Ashley’s room was a cathedral of solitude, its silence broken only by the rhythmic clatter of her mechanical keyboard and the occasional sigh from her ancient desktop tower. A constellation of sticky notes plastered her wall—algorithms, encryption keys, and a passive-aggressive reminder to “HYDRATE OR DIE.” Her latest project, a facial recognition program that auto-blurred strangers in photos, flickered on one screen while her second monitor played a loop of Doctor Who episodes she’d seen 37 times. Human interaction was a bug, not a feature.

The notification struck at 3:02 a.m., its ping slicing through the hum of her headphones.

New Follower Request: @LucienVoss

This new follower was a paradox. Verified, with a bio that boasted “Founder, Voss Dynamics | Patron of the Arts | Seeker of Curiosities.” His photo was tailored charcoal suits and salt-and-pepper stubble, leaning against a marble balcony overlooking what Google Maps later told her was Lake Ohrid, in Albania. His feed was a scroll of opera openings, vintage book collections, and tastefully staged candids with Nobel laureates. But his eyes—sharp, calculating—made her uneasy.

The message attached was succinct:

“Ashley Carter. Your GitHub on neural network poetry moved me. Let’s discuss beauty in unexpected places. –LV”

Her stomach lurched. She hadn’t touched that repository in two years, a half-mad experiment to teach AI to write sonnets. She’d deleted it after classmates mocked her for “romancing robots.” Worse: her real name was nowhere on that account.

She stalked his follows. No tech gurus, no coders—just artists, pianists, a reclusive novelist. And her.

Decline. Always decline.

But then another notification:

@LucienVoss replied to your tweet:

“Star Trek TNG > people. Fight me.”

His reply: “No fight necessary. But Picard’s V-neck sweaters deserve their own Emmy. Coffee?”

Ashley’s face flushed. It wasn’t the coffee that unnerved her—it was the homework. He’d dredged up a tweet from six years ago, back when she still naively used her real account. Back before she’d learned to vanish.

Outside, dawn tinged the sky. Somewhere in Monaco or Milan or a private jet, a man she’d never met was threading together fragments of her life like code, so she hovered over the button go accept, barely accepting the fact this was really happening.

The cursor blinked, taunting her. She’d typed “This is insane” seven times and deleted it seven times. The search results for Lucien Voss glared back at her: a Forbes thumbnail of a man in a charcoal suit, back turned to the camera, standing on a cliff overlooking the Albanian coast. “Reclusive billionaire bets on blockchain to modernize the Balkans.” A Tirana Times headline accused him of “disrupting tradition,” while a locked LinkedIn page listed ventures in AI, luxury rentals, and something called Project Unseen.

His latest message arrived as she reached for her coffee.

Fly to Dhërmi. Let me replace that bitter instant brew with Turkish coffee poured from a copper cezve. Let me show you the villa you’ve already opened twelve times in your browser.

She nearly dropped the mug. The Host.AL tab was still hidden behind her work spreadsheet.

48 hours, Ashley. Say yes, and I’ll meet you at Tirana Airport with a single red rose and no excuses. Say no, and I vanish. A ghost, as you prefer.

Outside, rain smeared the city into a watercolor of grays. Her apartment smelled of mildew and burnt toast. The villa onscreen glowed—linen curtains billowing over a marble floor, a balcony suspended above waves so blue they hurt.

She sat there for a while, imagining her life in the rolling hills and the kind waves of the Adriatic. She would never get this kind of chance again, she realizes, so she starts typing back. "I would love to, but I don't exactly have the spare cash on hand to just snap my fingers and have that happen."

The reply came before she could breathe.

Lucien Voss: Assuming you can get to the airport, I havr a first-class ticket already secured—check your spam folder. As for proof…
Turn on your camera.

She hesitated, then slid the privacy screen open. Her webcam light blinked green.

The chat window refreshed. A video feed appeared: a man in a tailored navy sweater, backlit by floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Albanian Alps. His face was all sharp angles and shadow, save for a faint scar along his jaw. He held up her LinkedIn page on a tablet, turned around to it, and turned around to it, feigning surprise. "I wonder who that wonderful woman is... I would sure love to meet her one day" he said with a smirk.

