Millie jolted awake like someone had yanked her out of a dream.
Her heart pounded so hard it made her stomach flip.
The low-key worry she’d fallen asleep with had grown into full-on dread overnight.
She stared up at the ceiling for a minute, then slipped out of bed as quietly as she could.
Cody was still out cold, curled under the blanket, snoring softly.
Phone in hand, she padded into the hallway and dialed Clara.
It rang long enough that she almost hung up, then a groggy “Hello?” came through.
“Hey,” Millie whispered, tiptoeing farther from the bedroom.
“Can’t talk long.
I’m heading out to meet this Mr. Moretti guy.”
“Wait.
Mr. Moretti?
Like, your one-night stand Moretti?”
Millie winced.
“I don’t know. Bert just said a Mr. Moretti wants to see me. There’s gotta be a thousand Morettis around here.”
Clara made a noise that was half gasp, half laugh.
“Sure. Probably nothing. Maybe he just wants to hand you a five-star Yelp review and a gift card. Text me the address before you walk in. And if I don’t hear from you by tonight, I’m calling the cops and coming to find you myself.”
Millie let out a shaky laugh.
“Okay.
Promise.
I’ll send it.”
“Good.
And if he turns out to be hot and actually has his shit together this time?
Dump Cody and go for round two.”
“Yeah, right.” Millie smiled despite everything.
“I’ll text you.”
She hung up and shoved the phone in her back pocket.
The rest of the morning happened on autopilot—she brushed her teeth, pulled her hair into a messy bun, threw on jeans and a plain shirt that didn’t scream “I’m nervous.” She scribbled a quick note for Cody—“running an errand, back later”—and eased the apartment door shut behind her.
Bert’s directions led her to a part of the city she didn’t know.
A stretch of old industrial buildings on the edge of town, the kind that looked more like sketchy storage than millionaire offices.
Graffiti on some walls, chain-link fences, and the faint smell of diesel.
A woman in a sharp black suit stood by the entrance.
Posture perfect, like she’d been drilled on it.
Her eyes flicked over Millie—neutral, but thorough.
Maybe sizing her up.
Maybe remembering her from somewhere.
The woman didn’t speak.
She just turned and started walking.
Millie followed.
They passed rows of tall crates stamped with codes and city names.
Millie’s sneakers squeaked on the concrete floor, way too loud in the empty space.
She shoved her hands deep in her jacket pockets to stop them from fidgeting.
They stopped at a plain black door—no sign, no window, heavy-looking.
The woman knocked once, pushed it open.
“Go in,” she said, already turning away.
Millie paused for half a second.
Long enough to remind herself Clara had the address.
If she vanished, someone would notice.
Then she stepped inside.
The door closed behind her with a solid thud.
The room wasn’t what she pictured.
No dim warehouse vibes, no chipped paint.
It looked like it belonged in a design magazine—clean lines, high ceilings, a massive dark-wood desk at the far end, polished so well it reflected light.
Behind the desk, a man stood up as she entered.
And it wasn’t Aidan.
He was maybe in his mid-thirties, tall, and built like he boxed or lifted heavy things for fun instead of sleeping in.
Dark hair, sharp jaw, and a suit that probably cost more than her rent.
“Miss Foster,” he said.
“Thanks for coming on short notice. Have a seat.”
Millie’s legs finally listened.
She sat across from him, hands clasped tight in her lap.
“So… what’s this about?”
“I’m Ethan Moretti,” he said.
Before she could process that, the woman from earlier stepped in and set a glass of water on the desk in front of Millie.
“Thank you,” Millie said quietly.
Her palms were already damp against the cold glass.
Ethan leaned forward, forearms on the desk.
“You and your crew were told to stay out of the art room. You went in anyway.”
Millie swallowed.
“I did. But it wasn’t—I mean, the place was a mess, and I just thought…” She trailed off.
Even to her own ears, it sounded lame.
“I was cleaning.
That’s literally my job.”
“You reorganized it,” he said, like she’d admitted to stealing.
“You touched everything.
Moved things.”
“I didn’t think it would matter that much.
I was trying to be thorough—”
“You didn’t think,” he cut in.
“That’s the issue.”
Heat crawled up her neck.
The room felt ten degrees warmer.
“I didn’t break anything,” she said fast.
“Didn’t take anything. I swear.”
His eyes stayed locked on hers.
“No, you didn’t. But you put your hands on things that weren’t yours. My space. My things.”
He stood and walked around the desk, stopping right in front of her.
Up close, he was taller than she’d realized.
“You brought order to something you had no right to touch. That wasn’t just cleaning, was it?”
She couldn’t find words.
He wasn’t yelling.
He didn’t need to.
The calm way he said it pressed against her like pressure on a bruise.
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“You walked into a room you were told to leave alone. You saw something private. And instead of walking out, you changed it. That’s not a random choice, Miss Foster. That’s a need.”
Her breath caught.
His stare stripped away any fake calm she’d been holding onto.
Then he stepped back.
She sucked in air, fingers gripping the chair arms.
“If you want an apology,” she said, “I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t ask for one,” he said. Follow the newest chapters on novelping.com.
“Especially not one you practiced on the way here.”
She flinched.
“Then why am I here?”
“I let people into my home under clear rules.
You broke them.
That tells me something about you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, softer.
He leaned in closer this time.
She noticed the faint scar under his jaw.
“Stop apologizing.”
Her voice shook.
“Did I ruin something without knowing? I can replace the paint, or whatever I touched wrong.”
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, something sharper.
“If I wanted your money, you’d already have a bill.”
Then his fingers brushed the edge of her collarbone.
Light.
Barely there.
Her breath hitched.
She didn’t move away.
“You’re not scared of me?” he asked.
“I am,” she said honestly.
He studied her face.
“But you’re still sitting here.
Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Something shifted in his expression—quick, gone in a second.
“Honesty,” he murmured, almost to himself.
His thumb grazed her lower lip once.
Soft.
Electric.
She stayed frozen.
“You’re not what I pictured,” he said.
“Not when I heard you’d been in that room. And definitely not now.”
Millie didn’t speak.
She wasn’t sure who she even was in that chair.
“I’m still deciding what to do about you,” Ethan said, stepping back.
“You crossed a line. Lines have consequences.”
Her pulse hammered.
“You think this is some kind of game?”
“I don’t play games. I enforce boundaries.”
She opened her mouth and closed it.
The smart thing was to bolt.
But part of her didn’t want to leave yet.
Ethan walked back behind the desk.
The air felt easier once he put distance between them.
“Consider this a warning,” he said, sitting down.
“A temporary one. You’re free to go.”
Millie stood.
Her knees felt wobbly, but she locked them and walked to the door.
At the handle, she glanced back.
He was watching her, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled.
“Leave now, Miss Foster,” he said.
She turned the knob and walked out without another word.
Halfway down the hall, her hands started shaking so bad she had to shove them in her pockets to hide it.