Imani didn't blink.
She didn't smile. Didn't joke. Just stared at him like she was trying to figure out how someone so young could be that hollow and still breathe.
Kael cut another piece of lamb. "You're thinking too hard."
"I'm trying to decide if I should throw this wine in your face or pour it in your lap."
He nodded toward her glass. "It's a Montrachet. You couldn't afford it."
Imani grinned, sharp as a snapped nail. "Then I guess I'll let you finish it."
She drank.
Kael didn't react. His phone buzzed on the table, and without looking, he turned it face down. Still present. Still watching.
She hated that he wasn't trying to impress her. Hated more that it worked.
The restaurant had filled up while they talked. Soft voices, light clinks of silverware. The kind of place where people didn't need to look at the menu—they already knew it.
A waitress approached their table. Blonde. Maybe nineteen. New—Imani could tell by how she held the tray with both hands like it might explode.
She smiled nervously. "Here are your fries and—"
Her elbow clipped the edge of a wine glass. It tipped. Spun.
And like the scene had been choreographed by a petty god—
—red wine splashed across Imani's chest and Kael's lap in one perfect, violent arc.
The tray hit the floor with a thunderclap of silver against stone.
Silence.
Imani froze.
Kael didn't move. Just looked down slowly at the stain blooming across his thigh like it was someone else's problem.
The waitress gasped. "Oh my god—I—oh my god—I'm so sorry—"
Imani stood so fast her chair shrieked across the floor.
"You idiot," she snapped, voice sharp enough to cut through the whole restaurant. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
The girl's face turned paper-white. "I—I—please—I didn't—"
"Get your manager," Imani barked. "Now."
"M-miss, I—"
"Now!"
Kael still hadn't stood.
He dabbed his lap with his napkin, methodically, not even glancing at the waitress or at Imani. The room had gone quiet. Forks hovered mid-air. Eyes flicked toward them, then away.
The waitress disappeared, stumbling toward the back.
Imani turned to Kael. "Say something."
He looked up at her, slow and unreadable. "You're loud."
"I'm wet."
"That's unfortunate."
She slammed her napkin on the table. "You're really just gonna sit there like that didn't happen?"
Kael leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "You think rage makes you more interesting."
"I think being treated like trash makes me less polite."
He tilted his head. "She didn't mean to."
"That's not the point!"
He didn't argue. Just waited. The way he waited for stock to crash before he bought it.
The manager appeared—balding, stiff, voice tight with fake calm.
"Miss, I'm very sorry for what happened. Our server's new and—"
"She's a liability," Imani said. "You should fire her."
The manager blinked. "I'm afraid I can't do that, miss."
"She humiliated me."
"Yes. And we'll be discounting your meal by fifty percent tonight, and if you choose to return, twenty-five percent next time. That's our policy."
Imani stared at him, jaw tense.
Kael stood at last. Calm. Silent. An island of apathy in a sea of embarrassment.
"Let's go," he said.
She didn't move.
"Imani," he said again, soft but final.
And just like that, she followed.
The door of the restaurant closed behind them with a hiss, muting the quiet scandal they left inside.
The air outside was colder than she expected. Imani shivered—not from temperature, but from the sting of it all: the eyes, the wet dress clinging to her skin, Kael's silence like a wall that wouldn't move.
He walked ahead of her. Not fast. Just without waiting.
She caught up with quick, tight steps. Her heels clicked like accusations on the pavement.
"You really just walked out like that?" she said behind him.
Kael didn't answer.
"Seriously?" she pushed. "Not even a word in there? You just let me—what? Look crazy?"
Still nothing.
The valet brought around a sleek black coupe—low, mirror-shined, humming like a beast. Kael tossed the keys without acknowledging the guy.
Imani stared at the car, jaw clenched.
"Say something," she said, stepping in front of him.
Kael finally stopped. Looked down at her chest—still damp. His eyes flicked up, expression flat.
"You made a scene," he said.
"She spilled wine on me."
"You yelled like she murdered your sister."
"She humiliated me!"
"You humiliated yourself."
Imani flinched.
For a second, she couldn't speak.
Then: "You think I should've just sat there like a good little—what? Sidepiece? Is that what you want?"
Kael blinked. "Sidepiece?"
