Felix's jaw dropped as Fawn swiped the keycard. They stepped onto the plush light‑purple carpet of a fully furnished apartment—luxury beyond anything he'd owned since the refugee camp.
"I can't believe it. This is really mine?"
He ran a hand across the sectional sofa, half‑convinced it would vanish if he blinked.
Fawn gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Jacob shouldn't have hired you as his personal assistant. I've wanted that job for years."
"I saved his life—"
"So? Heroics don't trump experience." She flicked her eyes around the apartment like she was appraising stolen goods.
Felix drifted to the floor‑to‑ceiling window—but one glance at Fawn, her honey‑blonde hair framing a sharp, diamond‑shaped face, made him forget the view of the neon‑lit city.
"I should invite my friends here; Nova and Kip are going to freak out when they see this view!"
"No loud parties." Her expression tightened as she repeated it, like she'd said it a hundred times before. "Residents like quiet."
Felix studied her—arms crossed over her crisp white blouse, black skirt falling sharply to her knees, posture rigid as if she were holding back a storm. "Why are you so bitter towards me?"
She didn't flinch. "Four years. And this year was supposed to be mine. No trips, no penthouse view. Just a balcony that reeks of my neighbour's cigarettes every damn evening."
"You could ask to move—"
"Jacob doesn't listen. He says we should be grateful to be here, that at least he's not like Lolita—keeping her staff just above starvation. I'd be grateful too… if he hadn't given the promotion to someone who probably thinks work is optional."
Felix's face warmed. "I'll work hard for this. Jacob won't regret hiring me—"
"You have no idea how to handle a panic attack," she snapped. "That takes skill, not luck."
"I've experienced panic attacks—I was drafted to go to war—"
"That's not the same as losing it every time the news flashes," she snapped. "We're talking about reporters gossiping, trips to islands, and trafficking young girls. There's a difference."
"Why would they accuse Jacob of that?"
"Years ago, he was friends with a man who lured girls to his private island." She scoffed. "Now the media treats it like it happened yesterday, even though Jacob cut ties long ago—and banned him from all his resorts. It's gotten so bad he's started barring reporters from parliament just to stop the questions."
"Well… the media will move on."
"Only to dig up another grave," Fawn countered. She stepped closer. "You don't understand, Felix. The media is always digging—even when there's no coffin to find. They just like the smell of the dirt."
She stepped forward and pressed the cold plastic of the keycard into his palm. "Here. It's yours. Don't lose it."
Felix curled his fingers around the keycard, unable to stop smiling. Fawn turned and left, the door slamming behind her. For the first time in months, he finally had a place he could call home.