4. Silas
Silas
I spent the whole morning picturing how Lauren would react to this luxury apartment. The old Lauren would’ve just brushed it off as excessive, but I’m not sure if the Lauren standing in front of me now would see it the same way.
Why do I care so much about her opinion? Honestly, I don’t know.
When I open the door to the empty apartment, she steps in and her eyes go straight to the view of Manhattan, her mouth falling open in awe. So, she’s into the finer things. Good to know, because I live in this very building—just one floor up.
“How must it feel to wake up and have this view every morning?” she whispers, her breath fogging up the window.
She used to do this all the time—thinking she was having a private moment when she was actually speaking out loud.
“If you spend the night with me, you can find out,” I say quietly, shutting the door and turning my back on her.
The difference between us is that she can’t help being this way; I, on the other hand, am just a coward. Lauren turns around, a hint of confusion in her eyes. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” I replied, already regretting my words. Coward . “Let me show you the rest of the place.”
We explore the apartment together; it’s a carbon copy of mine, except it’s empty. Room by room, I explain the materials, the purpose of each space, and provide bits of information she might need in case Andrew has any questions. I know Bunny has an incredible memory, so nothing will slip her mind.
I have to stop my fidgety hand from resting on her lower back more than once, the urge to touch her, to hold her close, is overwhelming.
“Is there anything I should know about the client?” she asks, pausing at the master bedroom window.
For a moment, I imagine her in my bedroom , wearing one of my shirts from the night before—the one I’d tossed carelessly on the floor in my hurry to be with her. The thought lingers, almost too vivid, before I force it away.
“No, just follow my lead and learn,” I reply, sneaking a glance at her out of the corner of my eye, curious to see if my comment would be enough to make those green eyes of hers flash with irritation. Sure enough, she shoots me a glare, and I meet it with a wink and a smug half-smile, knowing exactly how to push her buttons. Her makeup today hides her freckles, the ones she never liked showing. I remember a few times in school when she’d skip the foundation, and when she did … damn .
My phone buzzes with a message from Andrew saying he’s in the lobby.
“He’s here. Can you go get him?” I ask.
Lauren nods and heads toward the entrance, her hips swaying, the sound of her heels echoing through the empty apartment. I wonder if the noise bothers her. Back in school, she used to walk around with headphones in, which drove me crazy because it seemed like she was so lost in her own world, like no one else existed—not even me. Then I realized Lauren was different; loud noises got under her skin. I’d often see her flinch or cover her ears when a phone rang too loudly. After that, I started keeping my phone on vibrate.
I hear the door open and know it’s showtime. I walk gracefully toward it, smiling with open arms.
“Andrew!” I exclaim, with exaggerated enthusiasm, clients like the attention and admiration.
“Silas!” he replies, giving me hearty pats on the back. “It’s good to see you.”
Andrew, with his white hair and a belly full of the best food in the world, is a friend of my father’s, a billionaire, and owner of an oil company. I remember seeing him as a giant when I was a kid, but now I’m taller than him.
“Likewise. When was the last time we saw each other?”
“Christmas 2015, at the wonderful party your mother organized,” he replies, puffing out his chest.
Lauren smiles as she watches us interact, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen her smile since she came back into my life. She didn’t used to smile much in school, and I suspect I was the cause, so this is oddly refreshing.
“You have a better memory than I do.” I laugh and rest my hand on her shoulder. “I see you’ve met my assistant, Bunn—Lauren.”
“Yes,” he says, glancing at her, “charming lady.” He winks at her, and Lauren looks down in embarrassment, causing the smile on my lips to fade.
If anyone is going to make her uncomfortable, it’s me .
“Are you ready to take in one of the best views in Manhattan?” I lead the way to distract him and start the tour.
Andrew asks questions, and I answer them. Lauren takes notes on her tablet, though I have no idea what she’s writing. I’ll have to check later.
“This apartment has seven bathrooms, a gym, and at least sixteen rooms. Each room has potential for different purposes: a studio, office, guest room, wine cellar, or even a red room if you want.”
