The Glass Box

The rain in the city didn’t wash things clean; it just made the lights bleed.

From the forty-fifth floor of the Spire, the streets below were nothing but arteries of red and white light, pulsing through the gray flesh of the metropolis. Luca stood in the foyer, his knuckles white as he gripped the handle of his vintage leather suitcase. It was a beautiful bag—Sebastian had bought it for him in Milan.

Everything in the penthouse was beautiful. The floor was a slab of uninterrupted Carrara marble that cooled the air to a perpetual chill. The walls were glass, floor-to-ceiling, exposing them to the sky while sealing them in a pressurized, climate-controlled vacuum. It was silent. It was always silent.

Luca checked his watch. 8:02 PM.

The private elevator should have arrived two minutes ago.

He shifted his weight, the leather of his boots creaking. He was wearing the coat he’d bought with his own money—the first sale from his graduate showcase. It was a little threadbare compared to the cashmere trench coats hanging in the closet, but it felt like armor.

* Just get in the car,* he told himself. *Just get to the airport.*

The elevator chime didn't ping. It hummed, a low, subsonic vibration that Luca felt in his teeth before the doors slid open.

He exhaled, stepping forward, ready to bolt.

But the elevator wasn't empty.

Sebastian stood in the center of the car. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a crisp white shirt. In his hand, resting casually against his thigh, was a glass of dark red wine. He didn't look like a man coming home from work; he looked like a king returning to his throne room.

Luca froze. His momentum died, strangled by the sheer gravity Sebastian exuded.

Sebastian stepped out. He didn't block the door. He didn't look at the suitcase. He looked at Luca, his eyes dark and unreadable, rimmed with the fatigue of a man who spent his days moving millions of dollars across borders.

"Going somewhere?" Sebastian asked. His voice was soft, barely louder than the hum of the ventilation.

"I’m leaving," Luca said. He hated how high his voice sounded. He sounded like a child caught stealing candy. "I’m done, Sebastian."

Sebastian took a sip of his wine. He walked past Luca, the scent of sandalwood and expensive tobacco trailing in his wake. He placed the glass on the console table next to a vase of white lilies that were changed fresh every morning.

"Done?" Sebastian repeated, testing the word as if it were a foreign coin. "Sit down, *oro*. You’re shaking."

"I am not sitting down," Luca snapped, tightening his grip on the suitcase. "And don't call me that. I’m not your gold. I’m not your investment."

Sebastian turned. A faint, indulgent smile played on his lips. "You are trembling, Luca. You’re making a mess of my floor with your anxiety."

"I booked a flight," Luca rushed out, the words tumbling over each other. "To London. The gallery show starts next week. I’m going early. I’m getting my own apartment. I’m going to live on my own money."

He waited for the explosion. He waited for Sebastian to throw the wine glass, to shout, to lock the door.

Sebastian just sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

"London," Sebastian mused. "The Solstice Gallery. Kensington High Street, yes?"

"Yes," Luca said, his chin lifting. "They contacted *me*. They saw my portfolio online. You had nothing to do with it."

Sebastian swiped a thumb across his screen. "Come here, Luca."

"No."

"Come here," Sebastian said again. The tone didn't change, but the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. It wasn't a request.

Luca’s feet moved before his brain could stop them. He hated himself for it. He hated the way his body responded to Sebastian’s commands like a well-trained dog. He dragged the suitcase with him, leaving a faint scuff mark on the marble.