Chapter 14 #2
The morning continues with the kind of chaos only small children can create while doing ordinary things.
Griffin tries to step in twice.
I stop him with a look both times.
By the time Sylas is dressed, fed, packed, and standing near the front door, Griffin is holding my car keys and staring at me with open suspicion.
“What?” I ask, adjusting Sylas’s backpack straps.
“You handled that.”
“Devastating for your control issues, I’m sure.”
“You got him dressed in under ten minutes.”
“Technically, he got himself dressed. I just made it fun.”
I grin and guide Sylas through the doorway, but as I pass Griffin, my arm brushes against his.
We both still, and the air catches for one fraction of a second before Sylas bounds down the front steps and pulls the moment apart.
The camera’s red light blinks before going steady as I step back into frame carrying a boxed dresser more than half my size.
“Okay,” I puff, trying not to laugh as I nearly lose my grip on it. “Who let furniture come with this many pieces?”
I drop the package onto the rug before crouching beside it.
The tripod is balanced on top of stacked books as I’m still figuring out the setup in this new bedroom. Not because I’m lacking space—the room is honestly massive—but because I haven’t really had time to fully settle in yet.
It’s been a few weeks living at Griffin’s house, and I still sometimes forget that he’s basically a gazillionaire.
There’s nothing flashy about him, nothing that screams rich the way people imagine it.
No designer logos, no pretentious modern mansion that looks untouched and sterile.
His house is warm, lived-in and practical.
Still, my bedroom at my parents’ house could probably fit inside this one twice.
I angle the camera toward the floor while opening the box.
“Today’s vlog is basically a room refresh because I finally decided this place needs to stop looking like I’m a guest who accidentally overstayed their welcome.”
A montage follows: Wood panels spread across the rug; me aggressively fighting with instructions; me using the wrong screws then realizing I used the wrong screws.
By the end of it, I’ve somehow managed to assemble the dresser, a small bookshelf, and floating shelves for one wall.
An hour later, the final video is ready. A little chaotic but in an intentional, relatable influencer way.
I post it with a caption about making unfamiliar spaces feel like home.
Within minutes, the likes and comments start rolling in.
Most are normal, but then I spot one from @built2last.
The left shelf is uneven by approximately half an inch. You can fix it by loosening the middle bracket first, leveling it, then tightening from the center outward. It’s a bit of an eye sore.
I stare at the comment, then slowly turn toward the wall. My eyes immediately land on the shelf. It is definitely uneven.
And now that this person pointed it out, it’s all I can see.
“Oh my God,” I mutter.
I narrow my eyes at my phone.
Why would they even notice that?
Who watches a cozy furniture-building video and immediately starts evaluating structural integrity?
Annoyance prickles under my skin as I zoom in on the clip again.
Yup. Crooked. Fantastic.
Now I’m never going to unsee it.
I type back.
I was perfectly happy before you burst my bubble with that information.
What an annoyingly observant person.
I tap through to the profile. There’s no profile picture, nothing that gives away who’s behind it. Just three posts.
One is a moody black-and-white shot of a skyscraper disappearing into fog.
Another is rain streaking down massive windows overlooking the Seattle skyline at night.
The third is a picture of a half-finished cup of black coffee sitting beside a laptop and scattered paperwork.
The account follows about fifty people, mostly architecture and design pages.
Another lurker, I think, already halfway ready to back out.
Then something about the handle tugs at my memory. I’m sure I’ve seen it before.
I frown and tap back to my story views, scrolling through the names, and there it is.
That account has been watching me.
I have thousands of followers, so most of them blur together, but I’ve always paid attention to patterns.
My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s a text from Demi.
Demi
Call me right NOW!!!
Anxiety immediately crawls up my spine as I hit call.
Demi answers on the second ring in a low murmur. “Hi.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“Because I’m standing beside the espresso machine and Aravind is like ten feet away from me,” she whisper-hisses back.
I swing my legs off the bed. “Okay, what happened?”
“So these two guys came in earlier wearing full business attire,” she says, and I can already hear the stress in her voice. “They asked specifically for Mr. Patel, and then they all went into the office together and stayed there for almost forty minutes.”
My stomach tightens.
“And?”
“And after they left, I went in there to drop off invoices and there was a folder on his desk.”
“What kind of folder?”
Demi lowers her voice even more. “The company name on it said Aldercrest Hospitality Group.”
Shit.
I already know who they are.
They’re the reason I’ve been saving every extra dollar for the past month.
If Aldercrest is showing up in person now… If they’re pushing…
A cold wave of dread slides down my spine as I start pacing the room, one hand dragging through my hair while my thoughts begin spiraling.
Six months only matter if Mr. Patel sticks to his promise.
Aravind loves Willow’s, but he’s also tired. I see it every day in the way he rubs his temples during rushes, the way he talks more and more about retirement, about slowing down and traveling with his wife.
If he keeps getting hounded with bigger offers, what’s stopping him from shortening the timeline altogether?
“You don’t think he’d change his mind, do you?”
Demi hesitates for a moment. “I don’t know—I mean, I hope not. You know Aravind is usually a man of his word, and he cares about you a lot. I just… I figured you’d want to know they’re showing up in person now.”
I exhale slowly and press my fingers against my forehead. “Thanks, babe. I appreciate it.”
“Of course. I’m keeping my eyes open over here,” she murmurs.
I can practically picture her crouched behind the espresso machine like she’s undercover, which weirdly reminds me of the time Mya hid under the counter at Willow’s after she thought she’d completely tanked her interview with Worth Miller and then panicked when he showed up at the café.
Despite everything, a smile tugs at my lips.
“Okay, I gotta go before he catches me being nosy,” Demi says quickly. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” Then the line clicks dead.
I stare at my phone for a second after the call ends, my chest feeling tighter than it did five minutes ago.
I press my lips together and force myself to inhale and exhale slowly. Panicking about it isn’t going to magically add money to my savings account.
Still, anxiety buzzes beneath my skin.