Chen Tower was exactly the kind of building you'd expect a billionaire to own.
All glass and steel and sharp angles, stretching into the sky like it belonged there. The lobby had marble floors so polished I could see my own reflection staring back at me—looking confused and slightly unhinged, which was fair, because I was both.
"Welcome home, Ms. Chen."
The receptionist actually bowed. Bowed. Like I was royalty. I made a mental note to ask Lucas if I also owned a small country somewhere. At this point, I wouldn't be surprised.
"Thank you," I said, trying to sound like someone who remembered this place. "Good to be... back."
The receptionist beamed.
Lucas led me toward a private elevator at the far end of the lobby—the kind that required a keycard and probably cost more than a normal person's car. He pressed his card to the sensor, and the doors slid open with a soft, expensive-sounding whoosh.
"Top three floors," he said as we stepped inside. "The elevator opens directly into your foyer. Mrs. Nguyen has prepared everything for your arrival."
"Mrs. Nguyen. The housekeeper I've had for eight years."
"Yes."
"Who I also don't remember."
"She is aware of your condition. She is... remarkably unbothered by it."
"What does that mean?"
Lucas paused. His left ear twitched. "Mrs. Nguyen once watched you fire three executives in one afternoon and then ask her what was for dinner as if nothing had happened. Amnesia does not impress her."
I filed that away. Mrs. Nguyen: unbothered queen. Possibly my new favorite person.
The elevator doors opened.
The foyer was... ridiculous. In the best possible way. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows with panoramic views of the city skyline, furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum but was somehow still comfortable. Everything was white and cream and soft gray, with tiny pops of green from potted plants scattered around.
It was beautiful. It was elegant. It was—
"STERILE," I announced. "It's very sterile. Did I design this or did a hospital waiting room?"
"The interior designer followed your instructions. You specified 'minimalist with no personality because personality is inefficient.'"
I turned to stare at him. "I did not say that."
"You used almost those exact words."
"Past me was a monster."
"Past you was... particular."
"That's a diplomatic way of saying monster."
Lucas's mouth did the almost-twitch thing again. His ears were still a faint, manageable pink from the hospital—but I was starting to learn that with Lucas, pink was the default. Red was for embarrassment. Burgundy was for when I said something that caught him off guard. And purple—
Well. I hadn't seen purple yet. But I was determined to get there.
"ALFRED," Lucas said suddenly, and I jumped.
"Who are you talking to?"
"The smart home system."
"The what now?"
A smooth, automated voice filled the room. "Good evening, Mr. Grey. Welcome home."
I stared at the ceiling. "Did my house just talk to you and not to me?"
"ALFRED is voice-activated and programmed to recognize specific users."
"And I'm not one of them?"
"You are the primary resident."
"But it just greeted you and ignored me."
"ALFRED responds to your voice as well, Ms. Chen. You simply need to—"
"ALFRED," I said loudly. "Hello. I live here. Apparently."
Silence.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Please repeat the command."
Lucas's left ear went pink.
"ALFRED," I tried again. "Who am I?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Please repeat the command."
"Alfred," Lucas said quietly.
"Yes, Mr. Grey?"
"Who am I?"
"You are Lucas Grey, primary assistant. Voice match confirmed."
I turned to Lucas with the expression of a woman who had just been betrayed by her own ceiling.
"It knows you."
"It has been programmed to recognize—"
"It knows you and it doesn't know me. I live here. I own this building. And my own house is ignoring me."
Lucas's ears were now crimson. "I can recalibrate the system—"
"No. Don't." I crossed my arms. "This is personal now. Alfred and I are enemies."
"Ms. Chen—"
"Alfred drew first blood."
Lucas looked at me for a long moment. His expression was perfectly neutral, but his ears were doing something complicated—pink to crimson to something almost amused.
"If you want to control the temperature," he said evenly, "you'll need Alfred's cooperation."
"I'll freeze before I negotiate with a ceiling."
"That seems impractical."
"Then I'll be impractical. Impractical and cold. It'll be my new brand."
The almost-smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. Almost. Barely. Gone.
"Very well, Ms. Chen. Shall I show you the rest of the penthouse?"
---
The tour took forty-five minutes.
Not because the penthouse was enormous—which it was—but because I kept getting lost.
"The master bedroom is the third door on the left," Lucas said, for the fourth time.
"I know."
"You walked past it."
"I'm exploring."
"You walked past it six times."
"Exploration requires repetition. It's scientific."
Lucas said nothing. His ears said everything.
The master bedroom was, like the rest of the penthouse, beautiful and sterile and utterly unfamiliar. King-sized bed with white sheets. Walk-in closet full of clothes I didn't remember buying. A bathroom with a shower that had more settings than my entire personality.
"No bathtub?" I asked.
"You had it removed last year. You said baths were 'inefficient uses of time.'"
"Past me," I declared, "was absolutely a monster."
