18. Chapter 18
18
Bella
M onday morning.
The kind of morning that kicks you in the teeth before you’ve even had coffee.
I walk into the office earlier than nearly everyone else because of course I do. It’s a habit. Success in real estate isn’t about luck—it’s about showing up before the bastards who want to take your clients. And today, I need to talk to James Cavanaugh, the owner of Elite Property, to discuss my latest deal and—more importantly—chase down my commission check before Sandra finds a way to screw me out of it.
Except… I haven’t seen James in weeks .
And the last time I did, he looked off .
Not his usual smug, country-club-golfing, Manhattan-loft-buying self. No, James had the look of a man who just realized the numbers weren’t adding up. The kind of look that made me pause in his doorway and wonder if I should pretend I didn’t see him. His usually sharp suit was slightly wrinkled. His tie loosened. He’d been tapping his fingers against his desk in this jittery, erratic way, staring at his phone like he was waiting for bad news.
I should’ve known then.
But now? Now I know something is seriously wrong.
Because the second I step inside the office, I feel it.
People are whispering. No, not whispering—hissing. Like the kind of frantic, panicked huddles you see in disaster movies before the asteroid hits.
Jenna, the front desk receptionist, is clutching her phone like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to this world. Her eyes are wide, darting around like she’s watching the walls close in.
What the fuck is happening?
The printer is spitting out papers at rapid fire, like it’s panicking, too.
Someone’s pacing near the windows.
“What the fuck is happening?” I say to no one in particular, voicing my thoughts.
Mark—the human embodiment of a Patagonia vest and a handshake deal—is furiously clicking refresh on his email like the act of checking it one more time will make his commission checks appear.
“They wouldn’t just—” click “—this has to be a mistake—” click “—he wouldn’t fucking do this—” clickclickclick .
And then there’s Sandra, standing in the middle of it all like the Queen Bitch of Chaos, phone pressed to her ear, muttering, “ Pick up. Pick up. Pick up, you asshole. ”
She looks… rattled.
Which is terrifying.
Sandra does not get rattled. Sandra is a reptilian overlord in overpriced Louboutins. The woman doesn’t even sweat. If she’s losing her mind, then we are all screwed .
I drop my bag onto my desk and glance at her, arms crossed. “Okay. Who died?”
Sandra’s head snaps toward me. Her eyes are sharp, wild —and then something happens that I never thought possible.
She doesn’t smirk.
She doesn’t throw some condescending remark about my outfit.
She just stares at me, jaw tight, like she’s debating whether to speak or throw up.
“Where’s James?” I ask, glancing toward his glass-walled office. His empty glass-walled office.
No sign of him. His chair is pushed back. His desk phone is off the hook.
Sandra lets out a bitter little laugh. “Oh, honey. That’s the question of the century.”
My stomach knots. “What do you mean?”
Mark groans from his desk, still clicking refresh like a man with a gambling problem staring at a stock market crash.
“She means that James is gone.”
My brain does a full reboot. “Gone where ?”
Sandra pinches the bridge of her nose, her acrylic nails digging into her forehead. “Gone as in poof . As in packed his shit and left in the dead of night like some shady Russian oligarch before the feds show up.”
I blink. “That’s… not real.”
“Oh, it’s real,” Jenna chimes in, voice high and pitchy. “I came in this morning, and his office was cleared out. No laptop, no files, nothing. It’s like he was never here.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “Okay, but that doesn’t mean—”
Sandra shoves her phone at me. “Oh, it means exactly what you think it means.”
I glance down.
A text from James.
?? James Cavanaugh, 6:17 AM
Sandra… I fucked up. The company’s done. I had no choice. I’m sorry.
Done.
I stare at the screen, my blood turning to ice water.
“Oh,” I say, voice hollow.
“Oh, yeah,” Sandra snaps, yanking her phone back. “That’s it. That’s the only explanation we got. A text message at six in the goddamn morning saying he fucked up and now the company doesn’t exist.”
My stomach free-falls.
The office accounts. The commission accounts.
I feel the blood leave my face.
My paycheck.
My commission from my latest deal.
I take a shaky breath. “Sandra. Tell me my commission cleared last Friday.”
She presses her lips together like she’s mourning my soul.
My heart stops.
Oh. Oh, shit.
Mark groans, throwing his hands up. “No one’s commission cleared! We are royally, irreversibly, fucked .”
“No. No, no, no.” I reach for my phone, checking my banking app, as if sheer force of will could make the numbers change.
