Chapter 11
IVY
“Idon’t know what to do about my suitcase,” I say, searching online for lost baggage info. “By the time they find it, I’ll be back in Miami.”
“You won’t need it,” says Soren.
I squint at him. “My things are in there.”
I wanted to look cute this weekend. Now I guess I’ll be wearing my plane outfit. Or maybe he’ll take me somewhere I can buy a few things.
“Not anymore.”
We pull up to an imposing apartment building. Fancy. Modern. Probably packed with amenities.
After parking in the underground garage, we take an elevator up to the penthouse floor. Once again, Soren takes my backpack without asking. It feels nice to be taken care of.
We reach a corner unit. He presses a code into the keypad, and we step inside.
The first thing I notice is the quiet. It’s almost soundproof.
The foyer has marble floors, and one dark, abstract piece of art directly in front of the entrance. Blacks and reds and grays—dramatic, and a little unsettling, somehow.
The space is masculine, but not in a cliché way—lots of dark woods and matte black. Sophisticated stone finishes. Plenty of glass and brushed steel.
We move further inside, and it’s almost like we’ve stepped into an interior design magazine—minimal and deliberate.
Unlike my tiny temporary room, there’s no clutter here.
No clothes or takeout containers strewn around.
Even the coasters and books on the sleek wood coffee table have been placed with precision.
I think about my tiny, chaotic space and cringe.
The couch is spacious and plush, deep enough to sink into. In front of it, a massive screen with what looks to be an elaborate sound system.
Off to the side, there’s a pool table. It’s ornate, with violet felt, and looks custom-made.
The realization hits me—how little I actually know about Soren.
Still, he has a very nice place. He showed up at the airport to pick me up when he said he would, and he paid for my flights without me even asking or expecting.
Green flags. All of them.
I don’t notice them at first. The glass blends into the wall. Until something moves.
Slow. Deliberate.
I step closer before I realize what I’m looking at.
Before I realize I don’t want to look away.
Those fucking spiders. These elegant little things are why I’m here. I don’t know if I should say thank you or set them free.
They’re built into the wall like an art installation. There are multiple sections, like they live in a mansion with separate wings.
Tiny little gravestones, skeletons, Jack-O-Lanterns—all placed with care.
“They’re calm,” Soren says behind me, “if you don’t disturb them.”
I don’t turn around. “Do they bite?”
A pause.
Then—“Only if they need to.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking.
“How did you get into spiders anyway?” I ask, perusing the tank. “They’re not exactly the most normal domestic pet.”
“My mentor was allergic to feathers and fur,” he shrugs. “And he liked things to be in very controlled environments. Not pissing and shitting all over the place. No odor. Contained.”
“Makes sense,” I murmur, taking in even more details. He put intention into this. Every time I look closer, I notice more. “You know, this reminds me a little of a doll house.”
His mouth quirks at one side. “Yeah?” he says.
“It’s… curated. You’ve planned everything down to the last tiny detail.”
He smirks now. “It is. That’s kind of my thing.”
My stomach tightens, and I’m not sure why.
One of the spiders walks past slowly, as if sensing my interest and showing off. “Which one is this?”
“That’s Pearl,” he says. “She’s a real bitch when she wants to be.”
I laugh. “Can I hold her?” The question comes out before I can think about it, instinctive.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Then a shadow passes across his face. “No.”
“Oh—” I say quickly, wondering what I did wrong and why his tone shifted so quickly.
“I’m—sorry,” I say. “I’m not really sure how spiders work. I’m more used to cats and dogs.”
“No, it’s okay,” he reaches out and touches my arm. “They’re not that type of spider.”
He pauses.
“And I don’t let anyone touch what’s mine.”