The elevator shot straight to the fortieth floor, then opened onto a private vestibule so pristine it looked like a rendering, not a physical space. Theo stepped out, Kristina trailing behind with an overnight bag and a sense of authority that read as half-stage, half-defense mechanism. There was no doorman, no security desk, just a curved wood door and a biometric panel glowing blue beside it.

  Theo pressed his thumb to the reader, half-expecting a red error light or a prompt for credentials he didn’t have, but the door slid open with a soft hiss and welcomed them into the kind of apartment that existed only as CGI in luxury real estate ads.

  The first sensation was vertigo. The place had ceilings higher than the gym back in his old middle school, but not a single column. Glass walls ran the length of the living area, throwing the entire city at their feet in a hundred-mile panorama. There was a line of sight from the entry all the way to the back terrace, where the horizon split into a fuzz of brown haze and blue. Theo took three steps in and stopped, unable to speak.

  Kristina was the first to break the silence. “It’s like a Bond villain’s lair,” she said, her voice echoing in the vastness. “If the Bond villain was really, really into minimalist furniture.”

  Theo couldn’t disagree. There was barely anything in the main room except for a crescent of bone-white sofas, a blackened steel chandelier suspended from the ceiling, and a dining table so angular it looked like a weapon. The kitchen was a single monolith of matte stone, broken only by four stools that looked more like sculptures than seating.

  He walked to the window, pressed his hand against the glass. It was cold and double-layered, probably smart-tinted against the sun. He tried to do the math on what this place would cost, then gave up, the numbers turning abstract somewhere past “lifetime of labor.”

  Kristina set down her bag, then joined him. “You could fit my childhood home in here. Twice.”

  He gave a low whistle. “You could fit my entire apartment complex in here, plus the parking lot.”

  For a minute, neither of them spoke. Then, as if on cue, a silent HVAC system kicked on, chilling the air by half a degree. Theo noticed a hairline seam running along the floor, just inside the window—some kind of pressure sensor, maybe, or a hidden channel for cleaning. He knelt to check, already itching to see the plans. The builder had anticipated dust patterns, foot traffic, maybe even earthquake sway.

  “You’re doing it again,” Kristina said, smiling. “Reverse engineering.”

  He flushed, stood up. “I don’t get places like this. They’re too…deliberate. Like someone wanted to remind you, every second, that you don’t belong here.”

  She shrugged, an elegant gesture. “Then it fits the assignment. We’re not supposed to belong here, are we?”

  He watched her as she stepped toward the kitchen, fingers trailing over the counters, then pressing a hidden button under the island that made a set of induction burners materialize out of the stone. She grinned, eyes bright. “You want to do the honors and see if the fridge has, like, molecular gastronomy supplies?”

  “Can we even afford to touch anything?”

  “Leslie said it’s all part of the contract. For the ‘duration of our narrative adjustment period.’ Whatever that means.”

  Theo opened the fridge, found it stacked with water, high-protein bars, and an assortment of single-serve meal kits labeled with both English and French descriptions. He snagged a bottle and cracked it, letting the cold anchor him.

  “Where do you want to start unpacking?” he asked, trying for nonchalance.

  Kristina’s response was a mischievous smile. “Let’s do closets first. I have a theory.”

  The closets, plural, were down a carpeted corridor that split the penthouse in two. The master suite was a glass box with a view of the hills, the bed so enormous it looked custom-built for an NBA frontcourt. The attached walk-in closet had more square footage than Theo’s previous apartment. There were four sections, each lit by a different temperature of light: daylight, tungsten, “runway,” and something labeled “paparazzi-safe.” The hangers were matte black and perfectly spaced. A motorized shelf held shoes, two racks high.

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  Kristina opened her suitcase, and in under a minute the closet transformed from a museum to a pop-up shop. Dress after dress went on the rods—sequins, satin, bold colors, impossible cuts. Between them, black leggings, tees, the occasional hoodie or pair of sweats, as if she needed to reassure herself there was still a person under all the performance. She pulled out a small box, opened it, and set three awards side by side on the top shelf: a glass crescent, a gold-plated microphone, and a cube that glowed purple when she pressed a button on its base.

  Theo watched, amused and a little awed. When she was finished, she turned to him and said, “Your turn.”