Lucas didn't disagree.
The kitchen was equally impressive. Marble countertops. Stainless steel appliances. A refrigerator that probably had Wi-Fi and opinions about my diet. And on the windowsill—
"Is that a plant?"
Lucas followed my gaze. "That is your ficus."
"My what?"
"Your ficus tree. You purchased it approximately four months ago from a nursery in Chelsea. You have been... very attentive to it."
I walked toward the plant. It was a perfectly normal ficus—green leaves, sturdy trunk, sitting in a ceramic pot that matched the kitchen's color scheme exactly.
It was also visibly fake.
I touched one of the leaves. Plastic. I touched another one. Also plastic. I looked at the base of the pot, where a small tag was still partially visible: Artificial Ficus — Model #472 — Indoor Use Only.
"Lucas," I said slowly. "This plant is fake."
"I'm aware."
"I watered a fake plant."
"Yes."
"For three weeks."
"Three and a half, actually."
I turned to face him. "And no one told me?"
His ears went pink. "Mrs. Nguyen considered it. She ultimately decided not to."
"Why?!"
"She said—and I quote—'Watching Ms. Chen talk to her plastic plant is the most human thing I have seen her do in eight years.'"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Mrs. Nguyen," I said finally, "is terrifying."
"She is also correct."
I looked back at the ficus. This stupid, fake, plastic plant that past-me had apparently loved enough to water every day for almost a month. Something about it made my chest feel tight.
"What did I talk to it about?"
"I don't know. You only spoke to the ficus when you thought no one was listening."
"But you were listening."
A pause. His ears went crimson.
"The walls are thin, Ms. Chen."
"That's not why you were listening."
He didn't answer. Which was an answer.
I touched the ficus's plastic leaf again. "Does it have a name?"
"You called it 'the only reliable thing in my life.'"
"That's not a name. That's a cry for help."
"I am aware."
I made a decision. "The ficus stays. I don't care if it's fake. It's the only thing in this penthouse that past-me apparently showed any affection toward. That makes it important."
Lucas said nothing. But his ears softened from crimson to a gentle pink.
---
The disaster happened around 8 PM.
Lucas had left for the evening—reluctantly, with approximately fourteen reminders to call him if I needed anything, and a detailed printed schedule of tomorrow's itinerary that I absolutely was not going to read.
I was alone in my massive penthouse, with my fake ficus and my sentient ceiling that hated me.
And I was cold.
"ALFRED," I said. "Turn up the heat."
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Please repeat the command."
"HEAT. I want HEAT. It is COLD. Make it WARM."
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Please repeat the command."
"I will unplug you. I will find your server room and I will destroy you."
"I'm sorry—"
"OKAY, FINE."
I marched over to the thermostat on the wall. It was sleek and digital and had forty-seven buttons. Forty-seven. For temperature control. Who needed forty-seven buttons to make a room warmer?
I pressed what looked like a flame icon.
The air conditioning blasted at full power.
I pressed another button.
The blinds closed.
I pressed a third button.
Somewhere in the distance, a fireplace ignited.
"THIS IS NOT WHAT I WANTED," I announced to the empty penthouse.
The ficus did not respond. Which was fair. It was plastic.
I pressed more buttons. The lights dimmed. The ceiling speakers started playing smooth jazz. The fireplace turned off. The fireplace turned back on. The blinds opened and closed three times in rapid succession like the penthouse was blinking in confusion.
And then it started snowing.
Indoors.
The air conditioning had somehow switched to maximum output, and condensation from the vents was crystallizing into tiny, pathetic indoor snowflakes that drifted down onto my marble floors.
"ALFRED," I said through gritted teeth. "STOP."
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that—"
"LUCAS," I muttered. "I need Lucas."
I grabbed my phone—which Lucas had programmed with his number as the first contact, because of course he had—and called him.
He picked up on the first ring.
"Ms. Chen?"
"It's snowing in my living room."
A pause. "I beg your pardon?"
"SNOW. Inside. It's snowing inside my penthouse, Alfred hates me, the fireplace has turned on and off six times, and smooth jazz is playing from every speaker and I don't know how to turn it off."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I will be there in twelve minutes."
"That's very specific."
"I calculated the time based on current traffic patterns and elevator speed."
"Of course you did."
"Please do not touch any more buttons until I arrive."
"That's probably wise."
"Goodbye, Ms. Chen."
"Vivian."
A pause. The faintest, barest, almost-imperceptible breath.
"...Vivian."
He hung up.
I stood in my living room, snowflakes melting on my shoulders, smooth jazz playing softly, the ficus watching me with its plastic judgmental eyes.
And I smiled.
Past-me had been brilliant and driven and completely alone. Past-me had fired people for minor mistakes and never said thank you and called bathrooms inefficient.
But past-me had also hired Lucas Grey.
And that, at least, was one thing she'd gotten right.