Chapter Four: The Shared Address
The elevator hummed as it climbed to the 68th floor of One Penn 1, a sleek Manhattan tower that screamed wealth in every polished detail. Ava Lin stood inside, a single Louis Vuitton suitcase at her feet, her arms crossed and her expression a carefully curated mask of indifference. The ring on her left hand—a flawless emerald-cut diamond Henry had presented her with after the gala—felt heavier than it should. It was a prop, like everything else in this arrangement, but its weight was a constant reminder of the role she'd agreed to play.
The doors slid open, revealing Henry Carter's penthouse. Ava stepped out, her heels clicking on the marble floor, and stopped short. The space was a masterpiece of modern luxury: floor-to-ceiling windows with a panoramic view of the city skyline, minimalist furniture in shades of charcoal and cream, and a grand piano in the corner that looked more decorative than functional. It was breathtaking, sterile, and utterly Henry.
"Welcome home," Henry said, emerging from what Ava assumed was the kitchen. He was in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, a glass of sparkling water in hand. The casual look softened his usual Wall Street edge, but his eyes were as sharp as ever. "Or at least, home for appearances' sake."
Ava set her suitcase down, raising an eyebrow. "Charming. Where's my room?"
He gestured toward a hallway to the right. "Second door on the left. Guest suite. Fully stocked, private bathroom, walk-in closet. I had my assistant make sure it's up to your standards."
"Thoughtful," she said, her tone dry as she picked up her suitcase and headed down the hall. She didn't need his approval, but she couldn't deny the effort. The guest suite was as promised—spacious, with a king-sized bed draped in white linens, a desk by the window, and a view of the Hudson River that could make anyone feel like royalty. She set her suitcase on the bed and unzipped it, pulling out a few essentials: a framed photo of her parents, a silk scarf from her last trip to Paris, a worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. Small anchors to remind her this wasn't her life, just a temporary address.
Henry appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Settling in?"
"Trying to," she said, folding the scarf and placing it on the nightstand. "This place is… a lot. Do you actually live here, or is it just a showroom for your ego?"
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. "It's home. Though I'll admit, it's more for function than sentiment. I'm not here much."
She glanced at him, noting the faint shadows under his eyes. Wall Street's golden boy wasn't invincible, it seemed. "Let me guess. You sleep at the office, live on coffee, and call it ambition."
"Something like that," he said, stepping into the room. "You're not exactly the domestic type either, are you? I saw your apartment. All sharp edges and no clutter. Like you're ready to bolt at any moment."
Ava's lips twitched, caught off guard by his observation. "I like things organized. Sue me."
"Noted," he said, his gaze lingering on the book she'd set on the desk. "Scout Finch, huh? Didn't peg you for a sentimental reader."
"It's not sentiment," she said, her voice softening. "It's a reminder. Justice, integrity, standing up for what's right. Things I try to live by."
He nodded, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "Good principles for a lawyer. And a fake fiancée."
The reminder stung more than she expected, and she turned away, unpacking a pair of heels. "Speaking of which, what's the plan? Two nights a week here, six public appearances a month, and what else? Do we need to stage a cozy breakfast for the paparazzi?"
Henry smirked, crossing his arms. "Tempting, but no. We keep it simple. You come and go as needed, we coordinate schedules, and we make sure the staff sees enough to squash any rumors. My housekeeper, Maria, is discreet, but she's not blind."
"Great," Ava muttered, hanging a blazer in the closet. "So I'm playing house with you and your staff. Anything else I should know?"
He hesitated, then said, "There's a dinner tomorrow night. My parents, yours, a few investors. Small, private, at my family's townhouse on the Upper East Side. It's our first official appearance as a couple since the gala."
Ava turned to face him, her hands on her hips. "And you're just telling me this now?"
"I was going to mention it at the gala," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But we got… distracted."
She knew what he meant. Sophia Gray. The woman who'd walked into the ballroom and shifted the air around them. Ava hadn't pressed him about it since, but the memory of his expression—guarded, haunted—lingered. "Right," she said, her tone neutral. "Anything I should prepare for? Speeches? Toasts? A surprise ex showing up again?"
