Chapter 1

I found a man hiding under my bed.

His eyes were dark and dangerous, a rope clenched in his hand as he muttered threats about making me disappear for good.

I stared at his unfairly handsome face, then glanced at the soul-crushing overtime notification on my phone.

I gave up on the spot. I flopped down, even scooting a little closer into his arms.

"Enough already," I said. "Will you feed me? As long as I don't have to socialize, I'm in."

He froze. The rope slipped from his hand and hit the floor.

At this moment, I had finally found my premium retirement plan.

*****

My name was Sophie Young. I was a professional writer with crippling social anxiety. For me, surviving in this world wasn't about making money. It was about breathing.

If there was even one other person in the room, the sound of their breathing made my lungs feel clogged.

To avoid people altogether, I moved to the top floor of an old apartment building.

My neighbor was a young man named Ethan Rivers. He always wore crisp white shirts and carried a cool, woodsy scent, like freshly cut grass after rain. When he smiled, he looked soft and harmless—like the nice guy in a campus rom-com.

But I knew better.

At this moment, I was sitting in front of my computer, staring blankly at the screen.

What filled the monitor wasn't my manuscript. It was a surveillance feed I had tapped into through some creative methods.

The camera angle was unique—mounted on the ceiling of my bedroom, pointed down.

On screen, I was slouched in oversized pajamas, munching on bread, not caring how I looked at all.

On the other end of that feed, just next door, Ethan sat in a dimly lit room, staring at the screen with unsettling focus. His long fingers traced the outline of my face on the monitor as he murmured things that would have sent most women running. "Sophie, you're mine. If I lock you up, you'll never leave me."

A normal girl would have called the police or at least screamed and run away.

But I didn't. In fact, I thought the camera angle was flattering. It caught my good side.

I swallowed the last bite of bread and did some math in my head.

I hadn't left the apartment in three months. My savings were running dry. Delivery fees were getting ridiculous. And the man next door? He looked well-off and very eager to take care of me.

He wasn't a creep. He was government assistance delivered straight to my doorstep.

I decided to test my "retirement plan."

I faked a fall in the bathroom and made sure it was loud enough to wake the dead. Then I sat on the cold tile floor and started counting. One. Two. Three.

Hurried footsteps pounded down the hallway. Right after that, I heard my front door being forced open.

When Ethan burst into the bathroom, he nearly slammed into the wall from the momentum. His usual calm was gone. In its place was a wild, almost unhinged panic. "Sophie!"

He dropped to one knee in front of me. His hands trembled as if he wanted to touch me, but he stopped himself at the last second.

I just looked at him.

He was wearing a denim jacket, the collar slightly open, showing the sharp line of his collarbone. His eyes were bloodshot—too many sleepless nights spent watching me and worrying.

"Mr. Rivers, how did you get in?" I asked, even though I already knew. My tone was as casual as if I were commenting on the weather.

Ethan froze. His expression shifted in a split second—panic, then something cold and dangerous, and finally a reckless kind of resolve. "I've been watching you," he said, voice low and hoarse.

He pulled a strip of black tie from his pocket, his gaze darkening. "Sophie, since you've found out, I won't pretend anymore."

He grabbed my wrist. His grip was shockingly strong. "What now? Are you going to call the cops? Or scream for help?"

I looked at him and thought, absurdly, his hands were so cold. Hugging him in the summer would be so comfortable.

"Will you cook for me?" I asked.

Ethan blinked. All the threats he'd prepared seemed to get stuck in his throat. "What?"

"I'm saying, if you're going to lock me up, are you at least going to feed me? I'm tired of takeout. I want home-cooked meals. And I don't feel like dealing with people anymore—can you block all my calls for me?"

His expression completely fell apart. Those eyes that usually glinted with something dark and dangerous were now wide and painfully confused.

In the end, Ethan still "kidnapped" me back to his place.

Actually, he didn't have to tie me up at all. I walked there on my own. Before we went in, I even reminded him to bring my computer tower over from my apartment.

His house was huge—minimalist, sterile, and almost cold. But the room he'd prepared for me was strangely cozy.

Pink sheets. A thick, soft carpet. And an entire wall stacked with snacks. Most importantly, the windows were sealed shut, and the door could only be opened from the outside.

For someone with social anxiety, it was paradise.

Ethan pressed me down onto the bed, staring at me with a complicated look in his eyes. "You're not scared of me?" he asked. He was still holding that black tie, as if he hadn't quite decided whether to go through with his grand imprisonment plan.

"I'm scared of dying," I answered honestly. "But going out and facing people freaks me out even more." I pointed at the wall of snacks. "Are those all for me?"

Ethan took a deep breath. I had clearly short-circuited his brain. He crouched down and awkwardly pretended to untie the nonexistent restraints around my ankles.

"Sophie, I'm crazy," he said. It sounded half like a self-introduction, half like a warning.

"I know." I nodded. "Crazy people are usually loyal. And they get things done. I'd rather be around you than those fake 'normal' people."

A flush crept up his neck, spreading slowly to his face. With his boyish features, it made him look almost unfairly attractive. He lowered his head, voice barely above a whisper. "I'll treat you well."

"I believe you." I yawned and rolled onto the soft mattress. "Ethan, I'm hungry. I want pot roast."

He stood there for a long moment, glancing down at me. Finally, he clenched his jaw and said, "Okay."

The door shut. I heard the chain lock slide into place.

I closed my eyes, satisfied. At last, I didn't have to answer those damn work emails anymore.