*I don’t need aliases. I want the woman who writes haikus in her meeting notes and names her houseplants after dead philosophers. And I can call you a driver if you need a ride over."

The feed cut. An email notification popped up—boarding pass, departure in three hours.

Lucien Voss: P.S. The “hacker” you fear owns 23% of Tirana’s cybersecurity firms. Irony is such a human flaw.

Somewhere over the Adriatic, a billionaire smirked at his screen.

The cab’s upholstery reeked of stale cigarette smoke and lemon disinfectant. Ashley slammed the door, shouting, “International terminal—fast as humanly possible!” before the driver could finish his sluggish “Where to?” He shrugged, merging into traffic with the enthusiasm of a sloth. Rain smeared the windows into a wet blur as she frantically checked her phone: 52 minutes until departure.

“Can’t this thing go faster?” she snapped, knee jiggling against the duffel bag crammed at her feet.

The driver eyed her in the rearview. “You rob a bank?”

“Shut up and drive."

He snorted, swerving around a delivery truck. Her stomach lurched as the cab fishtailed, tires screeching. The radio crackled with pop music- Dua Lipa—How'd the radio manage to play the one Albanian star you know?.

She triple-checked her passport, ticket, and the crumpled list in her notes app:

Clothes (one cocktail dress, three hoodies, questionable sock count)
Toothbrush
Chargers
Xanax

Security flagged her carry-on for “suspicious liquid volume”—a jumbo moisturizer she’d panic-packed. “It’s not anthrax,” she hissed, dumping it into the trash as the line behind her groaned. Sprinting through terminals, she dodged a janitor’s mop and a toddler piloting a suitcase, her sneakers skidding around gate B12 just as the agent shut the desk.

“Wait!” she gasped, slapping her ticket on the counter.

The agent raised an eyebrow. “Cutting it close, Ms. Carter.”

“Story of my life.”

First class was a cocoon of leather and hushed judgment. The flight attendant offered champagne. “Compliments of Mr. Voss.”

Mid-flight, the seatback screen pinged:

LUCIEN VOSS: You forgot socks. Check the compartment.

Tucked beside a sleep mask: a pair of black cashmere socks and a note:

The airport lost your luggage. It’s in Tirana.
—L.V.

“Control freak,” she muttered, slipping the socks on. They were obscenely soft. That was her last thought before she fell deeply asleep on the soft and comfortable pillows, dreaming of a new life with a billionaire, one that she never could have even imagined a few hours ago.

The flight attendant’s voice sliced through her hazy dreams. “Ms. Carter, we’ve arrived.” Ashley jerked upright, the sleep mask sliding to her neck. Outside the window, Tirana sprawled beneath a bruised dawn sky, streetlights still glowing like fallen stars. Her mouth tasted of stale champagne and poor decisions.

Disembarking felt surreal—no jostling for overhead bins, no stampede to exit. A uniformed agent whisked her past baggage claim and through a private corridor lined with propaganda-era Albanian art. Her reflection flickered in the glass: rumpled hoodie, cashmere socks, hair defying gravity. “Visionary consultant,” she muttered. “More like raccoon who won a lottery.”

The arrivals hall buzzed with taxi drivers and bleary families. Then she saw it: a vintage silver limousine parked crookedly at the curb, engine idling. Leaning against it was a wiry driver in a tracksuit and mirrored sunglasses, holding a neon poster board scrawled in Sharpie: “NERVOUS BRIT →”.

The driver waved. “Zoti Voss thotë ‘mirëmëngjes!’” He yanked open the door with a flourish. Inside, the limo’s seats were upholstered in lurid purple velvet. A tablet rested on the center console, screen lit:

LUCIEN VOSS: Forgive Genti’s fashion choices. He’s my cousin. And yes, the limo is hideous. I won it in a poker game.
The villa is 90 minutes away. Sleep. Drink Champagne. Scream. Genti ignores all three.

