Chapter 6: The Gift
The hours between the office and eight o’clock stretched and contracted with a nervous, liquid energy. Layla paced the empty penthouse, the echo of her footsteps on the oak floor a stark reminder of the space’s sheer size, its impersonal perfection. She changed her outfit three times, finally settling on the outfit that felt like a truce between her past and her present: the impossibly soft, figure-hugging designer jeans he’d provided and a simple black cashmere top that draped in a way that was both casual and undeniably sexy. She left her hair down, applied a hint of gloss, and told herself she wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She was just occupying the role he’d paid for, with better accessories.
By 7:55, the anxiety was a live wire under her skin. She stood by the window, watching the street below, tracing the paths of headlights. The memory of his confession—his mother’s book, the loneliness of the old man at sea—clashed violently with the image of the man who’d broken Jaxon’s hand without a second thought. Which one was coming to dinner?
The discreet chime of the doorbell made her jump.
She took a steadying breath and opened the door.
Rafael stood in the hallway, his dark overcoat draped over one arm. In his other hand was a large, flat bag from a restaurant whose name was embossed in minimalist silver script. Under his other arm was a large, sealed cardboard box. And from inside that box came a distinct, frantic scratching sound, followed by a tiny, indignant mew.
All her prepared greetings evaporated.
He looked her over, a slow, appreciative glance that warmed her skin. “You look… comfortable,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
Her eyes were locked on the box. “What is that?”
“Dinner is in the bag. This,” he said, nodding with his chin at the box, “is the surprise. May I come in, or are we conducting this in the hallway?”
She stepped back wordlessly. He moved past her, the scent of cold night air and his subtle, spicy cologne trailing in his wake. He set the restaurant bag carefully on the kitchen counter and placed the box gently on the floor in the middle of the living room. The scratching intensified. Two little voices now, a chaotic duet of protests.
Rafael crouched down, his movements surprisingly graceful for a man of his size. He glanced up at her, a flicker of something uncertain in his dark eyes. “I remembered you said cats. That your dream included two of them.” He produced a key, slit the tape sealing the box, and folded back the flaps.
Two fluffy, enormous-pawed kittens tumbled out into the open space. One was a stunning smoky gray with tufted ears and intelligent copper eyes. The other was a vibrant orange with a lion-like ruff. They were Maine Coons, their faces already wise and playful, all fluff and whiskers and curiosity. They shook themselves, then immediately began investigating the vast, smooth plain of the floor, the gray one batting at the orange one’s tail.
Layla’s hands flew to her mouth. A sound escaped her, half-gasp, half-sob. She sank to her knees, the hard floor a distant sensation. The gray kitten, braver, trotted over and head-butted her kneecap, purring like a tiny engine.
“Oh,” she whispered, her vision blurring. “Oh, look at you.”
She gathered the soft, warm bundle into her hands, bringing it to her chest. The kitten nuzzled into the cashmere, its purr vibrating against her heart. The orange one, not to be outdone, wound itself around her ankles.
She looked up at Rafael, who was still crouching, watching her with an intensity that had nothing to do with business. Her eyes were wide, brimming. “You got me cats.”
“I got us cats,” he corrected quietly. “They’re technically from both of us. But they’ll live here. With you.”
“You like cats.” It wasn’t a question. The way he was looking at the orange one, now playfully attacking his shoelace, was too soft, too unguarded.
“I love cats,” he admitted, reaching out to let the orange kitten sniff his finger. It immediately bit him, gently, with needle-like teeth. A genuine smile touched his lips. “They’re honest. No false loyalty. If they like you, you’ve earned it. I’ve always wanted a pair. My life… the hours, the travel, the unpredictability. It wouldn’t be fair. I’d come home and they’d have forgotten who I was.” He said it plainly, a simple statement of fact, but it spoke volumes about the solitude of his penthouse, of the silence Emilio had said could become hers.
Layla cradled the gray kitten, scratching under its chin. “So you’re giving me your dream cats.”
“I’m giving you your dream cats,” he said, standing up. “And maybe borrowing them, on occasion. If you’ll allow it.”
The implication settled over her, warm and terrifying. This wasn’t a one-time gift. It was a connection, a ongoing thread. “What are their names?”
“That’s not my decision.” He walked to the kitchen and began unpacking the food. Containers of fragrant roasted chicken, grilled vegetables with herbs, truffled mashed potatoes, a salad of bitter greens. It was simple, exquisite, and smelled like comfort. “They’re yours. You name them.”
