Still, I’m going to humor Sanford. Let him think I’m giving this place a chance. Let him believe I’ll stick around. But he’s the one wasting money—I’m just the guy indulging his crazy ideas. Worst case? I lose some of my following for a bit. Best case? I prove Birchwood Springs isn’t the place for a tattoo shop, and I walk away clean.

After I check the shop, I decide it’s time to head upstairs. The only sound is my own footsteps as I head toward the staircase. Sanford mentioned a studio on the second floor, something I could crash in until I found a real place.

I push open the door, and the first thing I see is the kitchen—sleek black countertops, warm wooden cabinets, brand-new stainless steel appliances. This isn’t some half-assed kitchenette. It’s a real kitchen. The living room is fully furnished—leather couch, coffee table, flat-screen TV mounted on the wall like someone planned for me to stay awhile.

I exhale through my nose, pushing open the first door in the hallway. A big bedroom.

King-sized bed. Dark wood furniture. A dresser. Even a closet.

And inside? My boxes. The ones I had in storage. Fucking Sanford, I swear he’s going to pay for this. Not sure what this is, but he’ll pay. While I plan his demise, I move to check the rest of the apartment.

The second bedroom is slightly smaller. There’s a desk, a bed, and, of course, another walk-in closet. Sanford didn’t just create a workspace—he added a home.

I grip the doorframe, staring at the room like it might disappear if I blink too hard. This wasn’t just an investment. This was a plan. A carefully orchestrated trap to make sure I had no excuse to leave.

Well, good fucking luck keeping me here after the two-year agreement. He’ll have to pay me, and then he can figure out what the hell to do with this place. I don’t even bother with the rest. I head back to the bedroom, drop onto the bed, and let my body sink into the mattress.

I’m too damn tired to think about what I should be doing.

Chapter Five

Henrietta (Blythe)

Things I learned yesterday: there’s a postcard-perfect hotel in Birchwood Springs and a ridiculously charming bed-and-breakfast, both oozing with that curated small-town warmth. These are the sort of places I’d love to visit if I were here on vacation. I’d sip overpriced tea and pretend I was the kind of person who knew what “notes of bergamot” actually meant.

But I’m not on vacation, and this isn’t a social visit.