A gift basket teetered beside her: fresh figs, a bottle of rakia, and a hardcover titled Albanian Phrasebook. She picks it up, trying to learn a few quick things before she gets dropped off. Privately, she thanks God for the fact Voss speaks English so well.

Genti gave Ashley a quick glance in the rearview mirror, his thick Albanian accent evident as he spoke. "You tired, yes? Not easy, long trip. But you here now. Big place, good food. You forget jetlag soon." His words were blunt, but there was no malice in them. He gestured to the dark streets passing by, his eyes still focused on the road. "You meet him soon. He... expect much."

Ashley nodded, trying to push past the fatigue. She had no idea what to expect, but she was here now, a guest of a billionaire. It didn’t feel real. "I just... hope I'm not making a fool of myself," she muttered under her breath.

As the mansion finally appeared on the horizon, its massive gates looming like an obstacle, Genti slowed the car. He didn’t look at her this time, but his voice was softer. "No worry. You be fine. Just... remember, stay calm. He... watch everything." The car rolled through the gates, and Ashley was left to process the overwhelming sight of what was about to become her "temporary" home. She sent out a quick text to the man, saying that "I'm here, but you probanly already no that."

As the car came to a stop, Ashley quickly tucked her phone away, feeling a rush of heat in her cheeks when she thought about the misspellings. She hoped Lucien would find it amusing instead of annoying.

Genti opened the door, and Ashley stepped out, trying to shake off the awkwardness. "Thank you, Genti," she said, offering him a tired but genuine smile. "You're a very nice driver. A welcome change from my last one." She gave a little laugh, but it came out more tired than she’d intended.

Genti simply nodded, his expression as unreadable as ever. "No problem," he muttered, his voice low. "Follow me." He led her through the grand entrance, the heavy doors closing behind them with a soft thud. The air inside felt cool and slightly musty, the scent of polished wood and faint incense filling the space.

They walked down the long hallway, past portraits that seemed to stare down at her from every angle. Finally, Genti stopped in front of a set of large double doors. He glanced at her. "Your room," he said simply, before turning and walking off without waiting for a response.

Ashley hesitated for a moment, before pushing the doors open herself. The room was expansive, far more luxurious than she had expected, with a large bed draped in rich linens, a sitting area by the window, and soft lighting casting a warm glow.

Ashley’s room was a cocoon of impossible indulgence, every surface calibrated to dissolve her defenses. The bed alone felt like a conspiracy against her chronic insomnia—a set of linens so obscenely soft they seemed to pull her into the mattress, the down duvet so light, it might as well be air. She’d never known sheets could have a thread count high enough to mimic liquid, nor that pillows could somehow stay cool all night, their memory foam cores adjusting imperceptibly to the tilt of her skull. When she first slipped between them, she’d actually yelped, then glanced around guiltily, half-expecting to see Lucien’s surveillance cameras to log her enjoyment.

The ensuite bathroom wrecked her even harder. Stepping into the shower was like being forgiven by physics—water fell in a seamless column heated to her body temperature, no knobs required, while the marble tiles beneath her feet radiated a gentle warmth she guessed was geothermal. The toiletries were unlabeled, bottled in smoky glass, their scents tailored to her favorites: bergamot and petrichor. She caught herself hoarding the lotion, rubbing it into her chapped knuckles just to feel the sting of luxury dissolve into silk.

Even the robe defeated her. Hanging innocently by the rainfall shower, it proved to be woven from a fabric that didn’t exist in her old life—cashmere infused with spider silk, weightless but somehow swaddling. She wore it for three straight hours post-shower, pacing past the room’s curated absurdities: the espresso machine that anticipated her caffeine cravings with eerie precision, the sound system piping ambience through hidden speakers in Dolby Atmos, the walk-in closet stocked with clothes that matched her exact measurements. By dawn, she’d curled into the window nook, swathed in decadence, watching the Albanian sunrise gild Lucien’s private helipad. The robe’s collar brushed her cheek like a conspirator’s whisper. You could get used to this. She hated how badly she wanted to.