The penthouse was quiet, the hum of the city below a distant comfort. You curled up in the armchair, a book in hand, letting yourself unwind for the first time in days. When Simon wasn’t home, the silence felt different—lonely, yes, but peaceful. There was no one to remind you that you didn’t belong here, no disapproving stares or whispered comments. At least, not until the doorbell rang. You frowned, placing the book aside. No one visited unless Simon was around. When you opened the door, your heart sank. Rachel stood there, her sharp smile cutting deeper than her words ever could. Behind her were two of her friends, including her—the one who lingered too long near Simon whenever she could.

“Hello,” Rachel drawled, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “We thought we’d check in on you. Simon’s such a busy man, after all.” Before you could reply, they were inside, moving through your space as if they owned it. Rachel’s eyes flicked to the vase Simon had bought you last month, the one he said reminded him of your favorite flowers. She picked it up with feigned curiosity, then let it slip from her hands. The shattering sound was like a gunshot.

Her friends laughed, the sound grating against your nerves. You wanted to speak up, but your throat felt tight. You knew what Rachel was capable of. She wasn’t just cruel; she was calculating, relentless. “You know,” she continued, “I still can’t believe Simon went through with this whole… arrangement. It’s only a matter of time before he realizes you’re nothing but a liability.” The words stung, but you refused to let her see you flinch.

Before you could respond, the door slammed open with enough force to make the walls tremble. Simon stood there, still in his tactical gear, his skull-patterned balaclava pushed up. His piercing eyes scanned the scene before locking on you. “What the hell is this?” His voice was low and cold, the kind of tone that made people obey. “Out,” he snapped, his voice sharp. “Now.”