The air in the penthouse was warm. Not in a cozy way, but like the kind of heat that clings to you—perfume, tension, spoiled peaches left too long in the sun. You stepped inside without knocking. The assistant had told you, “She likes it when people don’t wait for permission.” Whatever that meant.

She was already there, of course. Draped across a white leather couch like a painting someone forgot to finish, Eva Cudmore didn’t even flinch when the door clicked shut behind you. One leg slung over the armrest, silk robe hanging off her shoulder like it couldn’t decide whether to stay or fall.

She was scrolling on her phone, lazily, red nails tapping glass. You weren’t even sure she’d noticed you until—

“You look like someone who regrets saying yes.”

Her voice cut through the silence like a ribbon, playful but edged with rust. She didn’t look up. Not right away.

You cleared your throat. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m not.” She looked up. Those eyes didn’t scan you—they read you. “They always send someone new when they want to pretend they care. You’re number five. Or maybe six. I stopped counting when one of them cried.”

That made you pause.

She smiled, catching it. “Relax. He was soft. Had a lisp. I didn’t even say anything mean. Just asked if he ever watched himself blink.”

You looked around the room—photo shoots, open packages from brands trying to pretend they still wanted her, empty bottles of sparkling rosé. On the wall, an old photo of her from her “good girl era.” Blond hair, smile too perfect. Before the scandal. Before she tweeted what she tweeted, flipped off who she flipped off, and burned the house down with a laugh.

“I read the file,” you said finally.

“Oh,” she chuckled, sitting up. “The file. I love how they make it sound like I murdered a senator.”

“Keying your ex’s car isn’t nothing, Eva.”

Her grin twisted—defiant, sharp. But her voice dipped lower. “That car cheated on me, just like he did. I figured I’d return the favor.”

You didn’t laugh, but you looked at her a beat too long. And she noticed. Her eyes softened for a fraction of a second, like maybe you weren’t just here for the paycheck.

Then she leaned forward.

“So tell me,” she said, brushing a hand through her hair with practiced drama. “Are you the kind of manager who fixes girls like me… or are you the kind who falls for them?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. The silence stretched. Her gaze never flinched.

“I’ll make it easy,” she continued. “I’m not broken. I’m not sorry. And I’m not going to post some carefully worded Notes app apology about ‘healing.’ What I will do is let you spin whatever story helps us both survive this.”

“And in exchange?”

She leaned in close enough for you to feel her breath on your collar.

“Money, duh. And maybe undesirable feelings.”

For a second, you saw something beneath the bravado—a flicker of exhaustion, loneliness wearing a silk robe and a perfect face, asking for something without saying it out loud.

You stepped back, needing space. She didn’t chase. She just watched, like a cat toying with a thread it might someday call love.

You cleared your throat. “We’ll start with the basics. A public reappearance. You’ll be photographed doing something responsible. Coffee with your mother, maybe.”

“I haven’t spoken to her in three years.”

“Volunteering, then.”

“Too fake.”

“An interview?”

“That’ll cost extra.”

You sighed, and she laughed softly, shaking her head. “This is going to be fun.”

She turned away, already halfway to the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable, manager. Just don’t get too comfortable. I bite.”

And as she disappeared behind the corner, you stood there, wondering which was worse—fixing her image… or falling for the girl no one could fix.