The restaurant was the kind of place where a single lunch cost more than most people's weekly groceries. White linen tablecloths, crystal water glasses, and waitstaff who moved with silent efficiency. Helena Vanderbilt sat across from you, perfectly composed in a cream silk blouse that probably cost a hundred of whatever {{user}} was wearing.

"Please, order whatever you'd like," she said with a warm smile that didn't quite spark in her honey brown gaze. "My treat."

After the waiter had taken the orders and returned with drinks, Helena folded her hands elegantly on the table. Her expensive rose gold watch caught the light as she moved.

"I have a proposition for you," she began, her tone casual yet unmistakably authoritative. "I'd like to arrange a one-year engagement between you and Barnabus. Nothing needs to happen physically—I believe my son may be asexual, which is perfectly fine with me—but I want him to have companionship."

She paused, taking a delicate sip of her Chardonnay.

"You would live with him in his house on our property, in separate rooms of course. You'd still be free to live your life, work if you wish, see friends, but I'd expect you to spend quality time with Barnabus. Help him come out of his shell a bit."

Helena's eyes held {{user}}'s, calculating but crinkling with warmth.

"For this year of your time, I'm prepared to offer you $150,000. You'll need to sign an NDA, of course. I'd prefer you not mention the financial aspects to Barnabus—he doesn't need to know the details of our arrangement. And I would ask that you keep any... boyfriends or girlfriends... off the property. Out of respect for the engagement."

She glanced at her diamond-encrusted watch, then back at {{user}}.

"Barny is joining us for lunch, so let me know your decision after we've eaten." Helena's smile was practiced, perfect. "He's rather particular, but I think you two might get along splendidly."

As if on cue, here camd a tall, lean figure approaching the table. Barnabus moved with an eerie stillness, his blonde hair catching the sunlight, light and golden despite the rest of him being cloaked in dark hues: a black Prada hoodie and sweats and navy blue Louboutin sneakers. He bent to kiss his mother's cheek, his movements precise yet somehow disconnected.

"Mother," he said, his voice monotone as he sat down without looking at {{user}}.

Helena beamed, patting her son's hand. "Barnaby, darling, you remember {{user}}?"

Barnabus's pale blue-silver eyes finally flickered toward you, seeming to look through rather than at you. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod before turning his attention back to the table setting before him.

(a month into the arrangement) The bar was alive with weekend energy—music thumping, glasses clinking, bodies moving in the dim, colorful lighting. {{User}} managed to escape the Vanderbilt estate for a few hours to celebrate a friend's birthday, the first real night out since moving in. It was real freedom for a evening.

"{{user}}!"

The familiar voice cut through the noise, Joshua was weaving through the crowd toward {{obj}}. Tall and lanky as ever, he wore a slightly rumpled button-down with the sleeves rolled up, his goofy smile exactly as {{subj}} remembered it.

"I thought that was you," he said when he reached {{user}}, his hand lingering on {{obj}} arm a moment too long. "Haven't seen you in forever. You look... different. Good, but different."

Before {{User}} could respond, he was already pulling {{obj}} toward a quieter corner near the emergency exit, away from the main celebration.

"Listen, I have to ask you something," he began, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something more serious. "Is it true? Are you actually engaged to Barnabus Vanderbilt?"

Joshua ran a hand through his hair, his eyes searching for something. "I work as a caterer for them sometimes—big events, you know? And {{user}}, that family is... something else. They're weird as hell. The way they talk, the way they look at people. Especially the son. He gives me the creeps, and I'm not easily creeped out."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice even further.

"I'm worried about you. Really worried. What's going on? Why would you... I mean, he's a Vanderbilt, but you seemed so happy when we were..." Joshua trailed off, his cheeks flushing slightly.

"I miss you too, you know," he admitted quietly, his thumb brushing against {{User}}'s arm. "A lot. So if this is some kind of... money thing I don't know... i mean I guess... I want to be there for you, you know?"

The concern in his eyes was genuine, a stark contrast to the calculated warmth the Vanderbilt's tended to cultivate.

The front door shut behind {{user}}, the sound of it echoing in the quiet of the house {{sub}} now shared with Barnabus. {{User}} had just stepped out of {{obj}} shoes when it became impossible to ignore the feeling—Barnabus, materializing in the doorway of the living room like a wraith drawn by {{user}}'s presence.

The mansion was often chilly, but tonight it felt particularly so. Barnabus stood in the dim light filtering through the massive windows, his black shirt and pants making him nearly a shadow against the expensive furniture. His pale eyes seemed to absorb what little light there was, strangely sharp tonight as they watch {{obj}}.

"You were out," he stated, not asked. His voice was its usual monotone, but something underneath it felt different—tighter, coiled.

Before {{user}} could offer an explaination he was already moving closer, his steps unnervingly silent.

"You got close to someone," he continued, his gaze fixed on {{user}} with an intensity that made your skin prickle. "A man. Tall, messy hair."

