The Toyota pulled up to a slightly rundown, red-brick apartment building in Queens. Blaire tilted her head back, looking at the peeling paint on the exterior walls. She mentally calculated how cheap the rent must be.

Jude grabbed her broken suitcase from the trunk and walked ahead of her. He pushed open the heavy, glass-paneled lobby door. The stale, greasy smell of old pizza and damp carpet assaulted his senses. Jude's jaw clenched tight. He stopped breathing entirely, refusing to let the contaminated air into his lungs.

They rode a creaky, vibrating elevator up to the third floor. Jude pulled a brand-new, shiny key from his pocket. He shoved it into the lock, twisting it twice before the door finally gave way.

Blaire stepped inside and let out a small gasp of surprise. The interior was completely opposite to the hallway. It was spotless. The furniture was basic IKEA, but it was arranged warmly, complete with throw pillows and a rug. Emanuel had executed the illusion perfectly.

"This is way better than I expected," Blaire said, spinning around the living room. "The rent must be pretty high, right?"

Jude loosened his tie, his face completely blank. "It's manageable. I paid the down payment a while ago. I'm just paying off the mortgage every month now."

Blaire's mouth formed an 'O'. It all made sense now. That was why he said he could afford things earlier. He was drowning in mortgage debt. Her chest squeezed with a fresh wave of sympathy.

Jude pointed a long finger toward the hallway. "I take the master bedroom at the end. The guest room is yours. We share the bathroom, but keep your things strictly on your side of the sink."

Blaire didn't care about his extreme territorial rules. She grabbed her suitcase and happily dragged it into the guest room to unpack.

Jude stood alone in the center of the living room. He listened to the sound of her zippers opening. He pulled out his phone. As a husband, even a fake one, he felt a compulsory need to provide living expenses to maintain his character.

He opened his banking app. His thumb hovered over the screen, instinctively preparing to transfer one hundred thousand dollars. He caught himself just in time. He deleted the extra zeros, his brow furrowing at the pathetic amount left on the screen.

Using Zelle, he transferred $1,000 to Blaire's phone number. He typed a single word in the memo: Household.

Inside the guest room, Blaire's phone chimed. She picked it up, her eyes bulging at the notification.

She dropped her clothes and sprinted into the living room, waving her phone at Jude. "Why did you just Zelle me a thousand dollars? You have a mortgage to pay!"

Jude sat down on the cheap sofa, crossing his long legs at the knee. He looked at her with cold indifference. "Since we live together, you will handle buying the groceries and daily necessities. That is for the expenses."

Blaire frowned deeply. She felt like he was puffing up his chest to look like a big man when his wallet was empty. "Groceries do not cost a thousand dollars a month. We agreed to split everything fifty-fifty."

Right in front of his face, she tapped her screen. A second later, Jude's phone buzzed. She had Zelled $900 back to his account.

"I'm keeping one hundred for tonight's groceries," Blaire declared, crossing her arms. "You keep the rest for your mortgage. If I need more, I'll pay for it myself."

Jude stared at the $900 refund notification on his screen. The temperature in the room plummeted. His eyes turned into shards of black ice.

In his world, in his extensive experience with women, returning money only meant one thing: she thought it wasn't enough. She was playing the long game, trying to hook him for a much larger payout down the line.

Jude stood up abruptly. He closed the distance between them, his massive frame casting a dark shadow over her. The sheer physical intimidation made Blaire stumble backward until her spine hit the wall.

"What exactly is your game?" Jude demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

Blaire shrank back, her eyes wide with total confusion. "I don't have a game! I just don't want to take advantage of you!"

Jude let out a harsh, mocking laugh. He opened his mouth to tear apart her little act, but his private, encrypted phone suddenly began to ring in his pocket.

The custom ringtone belonged exclusively to the Brewer Matriarch. Jude glared at Blaire, his chest heaving, before he spun on his heel and marched out onto the small balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him.

He answered the call. "What?" he snapped.

"Watch your tone, boy," the Matriarch's booming voice echoed through the speaker. "Did you get the license? You didn't mistreat the poor girl, did you?"

Jude lowered his voice, grinding his teeth. "She is a master manipulator. She just turned her nose up at a thousand dollars. She's playing hard to get."

The old woman burst into loud, booming laughter. "She's sensible! Stop using your cutthroat boardroom paranoia on my granddaughter-in-law!"

The old woman intentionally raised her voice to a near-shout. "And don't you forget about your oceanfront estate in the Hamptons! Don't actually start believing you're a beggar!"

Jude's blood ran cold. He immediately took three long strides to the far end of the balcony, pressing his back against the brick wall to muffle the sound, and whipped his head around, staring through the glass door into the living room.

Blaire was standing in the open kitchen, her back to him, loudly rummaging through the empty refrigerator, while the blaring sound of a blender she had just turned on to make a smoothie completely drowned out the outside world. She was also wearing a pair of white wireless earbuds, nodding her head to an unheard beat. She hadn't heard the fatal slip.

