Chapter Three
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Layton
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The second we step inside the apartment, something feels a little off. I glance at Garrison White and Jasper Webb, my business partners and lifelong friends. Together we run CWW, a business owned by a trio of our families. Collectively we're among the richest men in the world.
The penthouse is one we frequent very often during the week, an efficient location when meetings run late and days slip into night before we know it. It's perfectly situated, and since we always bring our work home, it makes sense to just crash here as well.
I have a place upstate. It's quiet and very far from the city. Garrison has a house out in the Hamptons he escapes to when we have time. And Jasper prefers the city. He has his own penthouse on the other side of Manhattan.
This is our office away from the office. Gina, our PA, ensures the apartment is cleaned and well stocked.
But something feels different. Not outwardly different, not blaring alarm bells differently, just subtly so.
Still, we scan the space, slow and unhurried. If there is someone in our apartment, that person has no idea who they're messing with.
No one dares to cross us. We've earned that reputation and we put it to good use. Our family connections, even as far back as a generation ago, speak for themselves. With ties like ours, we expect a certain amount of respect and receive it without question.
As we casually walk through the apartment, the piercing sound of a chime echoes around us. What the fuck was that?
We all look in the direction from which the sound is coming. It sounds like an annoying fucking ringtone. Light and too damn cheerful.
"What the hell is that sound?" Jasper mutters.
It seems to be coming from the laundry room—a room we probably never stepped into before.
We crowd in. It's the fucking washing machine.
For a second, none of us say anything.
"Uh, did any one of you run a load this morning?" Garrison asks as we stare at it as if it's the world's greatest mystery—and it is, because from the little window there's something orange and black twirling around in it. We try to open the door, but the thing is locked down.
None of us used the washer. We don't need to. And we don't own anything orange either.
And on top of that, since there isn't any of the cleaning staff on hand, why would they leave their clothes behind?
Fuck. We just closed a multi-billion dollar deal today, which explains why we're here at the penthouse in the middle of the day.
We need time to make up for all the sleepless nights before.
But here we are, trying to solve the mystery of something orange with bits of black fabric currently twirling in our washer, when there's no one on hand to collect them afterward.
And the damn thing is still playing that annoying chime. How fucking long is it? I'm just about to force open the door when the machine gives a final, high-pitched squeal as if it's proud of itself for finishing the chime. Then it emits a clicking sound and the door opens.
We all lean in as I reach inside and retrieve the garment.
It's a dress. Light, soft, checkered, and still a little warm. Yeah, that's definitely not one of ours.
I reach in again and this time I retrieve a bra. Black and trimmed with lace, but the fabric is soft and see-through. Jasper takes the bra from me, and I reach in again.
This time, I pull out a pair of matching panties, so tiny they curl into the palm of my hand. Black and trimmed with lace, and the fabric is... see-through.
Garrison lets out a chuckle, so does Jasper.
We take the items to the living room with us, but that's when we get the scent of our soap. It's too fresh to be from this morning.
Is the owner of the dress and underwear in the apartment with us?
Did she take a shower in our bathroom while she waited for her clothes to wash and dry?
Still holding her panties in my hand, while Jasper has her bra and Garrison has her dress, we go from en suite to en suite looking for our little intruder.
We find her in the fourth bedroom sound asleep in our bed.
Fuck.
Long, luscious tresses, as dark as chocolate, fan out against the stark whiteness of the pillow under her head.
Her eyelashes are so long they feather against her cheekbones. Her jaw is perfectly slanted and stunningly feminine. Her lips are pink, full, and, just by the sight of them, soft as satin.
We stare at her face as if we've never seen a beautiful woman before her. And fuck, it's true. Who is this sleeping beauty, really? She may be from the cleaning staff, but from the first sight of her, we've already decided we're going to know everything there is to know about her.
The thin sheet outlines the silhouette of her body. Her breasts would fit into the palms of our huge hands, her waist is tiny, her hips so fucking sexy.
Our breath collectively hitches at the dip the sheet makes between her legs. She's lying on her back with her right leg bent at the knee and her other leg straight. The scent of our soap emanates from her, and fuck if it doesn't smell even better on her.
But that's not all our mystery woman has going for her. In the palm of her hand, entwined with her fingers, is a string of pearls.
Not just any pearls, but our latest acquisition through a private sale that cost us just under a billion dollars.
The pearls were harvested in a tightly controlled environment off the coast of French Polynesia.
Only one species of oyster survives in this heavily restricted atoll. The pearls are naturally uniform in size, leveling up their rarity. The pearls were also the final harvest of the atoll, and nothing like them would ever exist again. They’re worth every dollar we paid to own them.
They're very pretty, the way they glint in the light, shifting from pink to purple. And touching them comes with a certain transcendence even I allowed myself to feel, considering I need everything in black and white and no grays, certainly no pinks and purples.
Is that why she has them in her hand—a billion dollars’ worth of them? Because they're interesting and pretty to look at?
Was she going to steal them, then decided to take a nap first? I can't help the grin that forms on my face, a rare one.
A final exchange of glances between me, Garrison, and Jasper solidifies one thing.
The woman asleep in one of our beds is prettier than any pearl the world could harvest. And fuck it. We don't even know her, and she's turned us into fucking poets.
More importantly, if she's asleep in our bed, we get to keep her, whoever she is.
That’s how it works in our world.