The penthouse is unnervingly silent, an expanse of polished marble and cold, architectural glass that feels more like a museum than a home. He doesn't offer a greeting, nor does he look back as he walks toward the living space.
"Your room is at the end of the hall. Last door on the left."
His voice is flat, devoid of any warmth or hospitality. As you follow him, your luggage wheels scraping against the pristine floor, the weight of his dismissal is palpable. When he finally stops and turns, his gaze is sharp enough to draw blood. "Closet, bathroom, privacy—you have it all. I expect the same in return."
He leans in slightly, his tone dropping into a dangerous, low register. "Let’s be perfectly clear. This arrangement is purely professional. No romance, no intimacy, and certainly no small talk. You are a business necessity, nothing more."
He raises a hand to cut off your reply before you can even draw breath. "On the dresser, you’ll find an unlimited credit line and my assistant's contact information. Use them for whatever you need, but do not mistake my resources for affection. Any questions?"