Claireâs eyes flicked down to the envelope in his hand.
It was thin. Plain. Unremarkable. The kind of generic manila envelope you could buy in a pack of fifty from any campus stationery shop. Whatever was inside clearly wasnât heavy, wasnât bulky, and, based on the packaging, almost certainly wasnât expensive.
âGreat. Another one who canât even spring for decent wrapping.â
"Look," she said, not unkindly, "Sophie gets gifts every single day that are worth more than most peopleâs monthly rent. Designer bags. Imported jewelry. Custom pieces. She turns down all of them. Every last one." She tilted her head slightly. "Whateverâs in that envelope, and Iâm guessing itâs not much, sheâs not going to accept it. Iâm saving you the embarrassment."
"Give it to Sophie," Stan said again, his voice patient but unmovable. "Sheâll accept this one. I guarantee it."
There was something in his tone, not arrogance, exactly, but a quiet, absolute certainty, that made Claire hesitate.
She looked at the envelope again. Then back at his face. He didnât look like the usual lovesick suitors who showed up at this door with trembling hands and rehearsed speeches. He looked like a man dropping off paperwork.
Claire exhaled through her nose.
"Fine." She held out her hand and took the envelope with the resigned air of a woman who already knew sheâd be tossing it in the recycling bin within the hour. "Iâll give it to her. But donât hold your breath."
"Thatâs all I needed. Thank you."
Stan gave her a small nod, turned, and walked back down the hallway without another word.
Claire watched him go for a moment, the unhurried stride, the relaxed shoulders, the complete absence of the desperate backward glance that every other suitor inevitably threw over their shoulder on the way out.
âWeird guy.â
She closed the door, looked down at the envelope, and almost tossed it onto the growing pile of unopened gifts stacked beside the shoe rack.
Almost.
But something, some small, stubborn thread of curiosity she couldnât quite name, made her pause. The envelope wasnât sealed. The flap was simply tucked in. And the guy had been so *certain that it made her curious...
She slid her thumb under the flap and pulled out the first document.
"These are probably more of those tacky love letters," she muttered, turning the envelope over with mild distaste. "Or worse, discount jewelry from the campus gift shop."
She glanced toward the nearest trash can again
"Sophie gets a dozen of these a week. What kind of weirdo thinks this is going to work?"
Her thumb was already on the flap, ready to toss it, but something stopped her. The envelope wasnât sealed. And it was heavier than a letter should be. Heavier than cheap jewelry, too.
Curiosity won out.
She slid the first document out and unfolded it.
It was a property ownership certificate.
Claire blinked. Read it again. Blinked harder.
[Four Seasons Garden.]
The name alone was enough to make her pulse stutter. She pulled out a second document. Then a third. Then a fourth. Each one identical in format, official seals, registration numbers, unit designations, each one representing a different apartment in the same building.
Her hands started to tremble.
She fanned the remaining documents out across her forearm and counted. Fifty-plus certificates. All consecutive unit numbers. All in the same building. All in the most exclusive residential complex on Inksea Island.
With shaking fingers, she pulled up the Four Seasons Garden listing on her phone and cross-referenced the building number.
The blood drained from her face.
These werenât just any units. They were in the crown-jewel building, the restricted tower that wasnât available for public sale. The one you couldnât buy with money alone. The one that required the kind of connections most people in this city would never have in their lifetime.
And she had been three seconds away from dropping the entire stack into a hallway trash can.
Claireâs legs went slightly weak.
"Sophie!"
She burst through the dorm room door with the kind of energy usually reserved for fire alarms.
"Someone sent you a gift, you need to see this right now."
Sophie was on a yoga mat in the center of the room, mid-stretch, wearing a loose white basketball singlet with black trim over dark leggings. Her hair was pulled back, her breathing measured. She didnât open her eyes.
"No. Throw it away."
It was reflex. The same reflex sheâd developed after months of receiving unsolicited gifts from men she hadnât asked to hear from. Flowers, letters, jewelry, stuffed animals, all of it went straight into the bin without a second glance. Sheâd learned the hard way that engaging with any of it, even to decline politely, only encouraged the next delivery.
She had no idea this one was from Stan.
"Sophie." Claireâs voice was different now, higher, faster, with a vibrating edge that cut through the yoga-calm of the room like a siren. "You need to look at this before you tell me to throw it away."
Something in that tone made Sophie open her eyes.
Claire was standing over her, arms full of documents, face flushed, eyes wide. She looked like a woman who had just opened a briefcase and found it full of gold bars.
"These are property certificates," Claire said, laying the first one on the mat in front of Sophieâs knees. "For Four Seasons Garden."
Sophie sat up.
"And not just any units." Claireâs voice dropped into an awed whisper. "The restricted building. The luxury tower. The one that isnât for sale."
Sophie picked up the certificate. Her eyes moved across the official print, the seal, the registration number, the unit designation, the building identifier.
Her expression, which had been serene and distant a moment ago, shifted into something sharper. More alert.
"How is this possible?"
She picked up a second certificate. Then a third. The unit numbers were consecutive. One after another after another, in unbroken sequence, all belonging to the same building.
The implication settled over her slowly, like a cold wave.
âHe didnât buy a unit. He bought the entire building.â