The doorman in maroon livery stands at attention but jerks his chin in a bro nod as I stride into the gleaming lobby of the luxury apartment building. Behind me, the noise of the city dampens and the hush of tech boom money surrounds me. Following the instructions from my boss, I head to the smaller elevator reserved for the highest floors. The light next to the number pad flashes green when I enter the code, and I step inside the steel-and-glass compartment. The floor lifts me smoothly toward the twentieth floor penthouse, and the city shrinks beneath me as I gaze out the windowed rear wall.

I roll my wide shoulders in the slim-fitting suit, touch the knot of my tie, and check my reflection as best I can in the glass. The care I take with my appearance is a business investment, and it’s one reason my real estate firm handed me this client, a businessman who respects attention to detail. He’s a big deal, probably the biggest name client I’ve had yet, and a slam dunk job. The divorcing couple is selling this penthouse and the real prize, a luxury lakefront summerhouse nestled amid acres of pristine national forest. With two plum properties and sellers who want to shed all joint property like old skin, this will be fast, easy, and excellent for my numbers.

The doors sigh open in a sleek foyer, where a housekeeper waits expectantly. She takes my coat and leads me around the corner into the living room, her sensible heels thumping on the hardwood. I note the details of the room, which will need very little staging: neutral color palette with pops of peacock blue, mid-century modern aesthetic, and no clutter. It looks virtually unlived-in. As my eyes sweep over the room, they stop at the panoramic window. More precisely, they stop at the figure silhouetted against the glare of the sun off city buildings. Light filters through a gauzy dress that does little to conceal the woman’s luscious curves. Rich auburn hair cascades halfway down her back in glossy waves, and the way her waist dips in above bombshell hips makes the room feel too warm. Lust flashes through me, tugging at my dick, which responds inappropriately. With a body like that, odds are good that she’s this guy’s trophy wife.

She turns, and my stomach lurches. I know this woman.

“Audrey.” I manage not to snarl her name, but only barely.

“Caleb.” She tips her head forward, the barest acknowledgement.

What the hell is going on? Yeah, I know her. We worked at the same firm until she decamped to another agency, taking her scented candles and feng shui books with her. So what’s another realtor doing here with my client? Poaching a client would be low, even for her. Until I find out what the hell she’s up to here, I’ve got nothing else to say to her. I step to a bookshelf and pretend to browse, keeping my back to her. But the hair on my neck prickles with awareness.

A burst of muffled shouting erupts in another room and then gets louder, as if a door has been thrown open. A man and woman burst from the hallway, clearly jockeying for position. Two gray-suited lawyer types trail behind them with blank faces.

The trim, silver-haired man approaches me and we shake hands. “Caleb Mercer? Derek Johnson. And that’s Claire, my soon-to-be ex-ball and chain.”

A wiry blonde in a tight dress that showcases suspiciously round breasts skitters over to Audrey in platform heels, arms extended. The globes barely move, confirming their synthetic nature. True to form, Audrey makes a big show of returning the embrace like she’s the woman’s sister, not someone hired to do a job. The contrast between Claire’s sinewy, lean body and Audrey’s full curves is striking. And not where my head should be right now.

Derek clasps my shoulder, and I pull my gaze back to him, reminding myself to stay in the game. “Caleb, you’ll be representing me in the disposal of our joint property.” His lip curls on the words “joint property.” “You may have noticed from the performance Claire put on as you were arriving that this divorce is not amicable in nature. We married on a whim in Jamaica and skipped the pre-nup because I was thinking with my dick, and now I’ve got to give her half of everything.” I try not to fidget as he talks, but other people’s emotions make me antsy. “I busted my ass to get here, and all she did was fuck her way into it. Anyway, we couldn’t agree on your firm to represent us, so our lawyers recommended this half-assed solution. You’ll both be working these properties, but I fully expect you to be the one closing the deals. Claire wouldn’t know a halfway decent realtor from a pile of shit.”

I don’t mention that I know Audrey, and that she’s at least halfway decent at her job, despite the underhanded way she goes about it. What a fucking mess. The two women draw farther aside and begin talking in low voices. I’d give anything to hear what version of this mess Audrey is hearing, but I owe Derek all my attention. I raise my eyebrows to show I’m listening.

Derek steps forward and clears his throat. Audrey pats the skinny woman’s hand, and they turn to listen. Claire crosses her arms.

“Caleb and Audrey, thank you for coming. Because Claire is contesting my choice of realtor, like everything else,”—Claire huffs loudly—“you two will independently attempt to sell these properties. Coordinate showings however you want, but you’ll both be showing this penthouse and the lake house. The agent who delivers first gets the commission. This arrangement is officially part of separation negotiations. Do either of you have a problem with it?”

