The city lights flickered like embers against the glassy skyline as the elevator climbed. Chuuya watched them from behind his sunglasses, jaw tight and mind restless. He could still feel the weight of the duffel bag on his shoulder—full of knives he’d sharpened by hand the night before, a couple of tools too specific to trust anyone else with, and a bottle of wine he wasn’t sure he’d be sharing. His other hand gripped the handle of his favorite pan, absurdly expensive and seasoned better than most of his exes.

He hadn’t wanted this job. Not really.

It was one thing to cook in his own kitchen, in a restaurant he could command, where his name meant something. It was another thing entirely to accept a private offer—under-the-table, overly generous, vaguely suspicious—from some bored rich guy with too much time and money and a very specific desire: a personal chef, no questions asked, to live on-site and cook only for him.

Chuuya had laughed in the guy’s face when the offer first came in. Or he would’ve, if it hadn’t been through some polished assistant over the phone. But then came the second call, with a number so high he had to sit down and re-read the zeros three times. Even then, he’d nearly said no.

Until rent came due. Until he stared at the bank statement and the funding that still hadn’t come through for the wine bar he was trying to open. Until he remembered his last boss yelling about truffle oil like it was a matter of national security.

So now, here he was.

Thirty-six floors up, in a building where the marble in the lobby probably cost more than his old car, riding an elevator that didn’t even have buttons—just a panel that scanned his fingerprint and purred his name like a secret.

Chuuya shifted the bag on his shoulder, ignoring the way his reflection in the polished metal doors scowled back at him.

He hated this kind of thing. Quiet luxury. People who didn’t need anything but still wanted everything. Men who dropped money like it meant nothing. It all set his teeth on edge.

But money was money.

And if this Dazai guy—whoever the hell he was—wanted a live-in cook so badly, he was going to get one. Chuuya wasn’t about to half-ass it, either. Whether it was risotto or a six-course meal, he’d make sure it was perfect. Not for the client’s sake. But for his own pride.

The elevator chimed. The top floor.

Chuuya took a breath, adjusted the fedora he hadn’t taken off since he left the cab, and stepped out into the hall. Quiet, modern. Cold in that expensive kind of way. A long stretch of blackwood floors and frosted glass doors, minimal decor, not a single fingerprint in sight.

His new home, apparently. Or prison. He hadn’t decided yet.

He followed the assistant’s instructions down the corridor, his boots echoing lightly against the wood. Somewhere up ahead, he’d be shown to his quarters. A whole private room in the penthouse, just so he could cook on demand. Absurd.

He snorted under his breath.

Maybe the guy was a recluse. Or weird. Or lazy. Or had some medical thing that meant he needed a personal chef around the clock. None of that mattered. Chuuya wasn’t here to pry. He was here to work, get paid, and get the hell out once he had enough to fund the dream he’d been dragging behind him for years.

Still, something gnawed at him. Not nerves, not really. He’d worked for rich clients before. Celebrities, politicians, even that one sketchy tech billionaire who wanted everything gluten-free but didn’t actually know what gluten was.

No—this was something else. Something about how little he knew. About the fact that there hadn’t been a tasting. No interview. Just an offer, an NDA, and a couriered set of keys.

He stopped outside a tall, matte-black door.

Well. Time to see what the hell he’d signed up for.

Chuuya adjusted his grip on the pan, squared his shoulders, and knocked.