The penthouse is perfect. That's the problem. Everything is already in place—the sleek leather couch, the glass coffee table, the expensive art on the walls that neither of us picked out. The kitchen gleams under recessed lighting, all polished countertops and stainless steel appliances. It's the kind of place that looks like it belongs in a magazine. But standing here, alone, in the middle of it all, I feel like I've walked into someone else's life. The air is crisp, untouched. Even the faint scent of cleaning products clings to the space, as if trying to scrub out any chance of warmth. The city sprawls below, lights flickering in the distance, but inside these walls, everything is still.

Too still.

I drop my bag onto the counter with a dull thud, the sound barely making a dent in the silence. Atlas isn't here yet, that much is certain. I don't know why that irritates me, but it does. With a sigh, I slip off my jacket and move toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of Caburgh is striking, but distant, like I'm watching a world I don't quite belong to. My fingers drum against my arm as I scan the streets below, searching for movement, for something—anything—to make this place feel less like a display room and more like a tolerable space, than a prison.

The walls are a muted gray. The couch? A slightly darker shade of gray. Even the sleek kitchen, with its polished marble counters and state-of-the-art appliances, lacks any real warmth—just more monochrome. It feels like too clean. Clinical. I move through the space, running my fingers over the back of a chair as I pass. No dust. No signs of life. Just a perfectly staged image of a home that doesn't belong to me.

I ascended the stairs, there are different doors upstairs, at the end of the hall was a double door, which I'm assuming leads to the master's bedroom, grand and elegant. I opened the doors and my suspicions were correct, The master's bedroom is a realm of quiet opulence, bathed in natural light spilling through towering glass walls. The sleek, low-profile bed rests atop a dark, velvety rug. A single lounge chair sits near the window, poised like a silent observer to the world beyond—a metropolis that hums with life.

Across the massive window was the bathroom, a sanctuary of modern minimalism, its dark walls and vast glass windows creating a striking contrast between shadow and skyline. The deep, freestanding bathtub sits like a sculptural masterpiece. A floating vanity with a sleek, circular mirror adds to the understated elegance. The atmosphere is cool, detached yet beneath its polished perfection lingers the unspoken promise of quiet indulgence. As much as I feel like a foreign material inside this beautiful suite, it really was beautiful. Painstakingly dull with all the hues of grays and blacks, but beautifully designed nonetheless.

There was a walk-in closet through the bathroom that circles back to the bedroom. Not an article of clothing in sight. They were not kidding when the said this has not been used, the reason? It didn't interest me. Dark wood shelves and deep gray tones create a sleek, monochromatic aesthetic. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows bathe the space in muted daylight. A round gray leather ottoman sits in the center.

The room, directly opposite the masters bedroom was a guest bedroom—subdued extension of the penthouse's—dark, muted grays wash over the space, from the textured walls to the velvet-upholstered bed. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch along one side, offering a view of the city below. The minimalist design is sleek. A private bathroom, equally cold in its monochrome palette, provides sleek functionality, while a small walk-in closet stands empty just like the master's bedroom. Relief washed over me, hand reflexively on my chest.

Perfect.

At least here, I won't have to think about where I stand, won't have to deal with the weight of sharing a space that isn't mine. I steps inside, closing the door behind him, shutting out the suffocating quiet of the penthouse. I'll take the guest room. It's easier that way. Not much later, I settled in my new—

I need to stop calling it prison, it's getting exasperating.

As much as I don't want to go out, check if my soon to be brother-in-law has arrived, I went out and the penthouse is still as empty when I walked in about a couple hours ago. My phone buzzed, a message from my grandfather asking if I have already settled in. I just sent him a brief yes and placed it back in my pocket. Looking down the main floor, nothing has changed. The same ghost of emptiness haunted the main floor, now engulfed in a soft orange hue. The sun is starting to set, vivid orange and wild pink splattered across the sky, the city lights started to wake, little by little.

I wasn't hungry but I decided to just go back to my new sanctuary, shielding my soul from the cold emptiness of this place. I grabbed my worn copy of Wuthering Heights, sat on my bed, pressed my back against the soft headboard looked out the city, situated across from me and just started getting lost in the words of Ellis Bell.