The penthouse smelled like money.
Not like actual money. More like lemons and clean floors and "I have more zeroes in my bank account than you've had hot meals."
Ama stood in the middle of the living room with one suitcase and a smile that had left the building about twenty minutes ago.
"This is your wing."
She turned around.
Ethan Blackwell stood there looking like he'd just finished a business meeting, which he probably had. Suit. Sharp jaw. Face that said "I don't laugh at jokes" and also "I don't cry at funerals" and also "What is a feeling, actually?"
Not that she'd asked.
Not that she'd ever ask.
"Sorry," she said. "My what?"
"Your wing." He pointed down a hallway like he was showing her which bathroom to use at a rest stop. "Bedroom. Bathroom. Small sitting area. The kitchen is shared, but I eat out most nights."
Ama blinked.
"Wing," she repeated. "Like... a bird has a wing. Like I'm going to fly around this apartment?"
Nothing.
Not even a twitch.
She waited for a smile. A eyebrow raise. A tiny sign that this man understood humor existed.
His face remained blank as a freshly painted wall.
Tough crowd, she thought. Tougher than my usual crowd. Which is just my mom and a cat who tolerates me.
"The staff will bring your other bags," he said.
"This is my only bag."
He looked at the sad little suitcase. It was from a brand that sold at the mall. The kind with a scratch on the wheel because she'd dragged it through three airports, two train stations, and one very emotional breakdown outside a convenience store.
Ethan Blackwell probably didn't know those brands existed.
Ethan Blackwell probably thought luggage came with a personal assistant attached.
"Right," he said. "Well. The kitchen is that way."
"I know. You said."
"I did say. Yes."
Silence.
The kind of silence where you suddenly remember every awkward thing you've ever said since middle school.
Ama wanted to die. Just a little. Just enough to escape this conversation.
"I'll be in my office," he said. "Don't... need anything?"
"Nope."
"Good."
"Great."
"Okay."
"Yep."
He left.
Ama stood in the million-dollar living room with her sad suitcase and her expired smile and thought: I just got married. I don't even know where he keeps the spoons.
---
The bedroom was nice.
Big bed. White sheets. A window that looked at other windows belonging to other rich people who probably also had wings and also probably knew where their spoons were.
She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out her phone.
Mom: Did you sign?
Ama: Yes.
Mom: Is he nice?
Ama looked at the door. Thought about the man who just showed her where she'd be sleeping for the next three years like he was showing her to a storage unit.
Ama: He's fine.
Mom: Good. We love you.
Ama: Love you too.
Mom: His father called. He's so happy. He says Ethan needs someone like you.
Ama: Someone like me?
Mom: Warm. Normal. Human.
Ama snorted.
Ama: So I'm here to teach him feelings?
Mom: If anyone can, you can.
Ama: That's a lot of pressure, Mom.
Mom: You've taught stray cats to trust you. A man can't be harder than a cat.
Ama: You haven't met this man.
Mom: I haven't. But I've met his money. Tell him thank you from us.
Ama stared at the message.
Thank you.
For buying me.
For rescuing my family.
For giving me a bedroom in your wing.
Thank you.
She put the phone down.
No ring on her finger. The contract didn't require one. Just her signature. Just his signature. Just three years of playing house with a man who looked at her like she was a slightly inconvenient business expense.
What have I done?
The room was too quiet.
She opened her suitcase. Clothes on top. Notebook in the middle. Pen. Phone charger. The good lotion she saved for special occasions.
Was this a special occasion?
She wasn't sure.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Kitchen. Left drawer next to the fridge. Spoons are there.
She stared at the message.
Ama: Who is this?
Unknown Number: Your husband. You asked where the spoons are. You said it out loud. After I left.
She had. She'd whispered it to herself. He wasn't even in the room.
Ama: You have cameras in here?
Ethan: No. I just have good ears.
Ama: That's creepy.
Ethan: That's observant.
Ama: Same thing.
Ethan: In business, it's called awareness. In marriage, I guess it's called creepy.
Ama: See? You do understand jokes.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Ethan: Goodnight, Ama.
She looked at her name on his screen.
He'd typed it.
He knew how to spell it.
That was something.
Ama: Goodnight, Mr. Blackwell.
She waited.
No reply.
Mr. Blackwell.
That's who she married. A man with good ears and a wing and no idea that she'd just signed away three years of her life.
She fell asleep still holding her phone.
---
At 2:47 AM, she woke up.
The apartment was dark. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you hear your own heartbeat.
She needed water.
She crept to the kitchen, trying to remember the layout. Turn left? No, that was the wall. Right? Yes. Through the doorway. Past the fancy dining table that looked like no one had ever eaten on it.
The kitchen lights were off, but the city lights glowed through the windows.
She opened the left drawer next to the fridge.
Spoons.
Dozens of them.
Shiny. Expensive. Perfectly organized.
Show off, she thought.
She grabbed one and turned to find a glass—
And screamed.
Ethan Blackwell stood in the kitchen doorway. No suit. Just gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt that looked soft and old and nothing like the man from earlier.
"Sorry," he said.
"You—" She clutched her chest. "You can't just—people sleep at night. Normal people. With their eyes closed. In beds."
"I couldn't sleep."
"So you decided to haunt the kitchen like a Victorian ghost?"
One corner of his mouth twitched.
Just a little.
Just for a second.
Then it was gone.
"Water," he said, holding up a glass. "Same as you."
She looked at his glass. Looked at her spoon. Realized she was holding a spoon for no reason.
"I was going to get water too," she said. "Obviously."
"With a spoon?"
"The glass is next." She pointed vaguely at a cabinet. "Probably. Where are the glasses?"
"Above the coffee machine."
"Right. Above the coffee machine. I knew that."
He didn't move.
She didn't move.
Two people in a dark kitchen at 3 AM, one holding a spoon like a weapon.
"Do you always talk to yourself?" he asked.
"What? No. I mean—sometimes. When I'm stressed. Or tired. Or alone. Which I thought I was."
"You're not alone. You're married."
"Right." She laughed. No humor in it. "Married. To you. For three years. Then I get my money and go."
Something flickered across his face.
Too fast to read.
"Yes," he said. "That's the agreement."
"The agreement," she repeated. "Right."
She got her glass. Filled it with water. Felt him watching her the whole time.
"Goodnight," she said, walking past him.
"Ama."
She stopped.
"The spoons," he said. "You can use them. For food. Not just for standing in dark kitchens."
She turned around.
He was smiling.
Barely. Just a tiny curve at the edge of his mouth. Like his face wasn't sure if it was allowed.
"I'll keep that in mind," she said.
She went back to her room.
Closed the door.
Leaned against it.
And smiled like an idiot at nothing.
---
Day One complete.
1,094 days to go.
But he smiled.
Just once.
Just a little.
But he smiled.