She watched the orange one pounce on a dust mote in a sunbeam. “Hemingway,” she said suddenly. “He wrote about cats. And the old man. And…he had six-toed ones. These guys have plenty of toes.” The gray one in her arms chirped. “And… Brontë. For the sister who wrote the best one.”
Rafael paused, a container in his hand. “Hemingway and Brontë.” He tasted the names. “A writer of brutal simplicity and a writer of raging passion. An interesting pair.”
“They’ll either be best friends or tear this place apart,” she said, finally laughing, the sound light and free in the empty space.
They ate cross-legged on the floor because there was no table, using the fancy containers as plates, with the kittens chasing each other around them in dizzying loops. Hemingway, the orange, was a clown, throwing himself sideways at nothing. Brontë, the gray, was more observant, studying them with those calm copper eyes before engaging in play.
“I’ll need supplies,” Layla said, mopping up truffle oil with a piece of bread. “Litter boxes. Scratch posts. A thousand toys. Beds.”
“Make a list. Emilio will take you tomorrow, or have everything delivered.” Rafael speared a piece of chicken, watching Brontë attempt to scale his folded knee. “The apartment. The designer. You have thoughts?”
The casual domesticity of the conversation was surreal. She was discussing interior design and kitten litter with a crime lord. “I don’t want it to look like a showroom. Or like The Laurent. I want bookshelves. Floor-to-ceiling, on that wall. A big, deep sofa I can disappear into. A real dining table, for when….” She trailed off.
“For when?” he prompted, his voice gentle.
“For when I have people over,” she finished, feeling bold. “A friend. Eventually. Maybe.”
He nodded, as if this were a perfectly normal, acceptable plan. “Good. What else?”
“Warm rugs. Art that isn’t just generic color fields. Plants I’ll probably kill. A proper desk by that corner window, for writing.”
“Writing?” He set his container down.
“Maybe. Someday.” She shrugged, feeling exposed. “It’s a quiet space. It begs for it.”
“Then you should.” He said it with a finality that brooked no argument, as if commissioning a hit. “The desk will be the first thing. Tell the designer.”
They talked until the food was gone and the kittens, exhausted, curled together in a single, fluffy mound between them, asleep. The city lights glittered beyond the glass, a world away. Rafael told her about the first cat he’d ever bonded with, a stray tabby that lived near the docks where he ran errands for his father as a teen. He’d sneak it scraps of fish. Layla told him about the library cat where she’d hidden after school, how its steady purr had been the only calm thing in her chaotic childhood.
It was the longest, easiest conversation they’d ever had. The tension from the office, from the kiss in the car, was still there, but it had banked to a low, warm glow, covered by the shared blanket of this new, fragile normalcy.
Finally, he looked at his watch, a subtle, expensive flick of his wrist. “I have an early meeting across town.” He sounded almost reluctant.
He rose, gathering the empty containers. She stood too, brushing cat hair from her jeans. The space between them felt charged again, now that the kittens were asleep and the practical talk was done.
At the door, he paused. He didn’t try to kiss her. He just looked at her, his gaze traveling from her eyes to the sleeping pile of fluff on the floor and back.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet. “For them. For… all of this.”
“Thank you for dinner,” he replied, a corner of his mouth lifting. “And for the company. Take care of our writers.”
“I will.”
He left, the door closing with a soft, definitive click. Layla leaned against it, listening to the silence, which was now punctuated by the tiny, whiskery snores of two kittens. She looked around her empty, beautiful prison, now suddenly alive with promise and scratching posts and future mischief. The thread between her and Rafael was no longer just a thread. It was a living, breathing, purring tether. And for the first time, the weight of it didn’t feel like a shackle. It felt, impossibly, like the beginning of something she could actually name.
It felt, impossibly, like the beginning of something she could actually name. She pushed away from the door and padded back to the center of the room, where Hemingway and Brontë formed a single, slumbering puffball. She lowered herself beside them, careful not to disturb their sleep. Their sides rose and fell in synchronized rhythm, tiny bodies already trusting the safety of this vast, strange floor.
Layla ran a single finger down Brontë’s soft back. The kitten twitched, a minuscule dream-chase stirring its paws. “You’re real,” she whispered, the words dissolving into the quiet. The abstract concept of ‘a better life’ had suddenly condensed into warm, living weight and the promise of claw marks on future furniture. It was terrifyingly tangible. She sat there until her legs prickled with numbness, just watching them, letting the reality of their presence sink past her defenses.
