00 PM briefing, the partners will think you're weak. And if they think you're weak, they'll think I'm the only one left in the running. I want to beat you when you're at your best, Sterling. I don't win by default because my opponent forgot how to feed herself."
He straightened his tie, his mask of corporate coldness sliding back into place.
"Consider it a loan," he added, his voice returning to its normal, loud-enough-for-others-to-hear volume. "At fifteen percent interest."
He turned and walked toward the conference room without looking back.
Sloane reached into the bag. The croissant was buttery and rich. As she took the first bite, the world seemed to snap back into focus. It was the best thing she had ever tasted.
She looked at Arthur's retreating back. He was arrogant, prickly, and he had spent the last hour watching her suffer before finally stepping in. He was her enemy. He was the man trying to take her future.
But as she finished the last crumb and wiped her mouth, she realized something dangerous.
Arthur Hayes had seen her at her lowest, and instead of exposing her, he had kept her secret.
The "Apartment Rules" had just followed them into the office, and for the first time, the lines between "Rival" and "Roommate" were starting to blur.