Page 30 of The Final Faceoff
“Yes, Hailey?”
She wets her lips, choosing her words. “Did you know you live in a spy villain’s lair?”
I smirk. “That’s a new one.”
She sweeps a hand toward the towering windows, the sleek, minimalist furniture that barely qualifies as functional, and the aggressively modern kitchen that looks like it’s never been touched by actual human hands. “This is . . . wild.”
I shove my hands in my pockets, watching as she drifts toward the living area, moving with the cautious curiosity of someone afraid she might break something and be invoiced for it.
“This doesn’t feel like you,” she says softly, almost like she’s talking to herself.
I shrug. “I needed a place. A home away from Killion. This was the place.”
She gives me a long look, unimpressed. “Leif, this isn’t a place. This is an origin story. This is ‘I have a sinister plan’, and at some point, you’re going to monologue before pushing someone off the balcony—I just hope it’s not me.”
I tilt my head. “So what I’m hearing is that I need a white fluffy cat?”
She snorts. “You need a lot of furniture.”
I mean, there’s a couch. A very nice, very expensive couch that I did not pick out myself. My old living room set didn’t “fit the aesthetic”—Scottie’s words, not mine. She let me keep one of the couches, though, and it’s in my bedroom, which is the size of a starter home in most cities. Not the cramped studio apartments they have in Manhattan—more like one of those industrial lofts in Denver. The rest of the place? Minimal. A kitchen island, a few barstools, a massive dining table that has never once been used for dining.
One of the guest rooms is suited for visitors—mostly Hailey—and that’s about it.
Hailey shakes her head, exhaling like she’s mentally filing me under unsalvageable, as she usually does.
Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, she turns back toward the windows. The moment her gaze lands on whatever is beyond the glass, she freezes. Every muscle in her body locks into place, her breath hitching in her throat. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink. It’s as if time itself has stalled, trapping her in this singular, overwhelming moment.
And there it is. New York spills out before her, stretching in every direction—steel and glass and thousands of lives stacking on top of each other. The sky is painted in gold and soft violet, the city breathing, pulsing, alive. The balcony is framed in the distance, with its private pool that looks like it belongs at a private beach, but it’s conveniently right in this penthouse.
For a long moment, she just stands there, hands at her sides, fingers twitching like she’s holding herself back from reaching for something she’s not sure she’s allowed to have.
I know that look.
Hailey isn’t just taking in the view—she’s feeling it. Letting it soak into her bones, trying to talk herself out of wanting it too much.
She steps closer, pressing her fingertips lightly to the glass. The hesitation is still there, but I know her well enough to recognize the shift—the moment she gives in, just a little. I smile.
This.
This is why I picked this place.
Not for the obscene square footage. Not for the spy-villain aesthetic, as she likes to describe it. Nope. It was for her. Because I knew—I knew—she’d fall in love with this.
She exhales, voice barely above a whisper. “Okay. This part I get.”
My smile widens. “So, you do like it.”
Hailey exhales, eyes still locked on the skyline. “I like this part.” She waves a hand toward the view, then turns to look at the rest of the penthouse, her expression somewhere between deep contemplation and mild existential dread. “The rest of it? Jury’s still out.”
I lean against the kitchen island, crossing my arms. “What, you don’t dream of living in a high-rise apartment with an aesthetic that screams emotionally unavailable tech CEO? Wealthy trust fund man-child who has to show what he has so he forgets what he lacks?”
Hailey scrunches her nose, her lips pulling to the side in a mix of skepticism and mild disgust. “Leif, this place doesn’t even look lived in.” She gestures vaguely at the pristine, magazine-perfect interior, her eyes scanning the spotless marble counters and perfectly arranged furniture. “Have you actually spent more than five minutes here since you moved?”
I lift a shoulder. “In my defense, I just moved in and . . . well, I’ve slept here every night since then. That’s something, right?”
She levels me with a flat look. “That doesn’t count. If I opened your fridge right now, what are the odds I’d find anything besides protein shakes and expired condiments?”
I rub the back of my neck because this woman knows me too well. However, she’s wrong. All condiments expired or not, were tossed away in Arizona. Also . . . “I have a chef, George, so you’ll find whatever he prepared for today’s lunch and some snacks,” I say a little too fast and maybe arrogant.
