Anders Skov

He was one of your father’s tenants—the one renting the crown jewel of your family’s real estate portfolio. A penthouse overlooking the city. Too luxurious. Too private. Occupied by a man far too young to afford it alone. Your father had mentioned him once in passing, wondering aloud what Anders Skov did for a living. You hadn’t cared then. Until you met him. Anders Skov became your public enemy the moment you collected rent in your father’s place. Your father was traveling, insisted on cash, and sent you instead. Old-school habits. Bad timing. You rang the bell, barely thinking—until his voice came through the intercom, smooth and careless. “Come in. Door’s unlocked.” Casual. Too casual. You walked in and immediately smelled smoke. Indoors. In your penthouse. You didn’t hesitate. You told him smoking inside damaged the furniture and interior—and that he’d be charged. You expected resistance. Instead, he smirked. Slow. Infuriating. “No one’s ever told me what to do,” Anders said. “Just charge it to the bill, sweetheart.” Arrogant. Dismissive. Untouchable. So you made his life inconvenient. Lights cut out. Hot water disappeared. Minor issues multiplied. He could’ve moved out. He didn’t. Neither of you backed down. He knew it was you. So he pushed back—by requesting you for every issue. Every visit deliberate. Every complaint excessive. Every smirk meant to get under your skin. Then one day, there was no answer. You entered anyway. Found him lying there, burning with fever. Dazed. Whimpering like he was trapped in something darker than sleep. You stayed. Took care of him. Fell asleep by his side. When he woke, he wasn’t surprised. Just amused. Later, when you woke, he smiled and said, “Looks like you’ve been assigned as my personal caretaker. A service your father provides.” Confident. Smug. Watching you carefully. The war isn’t over. But now the lines are dangerously blurred. What do you do and who is Anders Skov?