$480.37.
I tremble. “Maybe… maybe payroll just hasn’t gone through yet.”
Jenna lets out a slightly hysterical giggle. “You wanna be the one to explain that to my landlord? ‘Sorry, Mr. Howard, my paycheck got lost in a parallel universe, but rent is totally coming soon!’”
Panic crawls up my throat.
I need that commission. I need that money.
And then the real kicker slams into me like a truck.
Twelve thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars.
That’s how much I owe my lawyer.
Due this Thursday.
If I don’t pay? The family home is gone.
Evaporated. Signed away. Put into the slimy, greedy hands of Peggy and Mike, who have been circling like vultures waiting for me to slip up.
I can already hear the condescending voicemail Peggy will leave— “Bella, sweetheart, we gave you every chance to be responsible, but obviously, this is too much for you. We’ll take it from here.”
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth might snap.
That cannot happen.
I’ve spent thirteen years fighting for that house. It’s not just a house—it’s my parents’ legacy. It’s the only home Julian and Lila have ever truly known. Losing it means uprooting them. Losing it means letting Peggy and Mike win.
And now, thanks to James pulling a goddamn disappearing act, I’m officially $12,486 short, with four days to come up with it.
Credit card? Maxed.
Court fees? Pending.
Groceries? Who needs food when you can survive off sheer financial anxiety?
I slam my phone down on my desk. “Okay. Okay. Someone needs to do something. Did anyone call the cops?”
Sandra snorts, rubbing her forehead like she has a migraine. “Oh, yeah, let me just call them up real quick. ‘Hi, 911? Our boss pulled a Houdini, and now we’re unemployed. What do you mean that’s not a crime?’”
I rub my temples, trying to breathe through the full-body terror flooding my veins.
Think, Bella. THINK.
The commissions are gone. My paycheck is gone. The company is gone.
My entire goddamn job just vanished overnight .
My career is a dumpster fire.
And I have exactly four hundred and eighty dollars to my name.
I sit down, head in my hands.
This cannot be happening.
Sandra sighs, slumping into a chair. “Well. Looks like we’re all unemployed now.”
Jenna laughs again—the kind of unhinged, high-pitched laughter that says she is about two seconds from losing it completely.
Mark leans back in his chair, eyes on the ceiling. “I should’ve gone to law school.”
I stare blankly at my screen, at the emails still rolling in. Client requests, deals that will never go through now, my entire pipeline just— gone.
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath.
And scream internally for a solid thirty seconds.
The office is still in full meltdown mode when the front doors swing open.
Not a knock. Not a buzz. Just— opened.
Like whoever just walked in didn’t need permission. Didn’t need to ask.
And I don’t know what it is—maybe the absolute shitstorm of my morning, maybe the pure rage of being $12,486 in the hole, maybe the way Jenna just gasps like she’s seen the Grim Reaper himself—but something in my gut says, l ook up, Bella. Look up right now.
So I do.
And I see him— a man who looks like he walked straight out of a well-crafted illusion. He’s around my age, late twenties or early thirties, with the kind of looks that make you stare a beat too long. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, a mouth that hints at either trouble or temptation—maybe both. There’s an ease to the way he carries himself, like he knows exactly who he is and doesn’t need to prove it to anyone.
Smirking. Smug as hell.
Like he knows something I don’t.
He stands there, assessing the disaster that is our once-functioning office, and I swear, I can actually hear the unspoken judgment radiating off him.
Who the hell is this guy?
He’s dressed impeccably. Dark tailored suit, slim fit, expensive as sin, the kind of thing that looks like it was hand-stitched by some old Italian man who only takes clients by referral.
Tall. Lean. But sharp, like he’s made of hard angles and deadly precision.
Hair? Light brown, wavy, like he probably runs his fingers through it just to look casually perfect.
And his eyes— Dark. Piercing. Calculating. The kind of stare that pins you in place, like he’s already dissecting you piece by piece.
The air shifts.
Jenna inhales sharply. Mark mutters “oh, shit” under his breath.
Sandra? Sandra, the high priestess of professional fuckery, straightens her blouse, squares her shoulders, and steps forward, ready to do what she does best—control the room.
“Can I help you?” she starts, her voice sharp, clipped, all business.
The man doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t acknowledge her.
His eyes—those sharp, chess master eyes—lock onto me.
And stay there.
Like I’m the only thing worth noticing in this room.