"Oh don't even start—"
"I don't have a main."
She laughed. Bitter. "You think that's better?"
He opened the passenger door. "Get in."
"I'm not a dog."
"Then stop barking."
The words hit harder than she expected. They knocked the wind out of her pride and replaced it with something worse—want.
Because when he said it, he wasn't trying to hurt her. He wasn't trying to do anything. He just didn't care. And somehow that made it work.
She got in.
Inside the car, Kael didn't speak for two full blocks.
Imani sat rigid, arms folded across her chest, trying not to cry, trying not to scream, trying not to show him that she still wanted him anyway.
Finally, she muttered, "That manager was trash."
Kael said nothing.
"I'm just saying—he acted like I was the problem."
"You were," Kael said softly.
She turned to him, eyes sharp. "You like being embarrassed in public?"
"I don't feel embarrassment."
"Well, good for you. I do."
He turned the wheel smoothly, one hand resting loose on the gear shift. "Then learn to control it."
"I was disrespected."
"You were exposed," he corrected. "There's a difference."
She stared at him. "You really don't feel anything, do you?"
Kael glanced at her then. A flicker of something—was it annoyance? amusement?—crossed his face.
"I feel control," he said. "Everything else is optional."
They rode in silence for the rest of the drive.
Not the kind of silence that meant comfort. The kind that meant if either of them spoke, something would break—and neither was willing to clean it up.
When the car slid into the underground garage, Kael pulled into a space marked with nothing but a black-and-gold "P"—private, of course.
The engine shut off like it had a temper.
Imani didn't move until he opened his door. She didn't want to be the first to follow again, but she wasn't going to sit in the car like a sulking child either.
The elevator smelled like leather and nothingness. She caught her reflection in the mirrored walls—smudged lipstick, soaked neckline, a wine stain that looked like a bruise blooming across her ribs.
Kael didn't speak until the doors slid open into his apartment.
Penthouse. Of course it was.
High ceilings. Black marble floors. A wall of windows spilling city lights across polished furniture that no one actually sat on. Every piece was angular, masculine, cold.
It looked like a showroom for someone who didn't believe in comfort—just status.
Kael dropped his keys in a dish near the door and walked toward the open-concept kitchen like he'd done it a thousand times. His suit jacket came off, slow and clean, revealing a deep stain across his white dress shirt.
He didn't look at her as he said, "There's a robe in the guest bathroom. Third door left."
That was it.
Not "Are you okay?"
Not "I'm sorry that happened."
Not even "Let me help you out of that dress."
Just directions. As if she were a guest. A stranger.
Imani stood in the doorway, dripping red across his floor, waiting to feel something stronger than shame.
She didn't.
The guest bathroom was bigger than the entire apartment she'd grown up in.
Everything was slate and matte gold. The robe was soft, heavy, still had the tag on. She peeled off her dress with careful hands and stood in front of the mirror, bare, cold, and angry.
Why was she here?
Why did she let him talk to her like that?
Why did she still want to impress him?
She ran her hands over her arms, picked at a wine stain on her collarbone, and finally slid into the robe.
When she came back out, Kael was sitting on the black leather couch, barefoot, glass of something brown in hand.
He looked at her once. Didn't say anything.
She crossed the room slowly. "Nice place."
He sipped. "It's functional."
Imani stayed standing. "You live here alone?"
He nodded.
"How many girls have you brought here?"
He looked at her then. Really looked. Not with heat. With mild interest.
"Does it matter?"
"Only if you answer."
Kael rested his glass on the table. "A few."
Her stomach tightened.
"And do you always talk to them like you talk to me?"
"No," he said.
She lifted her chin. "So I'm special."
"You're loud."
Imani laughed. Harsh. Bitter. "And yet you invited me back."
"I didn't," Kael said calmly. "You followed."
The robe suddenly felt too heavy. Or maybe she did.
"I should go," she said.
"You're wet."
"Not anymore."
Kael stood.
He walked toward her—not fast, not slow—and stopped half a step too close. His eyes didn't move from hers.
"I don't keep people," he said quietly. "I observe them."
"And what do you see right now?"
He tilted his head.
"Someone who still wants to be chosen."
Imani didn't look away.