The reality is that I only use four spaces: my bedroom, the master bathroom, the kitchen, the living room, and the gym. This place is excessive, yes, most rooms in my apartment collect dust. But, as I said before, investing in this is about securing a future.
Sixty minutes into the tour, Andrew clasps his hands together behind his back and nods thoughtfully as I talk non-stop. “Yes, I think it could work. My daughter is getting married next August, and I want to give this apartment to her. Since her husband travels frequently, I’d prefer her to be in a safe place like this.” He taps his finger on his lower lip, thinking. “Oh, your father told me you live in this very building. Is that true?”
Dammit . I glance sideways at Lauren, whose long eyelashes flutter as she waits for my answer. “Yes, eighty-sixth floor,” I reply, looking up at her. “It’s a great place to invest.” And spend the night. One night only, don't get too comfortable on my pillow, please, thank you.
I smile back at Andrew, hoping this will seal the deal. He looks at Lauren. “Would you live here, miss? My daughter is about your age.”
I’m very interested to hear her answer. We both look at Lauren, who takes a second longer than usual to respond. “Oh, yes,” she says with excessive enthusiasm. Is she lying? “Who doesn’t dream of having views like this every day?”
“Yes, but do you think this place can become a home? So much glass and marble makes me feel it would be an impossible task.” He laughs.
Lauren clutches her tablet close to her chest. “I think if a couple loves each other unconditionally,” she says, “you can create a home anywhere.” She smiles broadly, and for a moment, we both just stare at her.
The Lauren Effect
“I would like to believe so. I just want them to have a nice place to live.”
“I think it's the best gift you could give your daughter.”
Andrew looks at me; I can feel his gaze, but my eyes remain fixed on her. All the frustration she’s ever caused in me resurfaces, like an old toilet overflowing with shit.
How can I want someone who stirs up so much frustration in me? I need to stop.
“Then say no more.” This pulls me back to reality, and I catch Andrew extending his hand to me from the corner of my eye. We shake hands firmly, both of us smiling.
“I'll send the papers to your office. I might need to trouble you with a few signatures in person, but I'll do my best to keep that to a minimum. I know how busy you are.”
“Excellent.” Andrew starts to walk away but pauses to add, “Tell your father I’m tired of beating him at golf.” His low laughter echoes through the apartment.
“Oh, you can play with me anytime; I promise not to bore you.”
God, don't even think about calling me . I hate playing golf.
“I won’t forget that offer,” Andrew says with a grin.
“I'll walk you out,” Lauren says, pointing to the door.
As I watch her interact with Andrew, I catch snippets of their conversation—something about his daughter and other trivial topics. I question whether hiring her was the right move. It seemed amusing at first, but now I’m reminded of why I needed to keep her at a distance.
When she returns to the apartment, she smiles. “You did it!” she says, walking toward me.
I stay put, leaning casually against the living room window with my hands in my pockets. I give her a single nod, keeping my expression neutral. Selling places like this to the wealthy is just dull for me. It’s not what I’m really after .
The Compass project is my greatest ambition and the only thing that will make me stand out in my father's eyes. The project involves a massive building on the outskirts of Brooklyn—luxurious apartments, nightlife, all within walking distance. It's the biggest project I've ever undertaken, and I’m just waiting for the investors to present it to my father ... and prove to him that I can handle it without his constant intrusion.
“Of course I did. I always get what I want.” It sounds more like a threat than a fact, but it’s her fault—she makes me like this.
Lauren nods, and for a moment, I see disappointment in her eyes, as if she’s beginning to remember what kind of man I am. She gathers the papers on the kitchen counter silently. My dry, authoritative response leaves her like this, but this is me. I don’t know what she expects. When she finishes, she gathers everything close to her chest and waits for me. I expected a barrage of questions, or at least an inquiry about why I didn’t answer her question about the view and the mornings when she asked. But she remains silent, and we proceed to my car. I drive this time.