  His suitcase contained, in order: three button-downs (all blue), five T-shirts, two pairs of jeans, one suit jacket (still in dry cleaner plastic), a six-pack of black athletic socks, and a small toolkit that, to his knowledge, was worth more than the rest of his belongings combined. He unzipped it and stowed it on the bottom shelf, next to her trophy lineup.

  He looked at the closet, the lopsided split of space and color, and felt an ache in his chest. Not regret—something closer to exposure.

  “Next time,” he said, “I’ll bring more stuff. Even it out.”

  She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t. I like the contrast. It reminds me I’m still me.”

  They went to the second closet—overflow storage, probably intended for guests. Kristina had another bag, this one packed with backup makeup, hair gear, spare shoes, and three extra phone chargers. She arranged everything with the precision of a person who’d moved dozens of times and always expected to leave in a hurry.

  Theo set his laptop bag and backup hard drive on the top shelf, then sat on the ottoman and just…watched. He felt like a time traveler who’d woken up in someone else’s future.

  “Is it always like this?” he asked, unable to stop himself. “The adjusting?”

  She zipped her bag and sat next to him. “Yes and no. Some places, you make your own rules. Other times, the place decides for you.”

  He considered this. “I’m more used to places where the rules are set by landlords who don’t care about you. This is like—” He gestured around, helpless. “It’s like being a guest at a wedding, except you’re supposed to be the bride and groom.”

  She laughed, soft and real. “That’s not wrong.”

  They moved to the office, a den lined with built-in bookshelves and a desk made of what looked like actual petrified wood. There was a computer terminal, powered and waiting, with a sticky note on the screen: “For Mr. and Mrs. Wilson: Secure access. Please see IT if you need help.”

  Theo opened the browser, found it logged in to Luminary’s internal portal, then closed it quickly. “I bet if you say ‘breach contract’ in here, three execs in downtown LA get an alert.”

  “Try it,” she dared.

  He typed ‘breach contract’ into the browser search, hit return, and waited. Nothing happened.

  “Maybe it’s more specific,” Kristina said, leaning in close. “Try ‘PR disaster.’ Or ‘Vegas marriage leak.’”

  He laughed, felt his shoulders loosen. “That’s what I love about you,” he said, then stopped, realizing it was the first time he’d said it outside of a joke.

  He laughed, the sound breaking loose from somewhere deep. “That’s what I love about you,” he said—then caught himself, realizing it was the first time he’d said it like that, unguarded.

  Her eyes flicked up, teasing, but there was something molten behind them. “What do you love about me?”

  He reached out, tracing his thumb along her jaw until she met his gaze. “You make me think I can keep up,” he murmured, his voice low, “even when I know you’re already three steps ahead.”

  She smiled, slow and dangerous. “You’re doing fine,” she whispered.

  He leaned closer, close enough to feel her breath catch, close enough that a single thought could bridge the gap between them. She didn’t wait for him to decide—she kissed him, soft at first, then deeper, fingers curling in his shirt. When she finally pulled back, she was smiling, her lips still a little parted.

  She kissed him hard, lingered just long enough to make his pulse stumble, then turned for the balcony.

  He couldn’t help watching her go—the soft sway of her hips, the easy confidence that came with knowing she was his wife, not his fantasy.

  Without looking back, she said over her shoulder, voice low and teasing, “I hope you’re enjoying the view. I’ve been maintaining it just for you.”

  He laughed, quiet and disbelieving, and leaned back on the couch. “You’re doing excellent work,” he said, and meant every word.

  He got up just as Kristina turned around, backlit by the light, hair wild around her head, hands wrapped tight around the railing.

  He stepped close, let his hand fall to the small of her back.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said, voice low.

  She nodded.

  “Why’d you pick me?”

  She didn’t answer right away. Then, “You’re the only person I’ve met who treats me like I’m not famous. Even after you knew.”

  He let the silence build.

  “You could’ve got mad. Or took the money from Vic. Or blackmailed me. Also,” she added, grinning, “you make a great getaway driver.”

  He smiled, looked out at the city. “You think we can keep this secret for a year?”

  She nodded, once. “I know we can.”

  He wanted to believe it.

  Behind them, the apartment hummed. The living room, the kitchen, the closets, all filled now with the evidence of two people attempting to become one.

  He closed his eyes and let himself imagine it: a year of this, maybe more. The odd couple, the balance of power and presence, the city outside as both backdrop and barrier.

  He could almost see it.

  He opened his eyes, felt the last of the sunlight hit his face, and for a moment, it was enough.