9. Lula
9
LULA
T he sleek black car hums to a stop in the basement parking lot, the dim lights casting a faint glow on the polished concrete walls. Kanyan steps out first, his movements precise, unhurried. I follow, my heart thudding as he presses his thumb against a biometric scanner. The soft beep and green light make my stomach twist—this is normal, I tell myself, for someone who works in security.
The elevator glides upward, so smooth it’s almost unsettling. By the time the doors slide open on the twentieth floor, I’m holding my breath. What sort of security guard has access to a penthouse? My unease grows as we step into the space, and I can’t help my sharp inhale.
He closes the door with a soft click, tossing his keys onto a console near the entryway before scanning a panel by the door. Another layer of security. It’s deliberate—he wants me to see just how untouchable this place is.
“What is this place?” My voice wavers as I take it all in, a frown tugging at my lips. This isn’t just a home; it’s a magnificent fortress.
“This is my place,” he says simply, his tone even but firm. “No one will get to you here. Stay as long as you need.”
The weight of his words settles on my shoulders. Need, not want. There’s a difference, one I can’t ignore. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” I say, though my voice lacks conviction.
He shrugs off his coat and loosens his tie, the movements effortless as he toes off his shoes. His shirt clings to his broad shoulders, hinting at the raw power beneath his composed exterior. I linger by the doorway, bare feet brushing against the cold marble. Not a speck of dust. Either he has an exceptional housekeeper, or he’s obsessively neat.
“Do me a favor,” he says, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “Stop thinking.”
My brows shoot up. “How can a person not think ?”
“You’re overthinking,” he says, his eyes locking onto mine with quiet intensity. “Give me one good reason why staying here isn’t a good idea.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He’s not asking for a favor, not demanding anything. He’s offering—just offering. And yet, my gratitude feels tangled in my throat, stuck behind layers of suspicion and pride.
“You see?” His lips quirk in a grim smile. “There’s no good reason. Just stay, Lula. You need help, and I’m offering it. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be.”
I follow him as he moves through the entryway and hooks a right into a living room that is a picture of quiet opulence, a masculine elegance that speaks to wealth most people only dream of. Chrome and dark wood dominate the space, the furniture sleek and modern, each piece placed with care. Beneath my feet, black marble tiles gleam under the soft overhead lights. The air smells faintly of leather and cedar. Wall-to-wall windows frame the city skyline, the twinkling lights stretching endlessly, as though the world itself bows at his feet.
“How do you even know my name?” I ask, arms crossed, deflecting.
His expression hardens, his jaw tightening. “Really? You’re not over your suspicion yet? Everything that happens in this city is my business, Lula, including who everyone is.”
That’s a lot of people to keep up with , I want to say.
His words hang in the air, heavy and unyielding. He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, as though trying to temper his frustration.
“I can’t stay long,” I say quietly, my gaze darting around the room. A fireplace built into the far wall glows faintly, more ornamental than functional, while the glass windows on the opposite side offer a dizzying view of the city below. “I need to dance. It’s my therapy.”
Kanyan pauses, his head tilted slightly as if considering my words. He doesn’t reply, just nods once before lifting my bag. Without a word, he strides down a long hallway, his footsteps muffled against the pristine floors. I follow, unsure what else to do.
He stops at a door and pushes it open. The room inside is simple but elegant, the same polished aesthetic as the rest of the penthouse. A plush bed dominates the space, flanked by sleek bedside tables. “This will be your room,” he says. “I’m upstairs, so you’ll have all the privacy you need. Bathroom’s through there.” He gestures to a door on the far side. “If you want to freshen up, go ahead. I’m going to change, and we can grab something to eat.”
I nod slowly, the words “thank you” caught somewhere in my throat. The sheer weight of his generosity presses against my chest, too much to fully process. But my body, worn down from everything I’ve endured, decides for me. For now, I’ll stay.
The hot water from the shower does little to wash away the tension coiled in my muscles, but it gives me a moment to breathe. Afterward, I change into jeans and a t-shirt, the soft cotton a welcome change from the stiff fabric of my earlier clothes. My damp hair clings to my neck as I step back out into the living room, the muted sound of Kanyan’s voice drawing my attention.
He’s by the massive wall of glass, the city lights glowing behind him like a crown of gold and silver. His phone is pressed to his ear, his deep voice low but firm, carrying just enough authority to make it clear he’s used to being obeyed.
It looks like he’s showered, too. His black hair is damp, curling loosely at the edges where it brushes against the collar of his plain black t-shirt. I can’t help but notice how different he looks now—larger, almost. The suit I first saw him in made him seem untouchable, a man carved from stone, but out of it, he feels larger, somehow even more intimidating. The loose black sweats hanging low on his hips do little to disguise the power in his frame, his shoulders broad enough to block out half the skyline behind him.
I drift to the sofa and sit down, the black velvet sinking beneath me like a soft whisper. My legs curl beneath me as I glance around the room, taking in more of the details I’d missed before. A few books lie stacked on the coffee table—hardcovers with spines so clean they look unread. The fireplace in the corner casts a faint glow across the dark walls, its warmth a contrast to the steel-cold cityscape beyond the windows. It’s a room that could feel impersonal, but somehow, with him in it, it doesn’t. It feels lived in.
My eyes drift back to Kanyan. He hasn’t moved, though his tone has shifted. Whatever he’s saying now is sharper, clipped. His free hand clenches briefly at his side before releasing, and I can’t help but watch the way the muscles in his back flex beneath the fabric of his shirt. I wonder if he even realizes how much space he commands without trying.
He ends the call with a final, curt word and slides the phone into his pocket. Turning to face me, his dark eyes meet mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. There’s something in the way he looks at me—steady, unyielding, but not unkind. Like he’s already decided to shoulder whatever weight I’m carrying, whether I let him or not.
“You hungry?” he asks, breaking the silence.
The simplicity of the question catches me off guard, and I manage a small nod. “A little.”
He gestures toward the open kitchen on the other side of the room. “I’ll whip something up. Nothing fancy.”
“You cook?” I blurt, more surprised than I mean to sound.
His lips twitch, the barest hint of a smirk. “I know my way around a kitchen. Don’t look so shocked.”
As he moves past me toward the kitchen, the scent of clean soap and something distinctly him lingers in the air, grounding me in a way I didn’t expect. I watch him roll up his sleeves, exposing strong forearms as he pulls open the fridge, and for a moment, the world outside this penthouse doesn’t feel so overwhelming.
Maybe, just maybe, I can breathe here. Even if only for a little while.