The reason I had her drive earlier was simple: she was afraid of driving an expensive car. No one working for me should have obstacles or fears holding them back. I figured that driving would boost her confidence—exactly what she needed. Though, now that I think about it, Stella was never allowed to touch the car, even with a ten-foot pole.
I take a slight detour down Park Avenue and turn onto 55th Street, heading to The Polo Bar. It’s about noon, and I’m craving lunch at my favorite spot.
“This isn’t the way to the office,” she says, her voice tinged with confusion.
“Your power of observation never ceases to amaze me, Bunny,” I reply, signaling as I find the nearest parking spot.
“It wasn’t too hard to figure out; the office is in the opposite direction,” she responds like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, which makes me smile. “And I asked you to stop calling me that.”
I pull into a parking space under a building where they charge an arm and a leg just to breathe in the vicinity, but it suits me just fine. As I park, I ask, “Why don’t you like your nickname? It’s adorable.” I put the car in reverse and fit it into the tight space.
I know she hates that nickname, which is exactly why I use it.
“It’s not adorable; it’s demeaning. If you want me to keep working for you, then stop it already.” There’s no playing games here; she’s genuinely pissed off.
“I’m sorry; it’s a hard habit to break.” I open the door, and she quickly gets out of the car to follow me.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
I walk determinedly toward the street, while I hear her heels running to catch up. “To have lunch. I know a little place just a block from here, and I’m famished.”
“Lunch?” She looks at her watch. “But it’s only twelve o’clock.”
“And?” I stop and wait for her with my hands on my hips.
When she stops in front of me, she answers, agitated, “And my lunch hour is from one-thirty to two-thirty.” Her innocent eyes wait for a response.
My hands itch to touch her face. “Are you my assistant?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you adapt to my schedule, Lauren. Today, I want to have lunch at twelve o’clock. And you’re lucky enough to be here, so you’ll be eating at one of the best restaurants in Manhattan. Are you going to complain about that?”
She opens her mouth to respond, but I ignore her and continue my way, knowing she’s capable of waiting in the car if necessary to avoid sharing a moment alone with me.
The Polo Bar is the only Ralph Lauren bar in New York, and though the entrance proudly displays “LAUREN” in gold, that’s not why I came here. The food and service are acceptable. I open the door and let Lauren take it all in before I assess the layout of the bar. I know that what seems mundane and routine to the average person can be a bit more taxing for Lauren. We’re greeted by the warm, rich atmosphere of the place. The dark wood paneling and deep leather banquettes give the space an old-world charm that’s unmistakably classic. The walls are lined with framed equestrian art, a nod to the bar’s namesake and Ralph Lauren’s signature style.
The lighting is soft and intimate. It’s the kind of place where every detail, from the polished silverware to the perfectly arranged glassware, speaks of understated luxury.
The tables are a bit too close together for my taste, so I guide Lauren to the far end. This time, I indulge myself and guide her by resting my hand on her lower back and I watch her take it all in, her eyes scanning the room as she absorbs the surroundings. I adjust her chair, and she sits down carefully, hesitating and doubting me. She’s probably expecting me to pull the chair back, but I wouldn’t do something like that. Right? The waiter hands us the menus, and I pass hers over, knowing it’ll take her a bit to decide. I already know what I’m getting—I always do.
“Assuming this isn’t your first time here?” she asks, glancing up from the menu.
“Nope,” I reply, casually scrolling through my phone.
“So, what dish do you recommend?” she asks, catching me off guard. It makes me pause. The Lauren I remember would’ve spent at least half an hour dissecting every option on the menu before asking for a recommendation.
“Depends on what you're in the mood for,” I say, looking up from my phone. “But you can’t go wrong with the pesto pasta. It's what they’re known for.”