She held Kael's gaze like it was fire and dared herself to get burned. Her chin didn't drop. Her hands didn't shake. But something in her chest did—something small, and soft, and stupid that still hoped he'd follow that line with something better.
Something like: Stay.
Instead, he stepped back.
Walked to the bar. Poured her a drink in the same type of glass he used for himself. No ice. No garnish. Just amber and silence.
He set it on the counter.
"You don't have to sleep with me," he said. Not kindly. Not coldly. Just… fact.
Imani stared at the drink. "Wasn't planning on it."
"Good."
She blinked.
"You have nowhere to stay," he continued. "I know you've been couch-surfing. That dress is stolen. You used someone else's account to call the Uber that got you to dinner. And you've checked the exits twice since walking in here."
Her blood ran cold.
He said it like he'd read her file. Not like he guessed. Like he knew.
Imani swallowed. "How do you—"
"People like me are prepared," he said. "I look into what I invest in. And who."
She didn't know whether to slap him or thank him.
"This isn't pity," Kael added. "You're not broken. You're adaptable. I respect that."
"So what," she said slowly, "I'm a charity case you admire?"
He almost smiled. "No. You're a tool I can use."
She froze.
"And what does that make you?"
Kael met her eyes. "The one who keeps you sharp."
He walked to the kitchen. Opened a drawer. Pulled out a keycard.
Set it on the marble counter.
"You can stay here," he said. "You'll cook. Clean. Keep the place from turning into a bachelor cave. I'll cover expenses. And if you need cash, we'll set a stipend."
Imani stared at it.
A key. Not a question.
"I'm not your maid," she said, voice quiet but hard.
"You're not my girlfriend either," Kael replied. "But you're here."
She crossed her arms. "So you want a roommate who serves you?"
"I want efficiency."
"And if I leave?"
He tilted his head. "You'll survive. But not as comfortably."
She picked up the keycard. It was heavier than she expected. Sleek. Branded. Real.
It felt like the kind of choice you make when you're already drowning, and someone offers you a lifeboat with handcuffs inside.
Imani looked up at him. "Why me?"
Kael shrugged. "You're interesting when you're angry. And I prefer my space occupied by people I don't trust. They're easier to control."
Morning cracked through the blackout curtains like it was scared to enter the room.
Imani woke in a bed she hadn't planned to sleep in, wearing a robe that still held Kael's scent. Not cologne—fabric softener, expensive soap, and something sterile like clean glass.
The keycard was where she'd left it. Right next to the lamp. Not hidden. Not touched. Not offered again.
A single object. No contract. No words. Just an open loop.
She sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her phone was dead. No surprise. She hadn't asked to charge it. Hadn't asked for anything.
In Kael's world, asking meant weakness. Taking meant permission.
She got out of bed and padded barefoot to the door. The hallway stretched long and silent, lined with art that looked too abstract to understand and too expensive to criticize. Every inch of this place was designed not to comfort—but to contain.
The kitchen smelled like fresh coffee. Kael sat at the island, shirtless, laptop open, eating a soft-boiled egg like a CEO on surveillance footage.
He didn't look up when she entered.
Imani hesitated in the doorway.
He gestured without looking. "Second drawer. Mug's clean."
She poured herself a cup. No sugar. No milk. Just black.
It scalded her tongue. She drank it anyway.
"You don't talk much in the morning," she said.
Kael tapped a key. "I only talk when necessary."
"Am I necessary?"
He looked up. "You're still here."
Silence.
She took a sip. "What if I said yes?"
"To what?"
"Your… offer."
Kael leaned back slightly. "You already did."
She froze.
"I didn't—"
"You stayed."
He closed his laptop. Stood. Walked past her like gravity meant nothing.
"I have meetings this afternoon," he said. "Groceries come Thursdays. I don't eat carbs after seven. My suits are dry-clean only. The washer's industrial. I don't like clutter."
She stared at him.
He stopped in the doorway. Looked at her over his shoulder.
"If you're going to be useful, be consistent."
Then he was gone.
Imani stood alone in the middle of a $3 million apartment wearing someone else's robe, holding someone else's coffee, with a keycard burning in her pocket like a signature she didn't remember writing.
She didn't say it out loud.
But inside, deep and quiet and final—
She had said yes.