The Gilded Cage

Three days later, Julian was discharged. The doctors insisted on constant monitoring in a stress-free environment, which meant Roxy was unceremoniously moved into the Sterling Penthouse.

The penthouse was a sprawling, immaculate monument to extreme wealth, located on the top floor of a glass skyscraper in the city’s entertainment district. Everything was white marble, polished chrome, and cold, hard edges. It looked less like a home and more like a high-end art gallery. Standing in the center of the massive living room, her battered duffel bag resting on the pristine rug, Roxy had never felt more like an imposter.

She was a sellout. She was playing house with a billionaire to get her final check.

"I had the staff clear out half the master closet for you," Julian said, walking slowly into the living room. He was wearing soft cashmere sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, still moving with a slight stiffness.

Roxy flinched internally. In the six months of their contract, she had never once stayed the night. She had her own apartment—a tiny, cramped studio above a laundromat.

"You didn't have to do that," Roxy said, her defensive instinct flaring. "I don't have much stuff."

Julian smiled. It was a soft, entirely genuine smile that completely transformed his sharp, aristocratic face. He walked over to her, closing the distance, and gently tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear.

"What's mine is yours, Rox," he murmured softly. "You know that."

He leaned down and kissed her cheek, a casual, breathtakingly intimate gesture, before walking into the kitchen to pour them coffee.

Roxy stared after him, her stomach churning with a toxic cocktail of anxiety and bizarre, unwanted warmth. The amnesia had completely rewritten his personality. The ruthless, calculating record executive was buried beneath a man who looked at her as if she hung the stars in the sky. He was attentive. He was doting.

And it was driving her absolutely insane.

For the next two weeks, the penthouse became a surreal, gilded cage. Julian, barred from working by his doctors, focused all of his formidable energy entirely on her. He cooked her breakfast. He asked her about her song lyrics, actually listening to the answers instead of just nodding absently. He touched her constantly—a hand on the small of her back, his fingers tracing her knuckles while they watched movies on the massive velvet sofa.

It was intoxicating. Roxy found her rebel armor cracking under the relentless, overwhelming warmth of his devotion. She caught herself laughing at his dry jokes. She caught herself leaning into his touch.

But every time she let her guard down, her phone would buzz with a text from Jax about the studio deposit, a violent reminder of the cold, transactional truth. Julian didn't love her. He was experiencing a neurological glitch. When the swelling in his brain subsided, the illusion would shatter, and he would look at her with the same icy disdain he always had.

She had to get out of the penthouse. She needed to remember who she really was.