I watch her as she considers it, wondering if she’ll still take her time or if she’s learned to make quicker decisions. I remember seeing her at the coffee shop where I used to work during the summer. Lauren had a routine of going there every day after four o'clock, having a latte and a sandwich. I “coincidentally” worked the same shift and would watch her read the menu for at least ten minutes before ordering the same thing every time.
“Then I’ll have the same,” she says, setting the menu down and immediately shifting her attention to her phone, mirroring what I did just a moment ago. It’s clear she’s changed a lot, and it hits me that I need to update my understanding of her, piece by piece. The Lauren I thought I knew has changed, and I can’t help but feel a mix of intrigue and uncertainty as I try to keep up with who she’s become.
“Were you truthful when Andrew asked for your opinion?” I lean my elbows on the table, knowing my mother would have a fit if she saw me like this. I lean forward slightly, eagerly awaiting her response.
“Yes, but I left out something else.”
“And what’s that?”
“Well, he wants them to have a home, and yes, I firmly believe that home is wherever the other person is. I also believe that a three-million-dollar Brooklyn apartment instead of ninety million one would have made her just as happy.”
“Maybe,” I say, letting my back fall into the plush seat and starting to play with the knife, “but we want him to spend ninety million, not three.”
The waiter returns, and I place my order quickly to avoid any distractions. I have Bunny’s attention now and don’t plan to do anything to divert it.
“That’s why I didn’t say it.” She drinks a glass of water and swallows hard enough for me to see the movement in her throat. Her neck is much more delicate than I remember. I can imagine my fingers around it.
“It’s a good investment. At least it was for me,” I say cautiously, waiting to see if she’ll ask about my apartment and if she wants a tour.
“That’s true, but he’s more interested in his daughter’s well-being. Not everyone thinks only about money.”
I smile, a bit amused. “Is that what you think I do? Just focus on money?”
Before she can answer, the dishes arrive, and her attention shifts to the succulent plate of pasta in front of her. We both dig in, the rich aroma filling the space between us.
“Yes,” she says between bites, “you always wanted to be a millionaire like your parents.”
I pause for a moment, letting her words sink in. It’s not entirely untrue, but there’s more to it than she realizes. I’ve always lived a good life, and I intend to keep it that way.
I remember the way Lauren used to watch me at school, always with this quiet intensity. It wasn’t anything new; I’d caught her looking more times than I could count. Funny thing is, I found myself doing the same with her sometimes. Because of that unspoken understanding, we knew each other better than we’d ever admit. It was like we were both playing a game, knowing the other’s moves without needing to say a word.
“Tell me something; what happened in Lauren Green’s life after graduation?” I ask, leaning in with genuine curiosity.
She shrugs, clearly downplaying whatever story she has, adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose, and gives me a brief summary. “After college, I moved here with my sister. Now she’s moved to Miami for work, and I decided to stay here.”
Miami? Luca is there. Is that a coincidence? I don’t think so. Her tone is casual, like it’s no big deal, but I can’t help but wonder what she’s leaving out. There’s always more beneath the surface with Lauren.
“Why didn’t you go with her?” Whatever the answer is, I’m glad she didn’t leave.
“I don’t know. I think it’s New York. I don’t want to leave this city; it’s so much more exciting than the humidity of Florida.”
At least we agree on that.
I nod and fill my mouth to stop myself from thanking her sister for leaving her alone in Manhattan. But suddenly, my own thoughts make me uncomfortable. Why do I care if Lauren is alone or not? I shouldn’t care about her personal life, just tormenting her and, why not, eventually fucking her.
“Eat faster; I need to be at the office by one-thirty,” I say in a bitter tone.
Lauren frowns and quickly checks my calendar on her phone. “But it doesn’t say anything about …”
“It’s something personal,” I lie.
One day of working together, and I’m already questioning whether I made the right decision to have her so close again, breathing her in, absorbing her. It seemed like a good idea when I saw her again after so many years. But now? Damn it, now I find myself back in the same mental state I had at eighteen. Obsessive, angry, lustful, and confused. After all, I know perfectly well that the line between love and hate is too thin for my taste.