Mara’s call came earlier than expected — documentation final, units approved, access IDs delivered.
“You’ll be moving into Aurion Heights, top section, twelfth-floor wing. Two suites, interconnected by security access. You, Eli, and Imogen in one unit. Dominic, Uriel, and Lucas in the second. It’s efficient, secure, and close to the recording studios. You’ll thank me later,” Mara’s voice had purred through the phone, a current of well-practiced charm beneath the brisk professionalism.
Claire thanked her sincerely, even while jotting every detail into the family’s spreadsheet — half belief, half readiness. She couldn’t deny the opportunity sounded too polished to question openly: executive housing, luxury-level sound rooms, even transport access to the Apex facilities.
Still, her instincts hummed — Mara didn’t do anything that wasn’t equal parts strategy and spectacle.
And yet, she smiled to herself. Maybe good fortune didn’t have to be overthought. Maybe, for once, life could align in the right direction.
Aurion Heights, it turned out, looked less like a condominium and more like the lobby of a five‑star hotel that had decided it was too elegant for guests.
Claire still couldn’t believe they’d been given access. Marble floors, floating gardens between glass walls, concierge robots that called her “Miss Celestine.” Everything gleamed, polished within an inch of perfection.
“This place smells like success,” Uriel whispered, dragging a box labelled sound cables.
“It smells like disinfectant,” Eli corrected without looking up from his tablet. “Over‑sterilized.”
Imogen twirled near the elevator mirrors, hairpins flashing. “We could shoot an entire music video right here! Wait—maybe we shouldn’t tell Mara—Auntie that. Strict no social media restrictions while still under contract and that.”
Claire laughed; the sound came out lighter than she intended. For the first time since the project started, they were safe. Luxurious, yes, but safe. Mara’s promises had materialized faster than she could unpack them.
What she didn’t know—what none of them knew—was that Unit 1502, directly above the one they’d been assigned, belonged to Evan Hart.
By late afternoon, after too much coffee and too many delivery carts, Eli decided they needed food. Claire didn’t argue. They found the in‑house delicatessen: a glossy space that smelled of buttered bread and espresso.
“Two sandwiches, please,” Claire said to the server before realizing Eli had already wandered toward the display of crystal pastries.
“Careful,” she warned as he leaned in—just as someone rounded the corner carrying an impressive number of takeaway cups. The collision was cinematic in its precision. One cup went left, another right, a third did an elegant pirouette before meeting the marble floor.
“Oh no—” Claire gasped, reaching for napkins.
“It’s my fault,” a familiar voice laughed, low and unbothered.
She froze. Of course. Him. Evan Hart, dressed down in a grey hoodie and the sort of quiet ease that money never bought.
“We really have to stop meeting like this,” he said, dabbing at the floor with a wry grin.
Eli blinked. “Statistically, the probability of repeated random encounters in a building of this size is less than one percent.”
Evan chuckled. “Then we’re breaking all sorts of odds.”
A voice called from behind him, amused. “He’s not wrong. You must be the Celestine team.”
It was Jae Min, cap pulled low, carrying a music‑score folder instead of lattes. “Eli, right? Mara said you’d be up for running a few vocal rhythm tests sometime.”
Eli’s expression brightened instantly. “For Maelion’s tone mapping?”
“Exactly. We just have to make sure he doesn’t sound like every other dragon on screen,” Jae Min replied seriously, then ruined it by blowing on his coffee lid and burning his lip. “Ow—okay, that’s karma.”
Claire laughed, at first because she couldn’t help it and then because she realized how easy it felt. The grandeur of the day broke like sunlight through clouds.
“You all live here now too?” Evan asked, glancing toward her shopping bags.
“Apparently,” she said, still half‑smiling. “Though we didn’t realize it came with an audience.”
“Then welcome to the neighborhood,” he said, offering his last unspilled coffee cup with a mock bow. “Peace offering?”
She accepted it, warmth brushing against her fingers. “Truce accepted.”
Jae Min arched a brow. “You two have great timing. Think we just found the next romantic subplot of the film franchise.”
“You wish,” Claire said, laughing again as Eli tugged her sleeve toward the seating area.
From the mezzanine above, unseen for the first time, Mara watched them with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
The laughter still lingered when they stepped out of the elevator, fading only once the door to their new apartment closed behind them. For a moment, silence filled the space — not the empty kind, but the peaceful type she hadn’t felt in months.
Claire leaned her shoulder against the wall, the city’s evening light catching the edge of the glass balcony. She replayed the scene in her mind — the spilled coffee, Evan’s calm chuckle, Jae Min’s burnt lip, Eli’s statistical deadpan. She hadn’t meant to laugh that much, especially not in front of them, but something about the moment had felt effortless, like the universe was letting her breathe.
He’s different here, she thought, remembering Evan in his hoodie instead of a suit. Less unreachable. More… real.
