CHAPTER 5
AUDREY
The mattress is too soft.
I’ve been staring at the ceiling for four hours, trying to find a flaw in the smooth, pristine plaster, but there isn’t one.
There are no water stains. No uneven paint strokes.
The guest bedroom in Malcolm Vance’s penthouse is a masterclass in sterile perfection, and it is driving me absolutely insane.
I roll onto my side, pulling the heavy duvet up to my chin. The fabric smells like expensive laundry detergent and nothing else. No trace of the person who lives here.
My left hand rests on the pillow next to my face. Even in the dim light filtering through the sheer curtains, the vintage diamond catches a faint gleam from the city outside.
It’s heavy. Simon’s ring—the commercial, flashy princess cut he bought as an afterthought—used to spin around my finger because he never bothered to get my correct size. This one doesn't move. It sits perfectly flush against my skin, cold and immovable, like a shackle disguised as an heirloom.
My stomach lets out a loud, hollow rumble.
I press my hand against my abdomen, closing my eyes.
I haven't eaten a real meal since the day before yesterday, right before Simon’s lawyer handed me the eviction notice.
I survived yesterday on two Advil, a glass of tap water, and sheer adrenaline.
Now, the adrenaline is gone, and my body is aggressively demanding calories.
I look at the digital clock on the nightstand. 2:34 AM.
Malcolm said there was a tablet in the kitchen for food delivery, but no restaurant in this zip code is delivering a cheeseburger at three in the morning.
I sit up, pushing the duvet off my legs. I’m still wearing the faded jeans and the oversized cream sweater I arrived in. I didn't unpack. My suitcase is sitting by the closet, still zipped shut. Unpacking feels like a surrender I’m not ready to make yet.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand up. My bare feet hit the hardwood floor.
I walk to the bedroom door and rest my hand on the heavy brass deadbolt.
If you are in my penthouse, you are behind my security doors. You are under my protection.
I turn the lock. The loud, metallic clack echoes in the quiet room. It feels like a massive concession, unlocking the only barrier between me and a man who professionally ruins lives, but starvation is currently winning the war against my common sense.
I ease the door open and step out into the hallway.
The penthouse is completely dark, save for the ambient glow of the Chicago skyline bleeding through the massive living room windows. I walk slowly, keeping my steps light. The floor is cold.
I turn the corner into the open-concept kitchen and stop dead.
I’m not alone.
Malcolm is sitting on one of the leather barstools at the kitchen island.
He isn't wearing the bespoke suit anymore. He’s in a pair of dark gray sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt.
His feet are bare. He has a pair of reading glasses pushed up into his dark hair, and the glow of a tablet illuminates the sharp angles of his face.
He doesn't look like the Devil of Chicago right now. He looks like a guy working late. It’s a deeply unsettling humanization of a monster, and my brain struggles to process the visual data.
He doesn't look up from the screen. "You're awake."
"I could say the same to you," I reply, my voice sounding rough in the quiet space. I cross my arms over my chest, sharply aware of how messy my hair probably is. "Do you ever actually sleep, or do you just power down and update your firmware?"
Malcolm’s thumb pauses on the screen. He slowly lifts his head, his dark eyes locking onto me. He takes me in—the oversized sweater, the bare feet, the defensive posture—and his gaze lingers for a fraction of a second on my left hand.
I didn't take the ring off.
I meant to. I really did. But the clasp was tight, and then I just... didn't.
He doesn't comment on it. He just sets the tablet face down on the marble counter. "I sleep when it's necessary. Tonight, I had contracts to review."
"Right. Ruining lives requires a lot of paperwork." I walk further into the kitchen, keeping a safe distance between us. "I'm hungry. You said there was a delivery app."
"At two-forty in the morning, your options are limited to convenience store taquitos or a diner that routinely fails health inspections," he says, his tone completely flat.
"I'll take my chances with the health inspector. I haven't eaten in two days."
Malcolm’s jaw tightens. It’s a microscopic shift, but the casual, relaxed energy around him instantly evaporates. He stands up.
I take a half-step back, a pure reflex. He’s much taller when he isn't wearing shoes.
It makes absolutely no sense, but the lack of formal clothing makes him seem more dangerous, not less.
The black t-shirt pulls across his shoulders, and I notice a faint, jagged scar peeking out from the collar on the left side of his neck.
