The idea that there was a connection between my settling in here in Deepwater and the unit below me being sold was nothing but paranoid fiction. Even in a cooling real estate market, properties were changing hands by the dozens every single day. The odds of a coincidence like that were astronomically low.

Violette Ellis reached up, rubbing at her twitching eyelid.

"Left eye twitching means a windfall, right eye twitching is just autonomic nervous system spasms." She muttered, "Yes. Spasms. Definitely just spasms."

She managed to soothe herself with that logic.

For the next few days, Violette habitually glanced at the window of the unit downstairs every time she got home. The massive, floor-to-ceiling glass remained a dark, hollow abyss. It looked nothing like a place that had just welcomed a new resident. Realizing she had been reading too much into nothing, she eventually let the thought drift away. Besides, with the New Year holidays approaching, the television station was a war zone of deadlines. She barely had time to eat, let alone play amateur detective.

During that time, Sunny, their cat, finished its final round of vaccinations and officially took over the apartment.

Roman Griffin was surprisingly tolerant of the creature. When Sunny shredded his leather sofa, knocked over expensive bottles of vintage wine, or turned his bespoke dress shirts into confetti, Roman remained impressively stoic. The only time he’d ever actually picked the kitten up by the scruff to deliver a firm lecture was when it clawed Violette’s favorite silk scarf.

"It’s just a scarf," Violette had said.

"Today it’s a scarf. Once it gets bold enough, there’s no telling what it’ll ruin next," Roman replied, his logic ironclad. "Children need to be taught boundaries while they’re young."

Violette thought to herself, *Funny, I didn’t hear a single word of 'teaching boundaries' when it was busy destroying your shirts.*

*You’re acting like such a—*

Before the thought could fully form, Violette felt a jolt of surprise. How had her mind so naturally drifted to what Roman would be like as a father? *Must be the ‘doting dad spoils the kid’ effect,* she reasoned.

Something felt different. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but day by day, she and Roman were drifting further and further from that initial, distant courtesy they’d started with.

***

On a grueling Monday, after a ten-hour shift, Violette sat at her desk scrolling through recipes. Her culinary talent was mediocre at best; her food was "edible," but a long way from "good." Between Catherine Palmer constantly barring her from the kitchen and Roman’s playful insistence that she stay out of his way, she’d convinced herself that her lack of skill was simply a lack of opportunity.

*If I follow a recipe step-by-step, how bad could it possibly be?*

After browsing dozens of “zero-fail” private kitchen recipes, she felt dangerously confident. She wasn't one to aim for the stars; she’d start with the basics—pan-seared steak.

On her way home, she stopped at the boutique grocer that serviced the residential complex. Having lived here for a while, she’d become a regular face to the staff.

As she reached for a cut of prime rib, a hand tapped her shoulder.

"Hey, Mrs. Griffin."

"Hello," Violette offered a polite smile. It was a neighbor who lived a few floors down; she’d seen her in the lobby a few times.

"Shopping for dinner?"

"Just a quiet night in."

"This brand of steak is fantastic. A little butter in the pan, and it’s incredibly tender. Look at that marbling. My husband and I went to the steakhouse at the Deepwater Spire for our anniversary, and even that wasn't as good as this."

Violette, initially hesitant, followed the woman’s advice and dropped the recommended cut into her basket. The neighbor, clearly an extrovert, was delighted to have shared her expertise, rattling off a dozen other items from her "must-buy" list.

By the time they reached the checkout, the woman had unilaterally declared Violette the woman with the best taste in the building. Violette didn't care much for the title, but she was curious.

"So," Violette asked as casually as she could, "how do you usually celebrate your anniversaries?"

"Oh, the usual three: flowers, steak, and a designer bag." The woman waved her hand dismissively. "Though last year, my husband got creative and took the whole family to the Maldives."

Violette did a quick mental calculation.

*The Maldives is out of time. Flowers? Roman is allergic. Steak? Already in the bag. A bag? Maybe a belt? Or a lapel pin?*

She was still weighing her options when the neighbor added, "Now, take Mrs. Hayes downstairs. They decided on their anniversary two years ago to quit their jobs and start a travel vlog. Last year, they spent the day printing out a year’s worth of photos and binding them into a book. Look, the book just got published this year! So romantic. And now, they’ve sold their place—"

Listening to the elaborate life stories of others made her single, humble steak feel suddenly inadequate. Violette massaged her temples. *At least today is just our 100-day milestone,* she reminded herself. *Big days get big celebrations, small days get small ones.*

As the neighbor continued, she brought up the unit again. "Oh, and Mrs. Griffin, have you heard? Someone new is moving into the Hayes’ place."

"I haven't been paying much attention to the building group chat," Violette said.

"Oh, no, it’s not in the chat. The new owner is quite the mystery. They haven't said a word. I only knew because I saw a moving truck unloading furniture this morning."

Violette’s mind flashed back to her own earlier, ridiculous suspicions. While she still found the idea laughable, she pulled out her phone and checked the building's digital registry.

The new resident’s profile picture was… something else. It was a giant, saturated photo of a lotus flower—*BloomingLotus_88*. It was the kind of aesthetic Violette only ever associated with people her parents' age, or older.

Violette finally let go of the last of her irrational anxieties. She felt a wave of genuine relief and chuckled. "It’s funny, living in a place like this, you barely see your neighbors anyway."

"Isn't that the truth?" the woman agreed. "Take you, for instance—I rarely see you. By the way, why haven't you been on TV lately? You're so photogenic, it’s a waste to stay behind the scenes."

After parting ways, Violette reached the elevator bay. She clutched her paper grocery bag in one arm and fumbled for her phone with the other. She unlocked it and fired off a quick message to Roman: *What time will you be home?*

Usually, she would have waited until she was safely inside her apartment to send such a message. But tonight, perhaps fueled by the pressure of the 100-day milestone, she found herself feeling strangely impatient.

Her phone buzzed in her palm.

She lifted it to read the reply, but the weight of the bag shifted. A couple of oranges rolled off the top and began bouncing toward the elevator doors. Violette went to reach for them, but a hand suddenly appeared, scooping them up before she could.

"Thank you," she said, looking up.

Her gaze caught on the man’s face, and despite knowing it was rude, she couldn't help but linger. Wheat-colored skin, an athletic, gym-honed build, thick eyebrows, and a sharp, intense gaze. There was a faint, unsettling sense of familiarity about him.

The man muttered "Don't mention it," and shoved his hands into his pockets, waiting for the elevator.

The doors slid open. They stepped in, one after the other.

Violette pressed 28. The man reached out and pressed 27.

The new owner of the 27th floor.