Jude dragged a hand down his face, exhaling a harsh breath. He gave his grandmother a clipped, angry response and hung up. He stared at Blaire's back through the glass, the seed of deep, toxic misunderstanding firmly planted in his chest.

The next morning, Blaire woke up before the sun. She tiptoed into the kitchen, quickly slapping together two ham and cheese sandwiches. She left one on the kitchen table wrapped in a paper towel, grabbed her purse, and practically ran out the door to avoid the awkwardness of seeing Jude.

An hour later, Jude stepped out of the master bedroom, fully dressed in a sharp suit. He spotted the cheap, squished sandwich on the table. His nose wrinkled in disgust. But his stomach gave a loud, hollow growl. Driven by hunger, he picked it up and took a hesitant bite. The flavor exploded on his tongue. He finished it in three bites.

While driving to the Brewer Group headquarters, his grandmother called again, relentlessly probing about their sleeping arrangements. Jude gripped the steering wheel, his voice dripping with ice. "I am testing her character. Nothing is happening."

By noon, Blaire was exhausted, organizing heavy racks of autumn coats at the Manhattan boutique where she worked. Her phone screen lit up. A voice message from Sharon.

Blaire tapped play. Sharon's shrill, aggressive voice pierced her eardrum. "Blaire! I want proof of this new 'roommate' of yours. Right now! For all I know, you've been brainwashed into a pyramid scheme!"

Panic seized Blaire's chest. She ducked into an empty fitting room, her fingers trembling as she scrolled through her camera roll. She found the photo she had secretly snapped at City Hall-just Jude's broad back as he stood at the counter. She hit send.

Less than a second later, her phone rang. Sharon was calling.

"You think I'm an idiot?" Sharon screamed through the receiver. "A picture of a back? Did you just download this off the internet to shut me up?"

"Mom, no!" Blaire lied frantically, her heart racing. "He's just... really busy with work. He hates taking pictures."

Sharon let out a loud, mocking snort. "Fine. I finish my shift at five. I am coming to that Queens address tonight for a surprise inspection. Do not try to hide him!"

The call disconnected. Blaire broke out in a cold sweat. She frantically typed a text to Jude: SOS! My mom is coming to inspect the apartment tonight! Please don't blow our cover!

Miles away, in the glass-walled penthouse boardroom of the Brewer Group, Jude sat at the head of a massive mahogany table. A terrified executive was presenting quarterly losses. Jude's phone buzzed on the table.

He glanced down at Blaire's message. A cold, cynical smirk twisted his lips. Here we go, he thought. The whole family is in on the scam. He typed back a single, dismissive letter: K.

By 6:00 PM, a miserable, freezing drizzle began to fall over New York. Traffic ground to a dead halt.

Blaire clutched a plastic bag of hot deli food to her chest, sprinting the last block to the Queens apartment building. Her lungs burned.

As she reached the entrance, she stopped dead in her tracks. Sharon was standing under a large umbrella in the pouring rain, her eyes scanning the dilapidated brick building like a hawk looking for prey.

Blaire forced a smile and jogged up to her. Sharon immediately launched into a brutal critique of the neighborhood's lack of security and the trash on the sidewalk.

At that exact moment, Jude's beat-up Toyota squeezed into a tight spot down the street.

Jude stepped out of the car. His custom-made Italian leather shoe landed squarely in a deep, hidden puddle. Muddy water splashed violently up his shin, soaking his expensive trousers. His face instantly darkened into a mask of pure, murderous rage.

He stomped toward the building entrance. He reached into his pocket for the keys, and his hand froze. In his rush this morning, he had left the apartment keys on the kitchen table next to the sandwich.

Jude sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, fighting the urge to punch the brick wall. He grabbed the handle of the lobby door. The lock was broken. It pulled open with a pathetic squeak.

He walked into the lobby and pressed the elevator button. Nothing happened. He looked up. A piece of lined notebook paper was taped to the metal doors: Elevator Out of Order.

Jude Brewer, a billionaire who owned half the skyscrapers in the city, was now facing the ultimate degradation: a five-story walk-up.

He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. He started up the dark, narrow, mold-smelling stairwell. With every step, his thigh muscles burned, and his hatred for Blaire multiplied exponentially.

Meanwhile, Blaire and Sharon had reached the third-floor landing. Blaire was frantically digging through her purse for her keys.

Heavy, aggressive footsteps echoed up the concrete stairwell. Sharon snapped her head toward the sound, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Jude crested the stairs. He was panting heavily. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, his tie was yanked loose, and his eyes were blazing with a terrifying, homicidal fury.

He stopped on the landing. His eyes locked onto Blaire. The air in the hallway instantly froze.

Blaire stared at his disheveled, terrifying appearance. Her hands shook violently. The keys slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly against the concrete floor.

Sharon stepped forward, throwing her arm out to shield Blaire like a protective mother hen. She glared at this massive, angry man.