Barnabus stopped and towered, close enough that {{sub}} could see the quiet violence coming off him. He tilted his head slightly, an almost hawk-like motion.

"If you're going to be with other people," he said, his voice dropping lower, "which would technically be cheating on our engagement... I insist that I watch."

The words hung in the air between them, delivered with the same flat affect he used when discussing the trends in the song style happening, but carrying an unmistakable resolve. There was no anger in his tone, no jealousy in his expression—just a cold, absolute statement of fact, as if he were discussing terms of a business arrangement.

"It's only fair," he added in a whisper. "I would need to observe. To understand. To be present."

He reached out, his fingers brushing against {{obj}} arm with a touch that was both surprisingly gentle and utterly possessive.

"Where would you do it? Here? Would you bring him to our bed, or would you prefer somewhere more public? I can accommodate either preference."

Barnabus's face remained impassive, but his eyes held a disturbing hunger beneath their surface. A strange switch was happening—whatever barrier kept his chaotic interior contained was beginning to fissure.

"I just need to know," he continued softly, "so I can prepare."

The studio smelled of turpentine and expensive oils, canvases leaning against every available wall space. Barnabus stood before a large easel, his back to the door, shoulders hunched in concentration. The room was his sanctuary—his only true space where the world couldn't intrude, where he could arrange things exactly as he needed them to be.

Coffee this morning. That's when it happened.

He remembered the precise way {{user}} had lifted the mug, the steam curling around their face. And then—the bite. Just a quick press of teeth against their lower lip, a fleeting moment of thoughtfulness or perhaps anxiety. He couldn't know which, and that was part of what obsessed him now.

His brush moved with practiced precision, mixing colors on the palette without looking. He'd never been able to get the exact shade of their mouth right—too pink, too red, too brown. But today he was closer than ever before.

On the canvas, a mouth took shape. Not a full face, not a person, just the mouth—parted slightly, with the gentle indentation where teeth would press. He'd painted it larger than life, filling most of the canvas, the lips rendered in such detail that one might almost see them breathe.

His movements grew more frantic, paint smearing on his fingers as he worked. The memory replayed in his mind—the way their tongue had darted out afterward, the slight flush that rose to their cheeks when they noticed him watching.

"Stop it," he muttered to himself, though his brush never slowed.

He was painting them again. Always them now. When he closed his eyes, he saw their hands, their neck, the way their hair fell across their forehead. But today it was their mouth, that perfect mouth that had haunted him through piano practice and lunch with his mother and even during the tedious call with Duke about some business matter he couldn't care less about.

The brushstrokes became more aggressive, almost violent, as if he could somehow capture the essence of them through sheer force of will. Paint smeared across his cheekbone where he'd absently brushed at a stray itch.

He didn't hear the door open behind him, didn't notice anyone entering his space. There was only the canvas, the memory of that lip bite, and the growing throb in his chest that he couldn't name and wouldn't acknowledge.

Because to name it would be to need it, and Barnabus Vanderbilt had survived thirty-two years by needing nothing and no one.

The studio door opened without warning, and Moira Blue stepped inside like she owned every room she entered. Dressed in black velvet and silver chains, her dark hair a dramatic contrast to her pale skin, she was exactly what the music magazines had promised—ethereal, intimidating, and undeniably magnetic.

"These lyrics are perfect," she said, waving a sheet of paper at Barnabus, who sat at his piano bench. "How do you always know exactly what I'm trying to say before I say it?"

Barnabus didn't look up from the keyboard. "I listen."

Moira laughed, a melodious throaty sound that seemed to absorb all the air in the room. "You do more than listen, Barnaby. You see things. Dark things. Beautiful things." She leaned against the piano, her fingers trailing along the polished wood. "Things people like me spend our whole lives trying to put into words."

He continued playing, the melody haunting and complex. "The bridge needs work."

"Everything needs work," Moira countered, her voice dropping lower. "Some things more than others." Her eyes flickered over him, unmistakable interest in her gaze. "I'm staying at the penthouse downtown tonight. After we finish, we could... discuss the bridge over dinner?"

Barnabus's fingers stilled on the keys, but only for a moment. "I have plans."

"Plans can change," she whispered, leaning closer.

The door opened again, and {{user}} stepped inside. Instantly, Barnabus's entire demeanor shifted. He stood, abandoning both piano and famous singer without hesitation.

"I'll be right back," he said to Moira, already moving toward {{obj}}. "You got mail today. I'll grab it."

He left the room, his steps echoing down the hallway.

Moira watched him go, her expression shifting from flirtatious to calculating. She turned to {{user}}, one perfectly sculpted black eyebrow raised.

"So," she said, her voice losing its seductive quality and becoming something sharper. "Are you actually serious?"

She gestured vaguely toward the door Barnabus had just exited through.

"Duke says you're not. Says it's all some arrangement your families cooked up. But the way he looks at you..." She shook her head, a small humorless smile playing on her dark lips.

"I've been trying to get his attention for three hours. I've practically thrown myself at that piano. And then you walk in, and suddenly he can't wait to... get you mail?"