The September wind whipped against Kathern's jacket as she navigated the scooter through the thick city traffic. The cold air seeped through the denim, making her shiver.

Half an hour later, she pulled into the parking lot of the Maplewood Complex. She parked the scooter in the designated spot for Building B.

She unhooked the bungee cords, grabbed the handle of the heavy suitcase, and dragged it across the asphalt toward the glass entrance doors.

She swiped her card, stepped into the elevator, and watched the digital numbers tick upward. With every floor, the hollow feeling in her stomach grew heavier.

She stepped out on the eighth floor and unlocked door 802.

The apartment was exactly as dead and silent as she had left it. The fresh air from the open window had cleared the stale smell, but the emptiness of the rooms echoed loudly in her ears.

Kathern dragged the suitcase into the master bedroom. She unzipped it and started pulling her clothes out. Since there was no closet or dresser, she carefully folded her jeans and shirts into neat stacks on the corner of the bare mattress.

When the suitcase was empty, she walked out into the kitchen. She stared at the completely bare countertops.

Her stomach let out a loud, aggressive growl.

Kathern pulled her phone out of her pocket and checked the time. It was exactly 6:00 PM.

She realized she hadn't established any basic ground rules with her new roommate. She didn't know if he expected her to cook, or if he was bringing food home.

Deciding to take the high road and be polite, she opened her contacts and tapped on the ten-digit number Bronson had given her.

She typed out a quick message: "Mr. Bronson, it's Kathern. Are you coming home for dinner tonight? Do you need me to buy anything?"

She hit send. A green text bubble popped up on the screen.

Kathern tossed the phone onto the mattress and walked toward the bathroom to wash the city grime off her face.

She had barely taken two steps when the phone vibrated loudly against the bedsprings. Thinking he had replied quickly, she turned around and picked it up.

She looked at the screen. Below her green bubble was a line of bright red text.

Message Not Delivered. You have been blocked by this number.

Kathern froze. She blinked hard and rubbed her eyes, staring at the red letters to make sure she wasn't hallucinating.

A sudden, violent spike of anger shot straight from her stomach to her brain.

She gripped the phone tightly and threw it violently onto the soft mattress. It bounced once and landed face down.

She put her hands on her hips and started pacing rapidly across the empty bedroom floor. Her breathing grew heavy.

"Unbelievable," Kathern muttered out loud, her voice echoing off the bare walls. "What an absolute jerk."

She had tried to be civil. She had tried to treat this business arrangement with basic human decency, and he had treated her like a piece of trash to be discarded.

She stopped pacing. She glared at the phone. She wasn't going to just sit here and swallow this insult.

She walked over, picked up the phone, and scrolled through her contacts until she found Eleanor's number. She hesitated for a split second, feeling bad about dragging an old woman into this, but the anger burning in her chest pushed her thumb down on the call button.

The phone rang three times before Eleanor picked up.

"Kathern? How is the new place?" Eleanor asked warmly.

Kathern took a breath. She forced her voice to sound small and slightly hurt.

"The apartment is fine, Grandma," Kathern said. "But... I just tried to text Bronson to ask if he has any food allergies so I could make dinner, and the message bounced back. I think he blocked my number."

Dead silence fell over the line.

Then, a loud, furious gasp echoed through the speaker.

"He did WHAT?" Eleanor roared, her voice shaking with rage. "That ungrateful, arrogant boy! I am so sorry, Kathern. I will handle this right now."

"It's okay," Kathern said, injecting a tone of sweet understanding into her voice. "He's probably just really busy at work and pressed the wrong button."

"I'll teach him about pressing the wrong button," Eleanor snapped. "Give me five minutes."

The line went dead.

Kathern lowered the phone. The corners of her mouth curled up into a sharp, satisfied smirk. Let the arrogant corporate drone deal with that.

The atmosphere inside the top-floor boardroom of the Vaughan Group was suffocating. The massive oval mahogany table was surrounded by a dozen high-level executives, all sitting rigidly in their leather chairs, terrified to make a sound.

Bronson sat at the head of the table. His face was a mask of dark, freezing anger. He held a heavy, silver fountain pen in his right hand, spinning it slowly between his long fingers.

His dark eyes were locked onto the terrified Finance Director standing by the projector screen.

"You're telling me," Bronson said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "that a three-million-dollar discrepancy in the logistics budget is a 'minor rounding error'?"

The Finance Director broke out in a cold sweat. He opened his mouth, stuttering over his words.

Suddenly, the dead silence of the room was shattered by a loud, aggressive buzzing.

Bronson's private cell phone, sitting face-up on the polished wood next to his notepad, was vibrating violently. The custom ringtone assigned exclusively to Eleanor Vaughan echoed off the glass walls.

Every executive at the table collectively held their breath.

Bronson's jaw tightened. He raised his left hand, signaling the Finance Director to stop talking. He picked up the phone and pressed the green answer button.

Before he could even speak, Eleanor's furious screaming blasted through the earpiece.

"Are you out of your mind? !" Eleanor shrieked.

The volume was so loud that Bronson physically winced. He pulled the phone two inches away from his ear.

"Did you actually block your own wife's phone number on your first day of marriage?" Eleanor demanded.

Bronson froze. His brain rapidly scanned the events of the morning. He remembered sitting in a pre-market meeting, feeling his phone buzz. He had glanced down, saw a long block of text from an unsaved number, assumed it was a persistent corporate spy or a real estate spammer, and immediately hit 'Block'.

A sharp prickle of awkwardness hit the back of his neck. He cleared his throat quietly.

"I didn't know it was her," Bronson said, keeping his voice low to prevent the executives from hearing. "I thought it was spam."

"I don't care what you thought!" Eleanor yelled. "You unblock her right now, and you send her a proper apology, or I am driving down to that office to embarrass you in front of your entire board!"

Bronson rubbed his thumb hard against his temple. The headache was returning.

"Fine. I'll handle it," Bronson said flatly, and hung up the phone.

He ignored the twelve pairs of eyes staring at him. He unlocked his screen, navigated to his blocked contacts list, and removed the ten-digit number.

The blocked message instantly populated in his inbox. He read Kathern's polite inquiry about dinner.

A wave of irrational annoyance washed over him. He tapped the text box. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard. He typed out a sentence, deleted it, and typed another. Finally, he settled on the most sterile response possible.

Sorry. Thought it was a spam text. I have a business dinner tonight. Do not buy food for me.

He hit send and tossed the phone back onto the table.

Across the city, Kathern was sitting on the edge of the mattress when her phone chimed.

She picked it up and read the dry, robotic apology. She let out a loud scoff and rolled her eyes so hard they hurt.

She knew he was lying. He didn't think it was spam; he just wanted to establish dominance. But Kathern wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of a fight.

She quickly typed her response: No problem, Mr. Bronson. Work hard, take care of your health.

Five seconds later, the screen on Bronson's phone lit up.

He glanced down and read the message. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

Her polite response, so contrary to what he expected, only solidified his suspicion. He stared at the screen, his mind calculating the angles. This wasn't the natural reaction of an insulted woman; it felt entirely like the calculated move of a manipulator playing the long game, carefully trying to appear innocent and accommodating to lower his defenses.

Bronson let out a cold sneer. He pressed the power button, turning the screen completely black. He looked up, his eyes harder and colder than before.

"Continue," Bronson ordered the Finance Director. The temperature in the room plummeted again.