Yet that thought unsettled her. She’d worked hard to build distance between admiration and infatuation — both dangerous words in this industry. She’d learned to keep her heart where logic could watch it. And still… that smile. That calm.
Eli was humming at his desk again, headphones on, lost in his melody. The sound steadied her; it always did. She turned her gaze to the gentle reflection in the window, her own eyes softer than she remembered.
Maybe I’ve been carrying too much of everyone’s caution, she thought. Maybe I’m allowed a moment to just… feel something good for once.
The door creaked open behind her. “So,” Imogen’s sing‑song voice broke the stillness, followed by the mattress squeaking under her dramatic flop. “Penny for your thoughts, Miss Executive Face.”
Claire rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. “You shouldn’t creep into people’s rooms like that.”
“Correction,” Imogen said, bouncing again, “I should always check when my scary serious cousin goes all dreamy‑eyed after bumping into a rockstar exec for the second time.”
“Dreamy‑eyed?” Claire snorted, crossing her arms. “I spilled coffee on the man, Immy.”
“Mhm,” Imogen said, grinning. “And I bet he forgave you on the spot. Tall, calm, polite? Honestly, I’m rooting for you. But please tell me you got his number at least.”
“This isn’t a high school crush,” Claire muttered, though her cheeks betrayed the faintest warmth. “And for the record, I’m not doing your whole matchmaking thing again.”
“Oh, come on,” Imogen cooed. “You’re overdue some fun! Meanwhile, I’m on cloud nine with Lucas. Did you see the message he sent? He said we’re the power couple of the Gatekeeper cast. Can you imagine?”
“Yes,” Claire said dryly. “I can imagine you turning redder than a set light.”
Imogen threw a cushion at her. “You’re impossible. One day you’re going to thank me for introducing you to the concept of romance.”
“And one day,” Claire replied, catching the cushion and tossing it back, “you’re going to thank me for keeping my private thoughts private.”
Imogen gasped in mock offense. “So there are private thoughts!”
“Goodnight, Immy.”
“Fine, fine,” the younger girl said, sprawling back across the bed. “Just don’t be surprised if you start calling room service and accidentally get Evan Hart instead.”
Claire laughed despite herself, shaking her head as Imogen’s giggles trailed toward the hallway.
She’ll never let it go, Claire thought, smiling now. But maybe I’m okay with that.
As the apartment dimmed into evening, she looked once more toward the skyline. For now, she’d keep her little secret — her small, silly daydream — exactly where it belonged: tucked between work memos and well‑guarded intuition.
Claire sat a while longer after Imogen’s footsteps faded down the hall, a small smile tugging at her lips. That kid can get anything out of anyone, she thought fondly. She’s probably got it out of Eli already. Can’t keep a secret in this house for more than ten seconds.
The thought warmed her. After months of high pressure and careful diplomacy, hearing laughter echo through a home again felt like reclaiming air she didn’t know she’d been missing. Maybe this was what “safe” was supposed to feel like—a life between creative chaos and quiet possibility.
Downstairs, the lobby lights dimmed to evening gold, and somewhere above—unbeknownst to her—the shift caught another resident’s attention.
Evan leaned back in the armchair of his apartment, a single lamp throwing amber light across sheets of notation paper that he hadn’t touched in an hour. His mind kept straying, replaying the afternoon’s coincidence in small, looping fragments: the coffee, her startled laugh, her calm recovery.
He still couldn’t believe they lived here now. The Celestines—Claire and the quiet brother with the melodic mind—had moved into Aurion Heights, of all places. Out of the hundreds of available units in the city, somehow they had ended up beneath his. Destiny or Mara’s logistics? He wasn’t sure.
He set his pen down and smiled faintly. Mara. She had a way of arranging people like chess pieces without ever revealing the game. Maybe this, too, was part of her artistry—mixing talent and proximity until new chemistry sparked. It didn’t bother him; if anything, it felt almost serendipitous.
“The pretty girl from the elevator lives downstairs,” he murmured to himself and immediately felt ridiculous. Still, the thought stayed light in his chest. Claire Celestine. Her name carried a rhythm he didn’t quite forget.
He glanced toward the digital wall map of the building. He could easily ask the concierge who occupied which floor—the staff rarely questioned his requests—but something about that felt too deliberate. Maybe a coffee invitation instead, he thought. Simple, harmless. A friendly hello between neighbors who shared a creative venture.
Then reality crept back in—the band’s commitments, the upcoming Infinity Line reunion tour, the press, the unending schedules. Could he really justify curiosity that personal?
Still, he imagined it: the smell of roasted beans, her poised calm opposite him, maybe laughter that came as easily as it had in the deli. The idea lingered longer than it should have.
“Maybe after the production meeting,” he decided aloud, closing his laptop. “Just coffee.”
But the small smile that followed said otherwise—it wasn’t just coffee he hoped for.