“Honey, you home?” I yelled out as the elevator door slid open to reveal our penthouse apartment.

As a realtor, Trish had flexible work hours. I never knew when she'd be working and when she'd be home.

I pulled my suitcase inside, the little wheels rolling on the vintage hardwood flooring, making a hollow sound. The elevator door closed on its own behind me.

I heard some noises from upstairs. A woman's voice. Maybe Trish was home after all. Maybe she was watching something on the TV in our bedroom.

I unzipped the suitcase to quickly grab the Hermés bag, the souvenir Trish had requested from my business trip to Paris. I left the open suitcase by the fireplace in the living room. I could take care of that later. For now, I just wanted to see Trish.

I’d always had to travel a lot for work. With Pop getting older and Cole wanting to do his own stuff, the responsibility of meeting out-of-state and international business associates fell on my shoulders.

I didn't really mind the constant motion, the many hours I was spending at airports all over the world, or even the bad airplane food.

(Even on a private plane, the food tasted bland no matter what. I’d been told it was due to the atmosphere inside the pressurized cabin. Whatever the cause, it was bullshit.)

None of those things bothered me as much as being away from Trish. She was the only person who really knew me, the only person I could really talk to. When she wasn’t around, I felt alone. Which, thinking back now, was completely stupid.

I walked up the stairs with a big, dumb smile on my face. I thought about how Trish would react to seeing the handbag she’d wanted for months.

I was in a good mood, having closed the deal much more easily than I’d expected and having flown home early. Now I had a few days free so I could spend some time with Trish and maybe relax at home for once. I was paying good money for the apartment, and I was never around to enjoy it.

As soon as I stepped onto the stairs landing on the second floor of our apartment, I realized something wasn’t right.

The door to our bedroom had been left ajar. A sliver of sunlight escaped from the bedroom. I couldn’t see inside, but I could clearly make out the woman’s voice now.

It was clearly Trish’s voice, and she was clearly moaning—a sound I had always found sexy, right up until this point in time.

I tried to tell myself that she might’ve been playing one of our sexy videos, or she was having a little solo fun with the vibrator I’d gotten her for Valentine’s Day, but even then, I knew that was wishful thinking. I could almost hear two sets of heavy breathing.

My heart was pounding against my rib cage when I reached the bedroom door. My whole body felt cold. I wasn’t ready to see what I knew I was going to see behind the door, but I couldn’t walk away either.

I pushed the door open.

The hinges creaked softly, and Trish snapped her head around so fast I thought she was going to sprain her neck. Her eyes widened. She was as naked as the day she was born, straddling some guy on the bed. On our bed. My fucking bed.

Heat spread from the center of my chest throughout my body. Anger coursed through my veins. Blood rushed in my ears, and I couldn’t hear a word Trish was saying.

Maybe she wasn’t saying anything. Maybe her mouth was just hanging open from the shock, as wide open as her legs.

I don’t know. All I could hear was a million furious thoughts that were running through my mind.

The guy she was riding grabbed Trish’s shoulders and pushed her off him, his face contorted by fear. My tall stature and lean body, moderately muscular from regular swimming, often intimidate people. But I was also shooting daggers with my eyes, and my hands had balled into fists without me even realizing it.

“Don’t stop on account of me,” I said as calmly as I could. “I was just leaving.” I looked Trish in the eye. “Sasha will call you to help you move out. Get your things out by the end of the week.”

Just before I turned around, I saw Trish jump out of bed and fumble around to find her clothes. I was already making my way downstairs.

I zipped up my suitcase, still full of all the essentials I needed to live out of a hotel room for at least a few days. As I pulled it toward the elevator, I realized I was still holding the fucking Hermes handbag. I threw it into the fireplace. The flame was low, but it was probably going to do sufficient damage.

Trish wouldn’t be seen dead with a half-burned handbag. Hell, she wouldn’t even take last year’s accessories out to dinner.

As I waited for the elevator to arrive, I imagined Trish walking around with the handbag, the expensive leather all curled, peeled, and blackened. The mental picture made the corners of my lips curl up, even as my heart was breaking into a thousand little shards inside me, the sharp edges cutting into my flesh.

I heard Trish’s bare feet rush down the stairs as I entered the elevator.

“Caine, wait!” She shouted.

That was the last thing I ever heard from her.

* * *

The ringing of my phone pulls me away from my memory. I pressed the phone button on the steering wheel.

“Caine.” Cole’s voice filters through the speakers, as crisp and clear as if he were sitting beside me in my Mercedes-Maybach S600.

“Yeah,” I reply. I know exactly why he’s calling me. We’re not the kind of siblings who stay in touch every day, but we rally together when the family’s in trouble.

