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I watch as he silently disappears down a darkened hallway to my left, before turning around to see the rest of the house.
I expected it to be untidy or messy, but it’s pristine. The white marble floors are clean. It’s an open plan arrangement, so there are no walls in the living room.
Glancing around, I quickly realise that there’s barely any furniture as I wander further into the living room. Just a single white couch, a small coffee table with nothing on it and a few grey lamps.
There’s not a frame or magazine insight. No one splash of colour. It’s completely bare, which sends shivers down my spine. It’s not like a home at all.
In comparison to mine and Lex’s apartment, this place is like a museum or better yet, a hospital room. There’s no warmth in it.
When Lex and I first became friends a year ago and moved in, there was hardly any space for one person in our apartment studio. We had to make some tough choices and condense our precious junk to accommodate our apartment size.
Hudson has nothing here. There’s nothing that symbolizes his existence in the penthouse except for his physical being.
The only outstanding thing about the penthouse right now is a large glass wall that surrounds the living room. It overlooks the bright Manhattan skyline and only then do I realise how high up we are. I can barely see the streets below from where I stand.
The sight of all those millions of twinkling lights takes my breath away for a few seconds. It’s beyond beautiful.
I can hear murmuring in another room and guess that Hudson is on a call. But then his voice starts to get louder and from the sounds of it, he’s agitated. I continue to stare out at the skyline until the ear-splitting sound of glass shattering breaks the peace.
“Hudson!” There’s panic in my voice as I swivel around and rush towards the hallway.
“Fuck!” he curses loudly when I enter the room he’s in.
It’s slightly dark, but I immediately notice the dark, spilt blood and glass on the floor. There’s a mirror on the wall that’s completely smashed in.
“Oh my God!” I shriek. “What happened to your hand?”
His right hand is covered in blood, but he just stands there, seemingly unbothered.
“It’s nothing. I guess I slammed my fist against the mirror too hard,” he says, shuffling past me.
What?Why would he do that?My brain is racing with questions, but I ignore them and focus on the situation at hand.
“Do you need stitches?” I ask following him into a bathroom across the hall.
The bright fluorescent light hurts my eyes, but I watch as he opens the faucet and runs his hand under the steady stream of water. Dark rivulets of blood travel down his fingers and into the marble sink.
“I’m fine,” he mutters.
I frown at his sudden mood change and stand back to watch as he grabs a white hand towel to wipe of any excess blood and water.
Is it just me or is he suddenly upset?
I’m afraid to ask, but my voice is small when I reach out to touch his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
He looks up at me in the mirror for a moment, unblinking, and then a small smile forms across his lips. “Of course. It was an accident. It was something my father suggested on the phone and it just annoyed me.”
He turns around to face me and slips his hands around my waist. “I’m sorry about that. The mirror was probably too fragile.”
“It’s okay.”
He leans in and I anticipate another delicious kiss, but the sound of the buzzer pushes us apart.
“That must be the food,” Hudson says going out of the bathroom.
I trail behind him and then take a seat on the couch in the living room as he goes to open the door.
I watch as he takes the tray of food, shuts the door and walks over to where I’m sitting.
