The suite bathroom is gleaming, all marble and gold fixtures, the kind of space you don’t walk into without hearing an internal tax calculator scream. I peel off the robe and step into the steam-heavy air, only to pause—briefly—because the scent hits me first.
Him. He’s still here. Not physically but in the way his cologne clings to the air and to me. It’s buried in the sheets, in the towel I used, in the skin I’m now trying to scrub clean.
And still, I don’t reach for my own body wash. I use what’s there.
Not bad—just… wrong. Not me. The scent is expensive, citrusy and cold, like Amalfi Coast money and zero emotional availability. Probably Le Labo or something equally pretentious that comes in a frosted glass bottle with a minimalist label and a $300 price tag. I lather it on anyway. Because it’s already here. Because it’s easier than unpacking my own stuff. Because apparently, I wake up in penthouses now and shower in someone else’s life.
By the time I step into Elite Properties, I’ve already broken three personal records:
1. Waking upwithoutanxiety-induced stomach knots.
2. Getting dressed without touching a single hanger.
3. Wearing actual designer heels without wanting to cry.
By the time I step into the new version of Elite Properties—Belov-ified, de-Sandra’d, and currently held together by coffee, trauma, and sheer denial—I’ve already been given three compliments, two curious stares, and one terrified whisper of “Is she the one he… you know… married?”
Yes. I amthe one. The one who apparently went from foreclosure threats to couture office wear overnight. The onewhose job promotion came sandwiched between legal doom and marital sex dreams. Living the American nightmare.
The office looks the same, technically, but itfeelsdifferent—like it was quietly exorcised overnight. Sandra’s infamous desk chair is gone. Just…gone. Not moved. Not reassigned.Erased.
Replaced with an aggressively tasteful orchid.
And a very shiny, very smug MacBook that says “Director of Sales—Isabella Marquez” when I wake it up with the tap of a finger that I definitelydidn’tget manicured just for this.
Jenna’s still at the front desk, but now she sits upright like she has spinal integrity and something to lose. She actually smiles when she sees me. Not the panicked, manic grimace from Doomsday Monday. A real smile.
“Morning, Director Marquez!” she chirps, like we didn’t both live through the workplace equivalent of an alien invasion.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “Do you get electroshocked when you forget to call me by my title now?”
She shrugs, typing something efficiently. “I get a bonus if I don’t screw up your schedule. Speaking of…”
Before I can ask what that even means, I hear the sound of low heels behind me—
I turn.
She’s maybe my age. Mid-thirties, neat blouse, clean lines, hair pulled back in a no-fuss bun that says she doesn’t have time to explain things twice. She holds out a tablet like it’s a legal summons.
“Here’s your day,” she says, without preamble.
I take it. “Cool. And you are…?”
She blinks once. “Leonie Mercer. I’ve been transferred from Belov Global Holdings. I’m your new secretary. I manage your calendar now.”
I blink at the tablet, then at her.
Her eyes are as neutral as a Fendi purse. No trace of warmth or emotion, just an efficient, laser-focused look that lets me know she’s here to do a job. Not make friends.
“Great. I didn’t realize I had an assistant.” I glance down at the iPad, my eyes moving over the series of meetings already neatly packed into it. “And I didn’t realize my new boss’s world included all this fancy…scheduling.” I can’t help but let the sarcasm slip.
Leonid ignores me and hands me said iPad like it’s a royal decree.
I scan the schedule quickly, my real estate brain kicking in despite everything else. Meeting with regional managers, marketing brief, quarterly projections—I know this dance. Before Sandra was fired, I was her top performer, consistently leading the sales team. This is my world. The only thing that’s changed is the corner office and the last name now attached to mine.
“The regional managers are waiting in Conference Room B,” Leonie says, already pivoting toward the door. “They’re prepared to discuss the Henderson portfolio transition.”
I follow her, my heels clicking against marble that definitely wasn’t here last week. The Henderson portfolio—twelve luxury properties along the coast that I’ve had my eye on for months. Properties that Sandra claimed were “being negotiated.”