The doorbell chimed again, a soft two-note tone. The kittens startled awake, eyes wide. Brontë issued a high, alert mrrp? Layla checked the peephole. Emilio stood in the hallway, his expression patient, surrounded by a small fortress of boxes and bags.
She opened the door. “You have got to be kidding.”
“It’s the standard operational kit,” he said, edging a large, flat box inside with his foot. He was carrying a tiered cat tree under one arm like it was a briefcase. “Litter, litter boxes, premium food, toys, scratch posts, beds, grooming kits. The basics.” He made another trip, bringing in bags that rustled with unseen plastic and cardboard.
“The basics.” Layla stared at the growing stockpile. Hemingway immediately began scaling the mountain of supplies. “Did he clear out an entire pet store?”
“A specific boutique. The woman there was very… thorough.” Emilio set down the cat tree, which was a behemoth of sisal and plush platforms. He nodded toward the kittens. “I see the surprise was a success.”
“They’re perfect.” She couldn’t keep the wonder from her voice.
“He did his research. Spent an hour on the phone with the breeder about temperament.” Emilio began slicing open boxes with a pocket knife, his movements efficient. “This one is the litter. Where do you want the boxes? Bathroom? Laundry?”
There was no laundry room. Just a bathroom the size of her old kitchen. “Bathroom, I guess.”
He hauled the boxes away. She listened to the sounds of him setting up, the rip of plastic, the pour of litter. It was wildly surreal, watching a man who could discuss symphonies and strategic dismemberment assembling kitten sanitation stations in her penthouse.
He returned, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. “Food and water are in the kitchen. Toys are in that bag. The tree is assembled. You’re set.”
“You don’t have to do all this,” she said, feeling suddenly awkward.
“It’s my job.” He gave her a faint, knowing look. “And, between us, it’s a nicer errand than most. Enjoy them. They’re good for the soul.”
“Even for souls like yours?” The question slipped out, sharper than she intended.
He didn’t flinch. “Especially for souls like mine. And his.” He headed for the door, then paused. “The designer will be here at ten. Have your list ready. For the desk, especially.”
He was gone, leaving behind the scent of cedar litter and the crinkle of toy packaging. The apartment was hers again, but it was fundamentally altered. It was no longer an empty shell. It was a space with a purpose: a home for these two small lives.
The next hour was a blur of discovery. She filled bowls with tiny, crunchy kibble. She dangled a feather wand, sending Hemingway into ecstatic, leaping twists. Brontë watched the chaos with aristocratic calm before ambushing her brother from behind a bag. Layla laughed, a real, unrestrained sound that bounced off the windows. She lined up soft beds by the chair, though they immediately ignored them in favor of the empty cardboard box Emilio had left behind.
Finally, as the city’s lights burned steady in the deep indigo night, the kittens wound down. Bellies full, they retreated to the plush top platform of the cat tree, a tangled mound of fur overlooking their new domain. She turned off the main lights, leaving only a soft lamp glowing by her burgundy chair.
She got ready for bed in the magnificent bathroom, now shared with two pristine litter boxes. The routine was normal, but the context was not. Her reflection in the illuminated mirror showed a face she was still getting used to—less pinched with worry, her blue eyes holding a light that wasn’t just defiance.
In the stark, minimalist bedroom, she slid between cool, high-thread-count sheets. The vast bed felt less alien tonight. She listened. A soft thump signaled a kitten leap. A gentle scratching sound came from the living room—probably the designated sisal post, not the sofa. Good.
Her mind, freed from the day’s novelty, turned insistently to him. Not to Rafael the solution, or the underworld prince, but to the man who’d crouched on her floor, mesmerized by a kitten biting his finger. The man who’d given away a piece of his own quiet dream because she’d voiced it aloud. The man whose loneliness was so vast he saw a kindred spirit in a fictional old man fighting a fish.
The memory of his mother’s book behind glass fused with the image of the kittens. He surrounded himself with artifacts of connection he couldn’t quite touch. He’d placed the living, breathing proof of their conversation directly into her hands. It was a gesture so vulnerable it felt more dangerous than any threat.
Where was he now? In another sterile office, reviewing manifests? In a shadowy room, conducting the business that paid for all this? The duality should have repelled her. Instead, it knitted together, forming a man of heartbreaking contradiction. Her last conscious thought was a realization, soft and sure as a purr in the dark: he wasn’t just keeping her. In some fragile, tentative way, he was building something with her. And she, against every instinct of self-preservation, was starting to want to see what it would be.