Henry's jaw tightened, but he didn't take the bait. "Just be yourself. You're already better at this than most people would be."
The compliment caught her off guard, and she busied herself with unpacking to hide the flush creeping up her neck. "Flattery won't make me cook you breakfast, Carter."
"Didn't expect it to," he said, his voice lighter now. "But I do make a mean omelet. You're welcome to join me tomorrow morning if you're up before noon."
She laughed despite herself, shaking her head. "You're assuming I sleep in. I'll be at the office by seven. Some of us have actual work to do."
He grinned, a rare, genuine smile that made him look younger, less like the untouchable CEO. "Noted. I'll leave the coffee on."
As he left the room, Ava exhaled, her shoulders relaxing. This was going to be harder than she'd thought. Henry Carter wasn't just a contract or a name on a deal. He was real, flawed, and dangerously disarming when he let his guard down. She couldn't afford to like him—not when this was temporary, not when Sophia Gray's shadow still hung between them.
The next morning, Ava woke to the scent of coffee and the faint clatter of dishes. She'd slept surprisingly well, the city's hum a familiar lullaby through the penthouse's soundproof windows. She dressed in a simple white blouse and black trousers, her hair pulled into a low bun, and followed the noise to the kitchen.
Henry was at the counter, whisking eggs in a bowl, his shirt sleeves rolled up again. The sight was absurdly domestic—Wall Street's prince making breakfast like it was a normal Saturday. A cutting board held diced tomatoes and herbs, and a French press sat steaming nearby.
"You weren't kidding," Ava said, leaning against the doorway. "You actually cook."
He glanced over his shoulder, his expression mock-offended. "What, you thought I survived on takeout and ambition?"
"Pretty much," she said, sliding onto a barstool at the island. "What's the catch? Are you bribing me for something?"
He poured the eggs into a sizzling pan, the aroma of butter and herbs filling the air. "No catch. Just figured we should start this arrangement on a civil note. Coffee?"
"Please," she said, and he slid a mug toward her, black and steaming. She took a sip—strong, with a hint of hazelnut. "Not bad, Carter."
"High praise," he said, flipping the omelet with a practiced flick. "So, what's your day look like? Court? Corporate espionage?"
She smirked, cradling the mug. "Just a deposition for Lin Ventures. Nothing exciting. You?"
"Board meeting, then a call with Tokyo. The usual." He slid the omelet onto a plate, garnishing it with a sprinkle of chives, and set it in front of her. "Eat. You'll need the energy for tonight's dinner."
She eyed the plate, then him. "You're really leaning into this domestic thing, aren't you?"
"Call it method acting," he said, starting another omelet for himself. "We're supposed to be a couple. Might as well practice."
Ava took a bite, the flavors bursting on her tongue—fluffy eggs, sharp cheddar, a hint of spice. "Okay, I'll give you this one. You're not terrible."
He laughed, and for a moment, the kitchen felt like a real home, not a stage. But as they ate in companionable silence, Ava's mind drifted to the gala, to Sophia's face, to the way Henry had looked at her. She set her fork down, her voice casual but deliberate. "So, this dinner tonight. Any surprises I should brace for? Like, say, another blast from your past?"
Henry's hand paused mid-bite, his eyes meeting hers. "You're not letting that go, are you?"
"Not when it makes you look like you've seen a ghost," she said, leaning forward. "Who is she, Henry? Really."
He set his fork down, his expression closing off. "I told you. An old friend from college. Nothing more."
"Right," Ava said, her tone skeptical. "And I'm just a lawyer who loves playing house."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Sophia was… important, once. We dated at Harvard. She left for Paris, I stayed here. That's it."
Ava studied him, sensing the weight of what he wasn't saying. "Doesn't sound like 'that's it' to me. But fine. Keep your secrets. Just don't let them derail our deal."
"They won't," he said, his voice firm. "You have my word."
She nodded, finishing her coffee. His word was all she had in this arrangement, and for now, it would have to be enough. But as she left the kitchen to get ready for her day, she couldn't shake the feeling that Sophia Gray was more than a memory—and that this "deal" was about to get a lot messier.