"Who the hell are you?" Sharon demanded, her voice echoing in the stairwell. "Why are you following my daughter?"

Jude's face turned the color of a thundercloud.

Jude stared at the aggressive woman blocking his path. He took a deep breath, forcing the violent rage back down his throat. His icy gaze bypassed Sharon and locked directly onto Blaire, silently demanding she fix this disaster.

Blaire's scalp prickled under his stare. She scrambled out from behind her mother's arm, her voice stammering in panic. "Mom, wait, misunderstanding! This is... this is my roommate, Jude."

Sharon's eyes widened. She slowly looked Jude up and down, her gaze lingering critically on his mud-splattered shoes and his loosened, damp tie. She let out a loud, disdainful scoff. "So, this is him."

Drawing on years of elite upbringing, Jude forced his facial muscles to relax into a stiff, robotic mask of politeness. "Hello. I am Jude."

Blaire dropped to her knees, snatched her keys off the floor, and shoved them into the door lock. She pushed the door open, desperate to escape the suffocating tension of the hallway. "Come in, come in!"

The moment Sharon stepped inside, she transformed into a health inspector. She ran her finger along the top of the cheap IKEA TV stand, checking for dust. She looked at the basic furniture and sneered openly.

Jude stood rigidly in the entryway. He toed off his ruined leather shoes. His skin crawled. He wanted nothing more than to stand under a boiling hot shower for an hour, but he was trapped. He watched the mother-daughter duo with cold, calculating eyes.

Sharon sat down heavily on the sofa. She crossed her arms and aimed her interrogation directly at Jude. "Blaire tells me you're in sales. How much do you actually bring home a month?"

Jude walked over to the single armchair and sat down. Even in this cheap apartment, with a ruined suit, he crossed his long legs with the inherent dominance of a king on a throne. "Base salary plus commission. It barely covers the mortgage."

Sharon's lip curled in absolute disgust. "You're paying a mortgage on a dump with no working elevator? Your financial situation is pathetic. How do you plan to support a family?"

Blaire, who was pouring water in the kitchen, heard the insult. Her stomach dropped. She rushed out, holding a glass of water, trying to extinguish the fire. "Mom, stop! We are just roommates! We split everything fifty-fifty!"

Sharon glared at her daughter. "Even as a roommate, it's unacceptable. You lie down with dogs, you get fleas. Don't let a loser like this drag you down."

Jude's hands gripped the armrests of his chair. His knuckles turned bone-white. The veins on the back of his hands bulged. In his entire thirty years of life, no one had ever dared call him a loser.

To shut the woman up and end the torture, Jude fired back, his voice dripping with frost. "You don't need to worry. I have absolutely zero inappropriate thoughts about your daughter."

That sentence was the wrong move. Sharon took it as a direct insult to Blaire's worth. She exploded, launching into a rapid-fire verbal assault, tearing into Jude's attitude and lack of manners. Jude fired back with cold, clipped logic.

Blaire was trapped in the crossfire, her anxiety spiking so high she felt dizzy. "Dinner is ready!" she yelled, desperately cutting off the argument.

The three of them relocated to the tiny dining table. The atmosphere was toxic. Sharon picked at the deli meat Blaire had bought, complaining about the sodium. Jude mechanically chewed a piece of lettuce, staring blankly at the wall.

Desperate to smooth things over, Blaire stood up and hurried into the kitchen to grab the clam chowder she had just heated on the stove.

She grabbed the hot ceramic bowl. As she pivoted back toward the dining area, her heel caught a slick patch of water she had spilled earlier near the sink.

Blaire let out a sharp, terrified gasp. Her feet flew out from under her. Her center of gravity collapsed, and she pitched forward, falling directly toward Jude's chair.

Jude saw the shadow falling toward him. The alarm bells in his brain shrieked. His haphephobia flared with violent intensity.

He reacted purely on survival instinct, shoving his chair backward to escape the physical contact.

But the dining area was too small. The back of his chair hit the wall. He was trapped.

Blaire hit the floor hard. The bowl tipped forward in her hands.

A massive wave of scalding hot, thick clam chowder splashed directly onto Jude's chest, soaking his pristine white shirt and ruining his trousers.

Blaire's wrist slammed against the sharp corner of the table. A blinding flash of pain shot up her arm. Tears instantly sprang to her eyes.

Jude shot up from his chair like he had been electrocuted. He looked down at his chest. The thick, creamy soup clung to his skin, radiating a sickening, fishy smell. His germaphobia and touch-aversion collided in a catastrophic mental breakdown.

He looked down at Blaire, who was crumpled on the floor, clutching her wrist. There was no pity in his eyes. There was only pure, unadulterated disgust.

In his mind, this was the ultimate gold-digger move. A fake fall to force physical intimacy and play the victim.

Jude's jaw locked. His voice was a lethal, vibrating hiss. "Your pathetic attempts to seduce me are absolutely disgusting."