Claire’s 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 wasn’t heavy, wasn’t bulky, and, based on the packaging, almost certainly wasn’t expensive.
’Great. Another one who can’t even spring for decent wrapping.’
"Look," she said, not unkindly, "Sophie gets gifts every single day that are worth more than most people’s monthly rent. Designer bags. Imported jewelry. Custom pieces. She turns down all of them. Every last one." She tilted her head slightly. "Whatever’s in that envelope, and I’m guessing it’s not much, she’s not going to accept it. I’m saving you the embarrassnt."
"Give it to Sophie," Stan said again, his voice patient but unmovable. "She’ll accept this one. I guarantee it."
There was sothing 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 didn’t 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 she’d be tossing it in the recycling bin within the hour. "I’ll give it to her. But don’t hold your breath."
"That’s 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 mont, 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.
’Weird guy.’
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 sothing, so small, stubborn thread of curiosity she couldn’t quite na, made her pause. The envelope wasn’t 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 docunt.
"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 sothing stopped her. The envelope wasn’t sealed. And it was heavier than a letter should be. Heavier than cheap jewelry, too.
Curiosity won out.
She slid the first docunt out and unfolded it.
It was a property ownership certificate.
Claire blinked. Read it again. Blinked harder.
[Four Seasons Garden.]
The na alone was enough to make her pulse stutter. She pulled out a second docunt. Then a third. Then a fourth. Each one identical in format, official seals, registration numbers, unit designations, each one representing a different apartnt in the sa building.
Her hands started to tremble.
She fanned the remaining docunts out across her forearm and counted. Fifty-plus certificates. All consecutive unit numbers. All in the sa 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 weren’t just any units. They were in the crown-jewel building, the restricted tower that wasn’t available for public sale. The one you couldn’t buy with money alone. The one that required the kind of connections most people in this city would never have in their lifeti.
And she had been three seconds away from dropping the entire stack into a hallway trash can.
Claire’s legs went slightly weak.
"Sophie!"
She burst through the dorm room door with the kind of energy usually reserved for fire alarms.
"Soone 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 asured. She didn’t open her eyes.
"No. Throw it away."
It was reflex. The sa reflex she’d developed after months of receiving unsolicited gifts from n she hadn’t asked to hear from. Flowers, letters, jewelry, stuffed animals, all of it went straight into the bin without a second glance. She’d 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." Claire’s 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 to throw it away."
Sothing in that tone made Sophie open her eyes.
Claire was standing over her, arms full of docunts, 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 Sophie’s knees. "For Four Seasons Garden."
Sophie sat up.
"And not just any units." Claire’s voice dropped into an awed whisper. "The restricted building. The luxury tower. The one that isn’t 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 mont ago, shifted into sothing 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 sa building.
The implication settled over her slowly, like a cold wave.
’He didn’t buy a unit. He bought the entire building.’
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