“How’s Pop doing?” Ever since he moved to Seattle, Cole has been relying on me to keep up with the family news. Cole and Pop are technically speaking to each other now, but they keep the aforementioned speaking to a minimum.

One big conflict between them happened when Pop didn’t approve of his relationship with Emily. Pop has softened a little since then—he even flew all the way to Bali for their wedding—but Cole and Pop still don’t get along very well.

As the guy who’s often caught in the middle of their arguments, I’m happy to keep Cole updated if it means peace for the whole family.

“I’m on my way to the hospital to find out,” I say.

“He’s still at the hospital? I thought it was just another angina episode.”

“Yes, but it was a particularly bad one.”

“Fuck. Is he gonna be okay?”

“Yes. Probably. He’s old, Cole. Old people get sick.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to think of him as some feeble old man.”

“If he weren’t old, he would’ve caught wind of your devious plan before you could carry it out,” I remind him.

Cole was managing a chain of boutique hotels here in San Francisco when the conflict between Pop and Cole blew up. Pop forced Cole to quit and sign away all his rights to Foster Hotels.

I tried to stop Pop from doing this, as Cole had worked hard to build the company. It was his baby. But Pop insisted.

A few days after Cole left San Francisco, Pop realized Cole had taken quite a big chunk of money out of the company’s accounts. He was furious, but there was nothing he could do.

What Cole did was sneaky and dishonest, but it was legal. Besides, Pop wasn’t innocent either in the whole thing. Cole just happened to be the one to win that round.

“You have a point.” Cole chuckles, his voice full of pride. If he at least tries to hide his smugness at having pulled a fast one on Pop, maybe they could get along, but I don’t see that happening. They’re both too stubborn and confrontational to not butt heads.

“The doctors say he should recover, no problem. I just made them do all the tests on him. That’s why he’s still at the hospital.”

“What tests?”

“All of them.” I laugh. I can walk into a hostile boardroom meeting and come out having made a win-win deal that makes everybody happy, but I don’t know anything about medicine. I literally just told the doctors to conduct every test they could think of so we could manage any other old-people illnesses Pop has.

“Okay,” Cole says. I can tell by his tone that he still doesn’t fully understand what I’m doing. That’s fine, though. He usually trusts me to do what needs to be done.

“I’m just entering the hospital parking lot now. I’ll call you if there’s anything you should know.”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Caine,” he says.

“No problem.” I press another button on the steering wheel to hang up.

As silence fills the car once again, I wonder why I was even thinking about that day I learned my live-in girlfriend was a lying, cheating bitch. That whole mess happened three years ago.

I was heartbroken for a while, but I quickly buried myself in work until I didn’t have any time left to grieve. It still took me about a year until I stopped thinking about her whenever I was lying alone in my bed.

I never slept again in the bed where Trish had fucked someone else. I never even stepped foot inside that apartment again. I hired a realtor—Trish’s biggest rival—and sold it at a loss. The property market wasn’t doing well at the time, but I had to get rid of that fucking apartment.

After parking the car, I close and lock the door, then head toward the hospital entrance. Besides checking on Pop, there’s another thing I’m interested in at this hospital.

That nurse.

That saucy minx of a nurse.

The one who acts like she’s too good to do things for money. The one who pushes me away, but lets out delicious little gasps whenever I get too close. The one who says with her mouth that she doesn’t want to follow my orders, but has so far done every single one of them.

She wouldn’t admit it, perhaps even to herself, but I can see from the lust in her gaze that she wants me as much as I want her. And I want her bad.

I don’t usually obsess about a girl to the point of distraction, but I keep finding myself zoning out during important business meetings to think about her.

Those legs barely covered by the sheer stockings, those full hips and narrow waist, those perky tits… But most of all, the way she responds to my slightest touch. I can almost feel myself getting harder in my pants at the mere thought of her body.

I push my dirty thoughts away. I’m walking into a hospital, for fuck’s sake. Do I really want a bunch of medical practitioners and sick people staring at my hard-on?

She makes me feel like a horny teenager . The only person I’ve ever felt this way about was Trish, my ex-girlfriend.

I wonder if that’s why I was thinking about Trish earlier. Maybe my subconscious is telling me to be careful, warning me something bad could happen again with this new girl, but I’m not worried

She’s barely old enough to order a cosmopolitan at a bar. She looks so innocent I doubt she could slip one by me. Besides, she’s practically transparent; all her emotions immediately show up on her face. I can read her like a book, even after only two short encounters.

I’m older, wiser, and smarter now. And I have a plan.

I’ll get her into my bed, sooner or later.