He doesn't walk toward me. He walks to the massive, stainless-steel refrigerator, opens it, and pulls out a white cardboard box. He sets it on the counter.
"I ordered from a place in the West Loop a few hours ago," he says, opening a drawer to pull out a plate. "I anticipated you would eventually realize human beings require food to function."
I stare at the box. "You bought me dinner?"
"I bought excess food," he corrects smoothly, transferring two large slices of pizza onto the plate. "It’s a logistical precaution."
"Pizza. You eat pizza." I lean against the counter, genuinely thrown. "I figured you only consumed raw steaks and the tears of your enemies."
Malcolm places the plate in the microwave. "I prefer the tears with a light vinaigrette, actually. The pizza is for you."
A laugh punches out of my throat before I can stop it. It’s a short, exhausted sound, but it echoes in the quiet kitchen.
Malcolm turns to look at me. The microwave hums quietly in the background, but the silence between us starts to feel very loud. He watches me with that same dark, calculating intensity he had in the bar, but there’s something else underneath it now. Something heavy.
I look away first, focusing on the digital timer on the microwave. "Thank you. For the food."
"Don't thank me for basic necessities, Audrey," he says quietly.
The microwave beeps. Malcolm pulls the plate out and slides it across the marble island toward the empty stool next to him. He doesn't tell me to sit, but the implication is clear.
I hesitate. Sitting next to him in the dark feels like crossing an invisible boundary. But the smell of melted cheese and basil hits my nose, and my stomach makes the decision for me.
I walk over, pull the stool out, and sit down.
Malcolm doesn't go back to his tablet. He leans against the counter, crossing his arms, and watches me eat.
It’s incredibly unnerving.
I take a bite. It’s easily the best pizza I’ve ever had, which only annoys me because of course Malcolm Vance’s leftover takeout is spectacular. I eat the first slice in embarrassing silence, trying not to look like a feral animal while a billionaire observes me.
"So," I say, wiping my mouth with a paper napkin to break the tension. "Transparency."
Malcolm tilts his head. "What about it?"
"You said we don't lie to each other in this apartment. Those are the rules." I pick up the second slice, resting my elbows on the counter. "I want to test the system."
"Go ahead."
I chew on the inside of my cheek for a second, organizing the question.
"Why do you hate Simon so much? I understand why I want to destroy him. He stole my company. He humiliated me. But he’s your brother.
Even if he’s a terrible person, families usually protect their own. Why are you handing me the matches?"
Malcolm doesn't answer right away. He looks down at the marble counter, his thumb tracing a faint vein in the stone.
For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse to answer. I think he’s going to pull rank, tell me it’s none of my business, and remind me that I’m just an employee in this revenge plot.
"My father," Malcolm begins, his voice lower than before, "believes that power is a zero-sum game. In order for you to have it, someone else must lose it. He raised Simon and me like dogs in a fighting pit."
I stop chewing. I put the pizza down.
"Simon learned very early that he didn't have the stomach for the actual violence," Malcolm continues, his eyes lifting to meet mine.
They are entirely devoid of warmth. "So he learned to manipulate.
He learned to steal. And whenever he made a mistake—whenever he ruined a deal, or wrecked a car, or destroyed a person—my father would send me to clean it up. "
"You’re his fixer," I murmur, remembering what Vivian told me.
"I am the garbage man," Malcolm corrects, a bitter edge bleeding into his tone. "I bury the bodies so Simon can keep his hands clean. For a long time, I accepted it. It was the role I was built for."
He shifts his weight, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly under the crossed posture.
"But three years ago, Simon wanted a piece of commercial real estate in the South Side.
The owner refused to sell. It was a family business.
Simon didn't want to negotiate, so he forged the zoning permits and had the city condemn the building.
The owner lost everything. He had a heart attack two weeks later. "
My chest tightens. The cold, hollow rage I felt when Simon locked me out of my office starts to feel very small compared to this.
"What did you do?" I ask quietly.
"I bought the property back from the city through a blind trust and returned it to the man’s daughter," Malcolm says. He says it so casually, as if he’s talking about returning a borrowed pen.
"And then I told Simon that the next time he destroyed a civilian for sport, I wouldn't clean it up. I would burn him to the ground."
I stare at him.