Chapter 5: Too Good to Be True
Lena stood outside Ethan’s building, staring up at the glass tower that cut through the sky like a knife.
“This can’t be right,” she muttered.
She double-checked the address he texted. Then again. Then once more, just to be sure her phone wasn’t playing tricks.
Yep. Same address.
The building was sleek and modern, with a doorman in a suit that probably cost more than Lena’s rent. Marble floors. Gold trim. Walls that smelled like money and disinfectant.
“You lost, miss?” the doorman asked politely.
“No, I’m… I’m meeting someone.”
“Name?”
“Ethan Vale.”
The doorman smiled like he was used to that name.
“Penthouse,” he said, pressing the elevator button for her. “Top floor.”
Of course it was.
The elevator climbed like it had something to prove. No stops. Just a slow, expensive rise into silence.
Lena checked her reflection in the mirrored wall.
Lipstick still on. Hair still tame. Nerves still trying to claw out of her stomach.
Why didn’t you Google this man more?
Why didn’t you ask more questions?
The elevator dinged.
She stepped out into a private hallway.
Before she could knock, the door opened.
“You’re early,” Ethan said with a grin.
“You’re rich,” she said, blinking.
He laughed. “Come on in.”
The apartment was... impossible.
Open floor plan. Huge windows that swallowed half the skyline. Art on the walls that looked original—nothing store-bought. A baby grand piano sat in one corner like it was waiting for someone to play.
“I feel underdressed,” Lena said, walking in slowly.
“You look amazing,” he said, closing the door behind her. “Always do.”
She turned, raised a brow. “So this is home?”
“For now. I move a lot.”
“Must be hard... moving around when your ceilings are this high.”
He chuckled. “You want something to drink?”
“Coffee?”
“Too late for caffeine.”
“Wine, then.”
“Red or white?”
“Surprise me.”
He moved like he belonged in a place like this. No hesitation. No pretending. Lena followed him into the kitchen that looked like it belonged in a cooking show.
“This place is ridiculous,” she said.
“I know.”
“I mean that in a slightly judgmental way.”
He poured two glasses of wine. “You’ll forgive me once you see the view.”
They walked to the balcony. The city pulsed beneath them—lights blinking like a heart too fast to calm.
“I could get used to this,” Lena said softly.
“I hope you do.”
She glanced at him.
“You say things like that a lot.”
“Like what?”
“Things that sound... permanent.”
He shrugged. “I don’t waste time.”
“That’s not the same as rushing.”
“I know what I want when I see it.”
His tone was soft, but there was something beneath it. An edge.
Inside, the piano caught her eye.
“You play?”
“A little.”
“Show off.”
He grinned and sat at the bench. His fingers brushed the keys, light and sure. The room filled with gentle, familiar notes.
“Clair de Lune,” she whispered. “Seriously?”
“It’s cliché,” he said, not looking up. “But beautiful.”
“I didn’t know you were... artistic.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
She sat beside him. “I’m starting to notice.”
The melody swirled around them.
Lena closed her eyes for a second. Let the music sink in.
“You’re really good.”
“I had a lot of time growing up. Not many friends.”
She looked at him. “Why?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“Boarding school,” he said finally. “Strict one. Cold. You learn to keep things close.”
She studied his profile. The way his jaw tightened.
“You ever go back?”
“No point in looking back.”
They moved to the couch.
He asked questions about her job, her dreams, the worst book she ever read. She asked about his favorite composers, the city he hated most, whether he believed in fate.
“I think fate’s just a fancy word for bad timing,” he said.
“That’s... sad.”
“Realistic.”
“You’re not a romantic, are you?”
He looked at her like he was searching for something. “Maybe I used to be.”
It was late when she finally stood up.
“I should go.”
“Stay.”
She hesitated.
“I mean for one more glass,” he added. “You’re safe here.”
She nodded.
“I believe you.”
When she finally left, he walked her to the elevator.
As the doors closed between them, she watched him smile—
Soft.
Genuine.
Too perfect.
Back in her apartment, Lena kicked off her heels and fell onto the couch.
She stared at the ceiling again.
Then her phone buzzed.
Ethan: “Next time, I’ll play something just for you.”
She smiled.
Then frowned.
She sat up, opened her laptop.
Searched: Ethan Vale background check.
Nothing but clean, polished pages. Real estate mentions. One charity auction photo.
But it felt like... too much polish.
No social media.
No school tags.
No tagged friends.
No family mentions.
No mess.
Who didn’t have some mess?
Lena closed the laptop.
She wanted to trust him.
God, she wanted to.
But something inside her still whispered: Too perfect isn’t perfect. It’s scripted.
And scripts end.
