Turns out I was hungry after all.
The microwave container sat on the counter. Spring rolls. Still warm. I ate them standing up, leaning against the kitchen island.
It was good. Too good. The kind of food you don't think about when you're counting coins for ramen.
After that, I wandered.
The penthouse had three bedrooms. Maybe four. I stopped counting. One was clearly Vincent's — the bed was unmade, a jacket draped over a chair, cologne on the dresser. I didn't go in. Not yet.
Another room was just... empty. A guest room that had never seen a guest.
The bathroom was down the hall. Marble floors. A shower big enough for three people. Towels folded like origami.
I turned the water on as hot as it would go and stood under it until my skin turned red. Until I couldn't tell if the steam was from the water or from my brain trying to process everything.
Then I turned it off.
Wiped the mirror.
And looked.
A face I'd never seen before stared back at me.
High cheekbones. Strong jaw. Blue eyes that weren't mine — sharper, like they'd seen things Gabriel never had. Hair still wet, falling across a forehead that had never worried about rent.
It was like someone took a Greek god, mated it with a Roman goddess, and then let the result loose on an unsuspecting world with a trust fund.
I touched my face. The face in the mirror touched back.
"Gabriel," I said.
The face didn't answer. Because it wasn't Gabriel.
It was Vincent.
And I had no idea what to do with him.
***
Eventually, I stepped back, dried off, and pulled on a robe that was hanging on the back of the door. It was silk.
I walked back to the living room and sat on the couch. The city stretched out below me, all lights and movement. People living their lives. None of them knew a supposed-to-be-dead orphan was now sitting in a penthouse.
My phone buzzed.
Not a call, a text.
Menace 💜: You eating yet?
I typed back: Yes.
Menace 💜: Good. Don't burn the place down.
I stared at the screen. Someone checking on me. Someone who cared if I ate. Someone who'd sat in a hospital room for a week waiting for me to wake up.
I never had that before. Not once. Not in my twenty-one years of existence.
Is this what it felt like to have a sister? A family?
The weight of it sat on my chest, heavy and warm and completely foreign.
Then the doorbell rang.
I walked to the door, thinking maybe Victoria came back. Maybe she forgot something. Or she simply wanted to give me instructions on how not to burn the place down.
I opened the door.
It was definitely not Victoria standing on the other side.
This one had long blonde hair and blue eyes that looked like they'd seen everything and judged most of it. The kind of beautiful that made guys line up just for a chance.
Her eyes dropped to my chest — the robe had slipped open a little — then came back up to my face.
"You look perfectly fine to me," she said.
"Who..."
She stepped past me into the apartment. Turned around. Crossed her arms.
"You didn't try to flirt. About the robe. Or my hair. Or both." She tilted her head. "Do you really have amnesia, or are you just pretending?"
I just stood there.
"Interesting," she said.
Then she walked in further.
The way she did it made me wonder if Victoria had gotten the penthouse ownership wrong.
I cleared my throat. "And you are...?"
She didn't even look back at me. Just walked to the fridge and pulled it open like she'd done it a thousand times.
"Emilia Grace Reynolds. Your girlfriend." She grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap off. "We're practically engaged already."
I stared at her. "I... have a girlfriend."
She finally turned around, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, don't get it twisted, we hate each other. I hate you. You tolerate me. We're a match made in heaven."
She said it with a perfectly straight face. Then took a long, slow sip of her water. Like she was discussing the weather. Like hatred and engagement were the same thing.
Me? I stood there in my silk robe, trying to figure out what kind of person called hatred a match made in heaven.
Vincent, apparently.
And now I had to be him.