Jules had finally found a new apartment. It was small,not so much but it was his. The kind of place where you could start over without the world watching, where your mistakes weren't cataloged and everything felt a little more private. The apartment was on the second floor of a building that was a little starting to show its age, but to Jules, it was perfect. It had character, charm, and a big window that faced a street full of people constantly going about their lives, a reminder of the hectic life the city had to offer.
He hadn't been in the city long, but it felt like the start of something new. Leaving behind his small town wasn't easy, but it was necessary. He could feel the weight of opportunity pushing him forward.
While he got busy with unpacking his art supplies and placed his small collection of books on the shelves, the doorbell rang unexpectedly. Surprised, he went to answer, wondering who could be visiting so soon. Standing outside was Rowan, the man who owned the building. He looked effortlessly put together, a sharp suit that hugged his body in a way that made Jules feel oddly aware of his own casual attire.
"Hey," Rowan greeted, his voice smooth but friendly. "I'm Rowan. You must be Jules, right? The new tenant?"
"Yeah, that's me," Jules responded, a little thrown off by his presence. He wasn't sure what to expect from the man, but this certainly wasn't it.
"I just wanted to check in and make sure everything is working fine with your place," Rowan said, flashing a smile. There was something about the way he carried himself—both confident and approachable. "If you need anything, just let me know."
Jules nodded, though he didn't feel like he needed much. Still, the offer was nice. "Thanks. Everything's good so far."
Rowan lingered for a moment longer, studying Jules with an almost assessing look. "Well, I won't take up too much of your time. But if you're looking for some work, I might have something for you."
Jules was slightly caught off guard. "Work?"
Rowan smirked, clearly not noticing how he made Jules feel uneasy. "Yeah. I'm looking for an artist to work on a project for the company. A little decoration, you know? A few murals. Something to give the place some life. I've seen some of your work, and I think you'd be perfect."
Jules hadn't expected this. Not in a million years. He was still figuring things out and wasn't sure how much confidence he had in his art yet, especially to do something for a high-end office. But the opportunity was too tempting to refuse.
"I...uh....yeah, I'd be interested," Jules said, his voice trailing off. He felt his pulse quicken slightly.
Rowan's smile widened. "Great. I'll have my assistant send over the details."
---
The project started off simple enough. Jules would work on some designs for the offices, and Rowan would check in occasionally to see the progress. Their interactions were brief but pleasant at first. Rowan was professional, his demeanor polite and distant, but there was something that made Jules curious. It wasn't just Rowan's successful business or the way he seemed to have everything together. There was a quiet intensity about him, as if he were always thinking, always observing.
As the days passed, their interactions deepened. They'd bump into each other more often in the building, exchanging pleasantries, small talk, and occasionally staying longer than necessary just to talk about nothing in particular.
One night, after a long day of work on the project, Rowan invited Jules to his office for a drink. Jules was intrigued. Rowan's office was the only part of the company were no one, except for Rowan of course; has been to, and now he was inviting him into his office for just some drink.
He said it casually—almost too casually—as if it was a normal thing he did. But I noticed the way his eyes lingered on me after the words left his mouth. Like he was watching closely for my reaction.
Nobody had ever been to Rowan's office. Not his assistants, not his staff, not even the company's partners. It was the building's best-kept secret, an entire floor above the rest—silent, locked, untouched.
And now he was inviting me.
"Sure," I said, hoping my voice didn't betray how curious I actually was. Or how nervous.
The elevator ride was silent. We didn't speak, but I could feel the shift in the air. Tighter. Denser. Like I was crossing into someplace sacred, or rather forbidden.
When we got to the top, he unlocked the double glass doors and pushed them open. The lights flickered on, warm and dim in its effort to illuminate the space. It wasn't just an office.It was a home.
There was a kitchen tucked into the corner, a plush leather couch, tall windows which were concealed by long silk curtains. Shelves lined with old books, rare bottles on a black bar, a painting on the wall I instantly recognized—because it was mine. One I had sold years ago at a street fair.
"You bought that?" I asked quietly.
Rowan nodded, heading to the bar. "I did. Before I even met you."
He poured us both a drink, handed me a glass, and sat down on the couch, gesturing for me to join him.
I did.
The silence returned, but this time it felt heavier. He was studying me again, his eyes less guarded than usual.
"You ever wonder why I hired you?" he asked suddenly.
I blinked. "Because you liked my art."
He tilted his head slightly. "I did. Still do. But it wasn't just that."
My stomach tensed. Something in his voice had shifted—calm, yes, but with an undertone. Like he was walking me into a deeper truth and waiting to see if I'd follow.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glass in his hands. "You're the only person I've ever brought up here, Jules."
I swallowed. "Why me?"
"I don't know," he said, and I could tell that was a lie. "Maybe I wanted someone real in a place full of people who aren't."
I stared at him, trying to figure out what was happening. The room felt too quiet now. The drink in my hand untouched. His eyes were still locked on mine, unreadable yet intense.
Before I could speak, he added, "I don't let people get close, Jules. But you're already here. And I don't know what to do with that."
My breath caught. I wasn't sure what to say, or how to respond. Because part of me had wanted this closeness, this honesty. And part of me knew—it was only the beginning.