“Not at all, Derek. I’ve never been afraid of a little competition, because I usually win.” I grin confidently and avoid looking at Audrey’s gorgeous, sneaky face. Whatever it takes to land this deal, I’ll make it work. I always go hard at whatever I do, so Audrey is completely irrelevant. Just added incentive. I won’t even think about her until after I sell these properties out from under her.

“Whatever works for you two works for me,” Audrey says. She lays a hand on Claire’s shoulder.

That’s always been her shtick. Kill them with kindness, be their best friend, let warm-fuzzy emotion substitute for a killer instinct. When she worked at my firm, the lady divorcées and widows were always her thing. They trust her earth mother vibe and hand holding, which is how she’s managed to survive this long in real estate. I relax my clenched jaw so Derek doesn’t see how much I resent having to work alongside her on this. Her phony kindness only goes so far, though. She’s as cutthroat as any asshole in this business. I should know. She stabbed me in the back on her way out, and she’s so fucking sexy I never saw it coming.

Claire takes Audrey’s arm and starts gesturing at features as they stroll toward the back of the apartment, presumably for a tour. Out of spite, I take a good long look at the way Audrey’s gauzy dress clings to the curve of her ass. She might be a bitch, but I still get wood from the way her hips sway as she walks.

Derek watches them go, too, but his face holds only anger when he turns back to me.

“Your firm said you’d get the job done, and they better be right. That goddam hell demon has sucked every bit of joy out of my life. The state of California says I have to divide this shit with her, but I will not give her one bit more satisfaction than I have to. I want to win, and I want her to lose. At everything.” He leads me out to the balcony and grips the rails. “I want these properties sold fast, so I can clean everything about her out of my life. But I want it on my terms. If you can close the deal before that lady realtor my wife hired, believe me, I can make life easy for you. You know who I am, and you know a word from me can set you up with as many top shelf clients as you can handle. So can I count on you to make it happen, Caleb?”

The penthouse view makes it seem like he’s offering me the world. “Consider it done. I’m a man who gets results.”

He laughs and slaps my back.

“My kind of guy. Let me show you the rest of the place if my demon bride is out of there.”

We finish the tour of the apartment, miraculously avoiding Audrey and Claire the so-called demon bride. This client and this job are exactly in my wheelhouse. It’s a numbers-driven sale, and I’ve already pulled and memorized comparables, recent closings, and appraisal data, some of which I feed Derek as we walk. I know where these two properties have been and where they’re going, in terms of value. I’ve got this. And if I’m honest, my numbers need it this month. I’ve been off my game for a couple months, and in this market, you have to fight every day to keep your position in the pack. I zip up that stress and put it in a vault. This situation calls for confidence. Everything else is noise.

I’m in the middle of my personal pep rally, waiting for the elevator doors to close, when blush tinted nails wrap around the edge of the door. Audrey slips in through the gap, and we wait together for the doors to close again. I try to ignore her, but a hint of her perfume teases me—floral and sweet, but not cloying. I stare at the abstract painting in the foyer until it shrinks to a sliver and disappears behind the polished steel. Her shoulder brushes mine as she shifts her weight.

As certain as I am that I can outsell Audrey on these top shelf properties, I’m pissed about the whole thing. The fact that she still looks so damn good is worse. I resent the way my body responded to hers at the apartment, and I resent my awareness of her proximity now. The floor numbers count down on the display silently. Jesus, don’t they have ventilation in this thing?

Around floor three, I realize we’ll have a lot more awkward moments if we’re showing the same two properties. And right about now, I’d do anything to avoid being trapped in a metal box with her several times a week. The elevator dings softly as we settle on the ground floor, and the doors slide open. Her heels clack against gleaming marble of the lobby floor.

I grit my teeth and fight to sound friendly. “So, Audrey, how do you want to coordinate showings? I’m sure it would be helpful for both of us to communicate so we don’t double book. I’d hate for buyers to feel pressured or uncomfortable.” Or me, for that matter.

She slows, hugging her large leather purse under one arm and regarding me coolly to the side.

“Sure. How do you want to set this up? A shared calendar or something?”

“No need to go out of our way. A quick heads-up call or text will be fine. Do you still have my number?”

I still have hers.

“Um, yeah. I think so.” She runs a quick hand through the auburn wave that always falls over her face, a nervous gesture she’s had since I met her.

“Okay then. Good.” Hard to believe it used to be so easy to talk to her. “You have anyone lined up yet? Just so I know while scheduling?”

“No, not yet. How about you?”

“A couple people I might reach out to but nothing firm. So let’s keep in touch, then.”

“Sounds good.” She nods and gives me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

I slow even further, letting her walk ahead of me out the revolving door. Even talking to her sets my teeth on edge now. I can’t imagine how we were ever on friendly terms before. And I can’t believe I almost slept with her.