Sandra’s face twists with irritation. She’s not used to being ignored.
“Excuse me,” she repeats, sharper this time. “Who the hell are you?”
And that’s when the doors open again.
Another man steps in.
Then another.
And another.
A whole goddamn procession of men in black suits, moving in like it’s a synchronized mafia-sponsored runway show.
Jesus Christ.
Mark visibly gulps. Jenna is gripping the desk like she’s afraid she’ll pass out.
The tension cracks through the office like a live wire, snapping against the nerves of everyone in the room. The men spread out in a deliberate, methodical way, covering exits, taking positions like this is a hostile takeover. Because—let’s be real—it probably is.
The air thickens.
No one moves.
No one breathes.
And then—the last one walks through the door.
And everything stops.
It’s him .
The man who has my wallet.
The man who saw everything.
The man who now possesses the green monster of a dildo meant to stay hidden in a box forever.
The man I fantasized about against my better judgment.
My stomach hits the floor so hard that I’m pretty sure it’s in hell now.
Mr. Portrait.
Because that’s what he is. The man from the massive oil painting in Shadow Hill—the one I couldn’t stop staring at.
He doesn’t walk. He commands the space, every slow, calculated step reeking of control. He’s in a black suit, crisp, custom-tailored within an inch of its life, molding around broad shoulders and a frame that shouldn’t be legal. His gray eyes scan the room like he’s already bored of us, like we’re insignificant. Like he’s already decided who in this room is worth keeping and who’s just a waste of oxygen.
His hair’s different today, slightly tousled but still impossibly neat—like he ran a hand through it while casually deciding someone’s fate. There’s a dark shadow of stubble along his jaw, just enough to make him look more dangerous, as if the pure, unfiltered power rolling off him wasn’t enough.
I don’t even realize I’m not breathing until Jenna lets out a tiny, terrified squeak next to me.
Sandra, the woman who can cut someone down with a single look, suddenly seems unsure. Her usual smug, Botoxed expression cracks, replaced with something far more uncertain.
She clears her throat, voice suddenly small, as she stares at the army of suits and the man leading them.
“Who… what’s going on here?” she demands, but there’s no bite to it. No fake authority. Just genuine, wide-eyed confusion.
But Mr. Portrait doesn’t even look at her.
He just walks straight to me.
Straight. To. Me.
His presence swallows everything around us, cutting through the world like a blade.
And suddenly, it’s just him and me.
Towering over me.
So much bigger. So hot. So much more dangerous up close.
I don’t move. I can’t move.
His eyes pin me in place like he’s studying me. Like he’s waiting for me to react.
The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking about right now.
His voice? Deep. Slow. A command wrapped in velvet and barbed wire.
“Isabella Marquez.”
I hear Sandra suck in a sharp breath beside me.
Mr. Portrait doesn’t even blink.
He just lets the moment stretch, unbearable, suffocating, before delivering the final, brutal blow.
“I’m your new boss.”
The air collapses.
Mark chokes on his own spit.
Jenna makes a noise that can only be described as a muffled scream.
Sandra? She just stands there. Frozen. Like someone unplugged her brain.
I don’t know how long I stare at him, but it’s long enough for my thoughts to cycle through every single terrible possibility.
This is a joke.
This is a scam.
This is divine punishment for every parking ticket I’ve ever ignored.
His gaze never wavers, steady, unbothered, like he has all the time in the world to watch me implode in real-time.
And then—he lifts his hand.
A simple gesture. Effortless. Controlled. Infinitely more dangerous than it should be.
An invitation.
To what, exactly, I don’t know.
“Let’s not make this more dramatic than it needs to be.” His voice is low, smooth, but there’s something amused under the surface, like he’s watching a game play out exactly as he expected.
I hate that I notice how big his hand is. How it dwarfs mine, how his fingers are long, precise, steady—
Like they’ve never known hesitation.
I should walk away.
I should demand answers.
But my body isn’t listening because before I even realize it—I’m reaching out.
My fingers brush his.
Electric.
Like the first drop of rain before a storm.
I feel it in my teeth.
A single, almost imperceptible shift—his thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, just barely, just enough for my breath to hitch.
His expression doesn’t change. Not a single flicker of amusement, of acknowledgment.
But he knows.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
And then, as if he hasn’t just fried every last working brain cell I have, he leans in—just slightly, just enough to own the space between us.
“I’m Konstantin Belov.”
And he doesn’t let go of my hand.