The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing the sprawling penthouse that would be my new home—my cage—for the next year.
Marble floors gleamed under the soft lighting, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city in a breathtaking panorama. The place was unreal, a world away from my cramped apartment back in Queens.
And then there was Maverick.
Leaning casually against the kitchen island, dressed in black jeans and a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, he looked every inch the billionaire playboy I'd heard about—and more. His dark eyes locked onto me the moment I stepped inside, the same smoldering intensity that had made my heart skip at our first meeting.
"Welcome home, Ava," he said with a slow smile that sent a shiver down my spine.
I swallowed hard. This was it. No more pretending. No more games—except the ones we'd agreed to play.
"Thanks," I murmured, trying to keep my voice steady.
He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—woodsy, sharp—enveloping me. "Remember the rules," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "No real intimacy. We're partners in public, nothing more."
I nodded, though the heat pooling in my stomach begged to disagree.
As I set my bags down, the reality of the situation settled over me. I was trading my freedom for safety, my independence for an illusion.
But for now, I had to survive the game.
And maybe, just maybe, find a way to win it.