Chapter 2
Andreas
After a busy morning of back-to-back meetings, a shower was exactly what I needed.
I’m in the walk-in closet choosing a suit and a matching shirt.
I pick a white Italian shirt. While I’m buttoning it up, I relish the luxurious feel of crisp, freshly ironed cotton.
I hesitate but decide against a tie, my next appointment is a personal one.
If all goes well, I’ll soon be four million euros poorer but a house richer—or rather, a home.
While buying a house is a natural milestone in life, it’s never been that way for me.
I’ve never truly known a permanent home.
It took me this long to even consider settling down.
I have an apartment in the heart of Bruges, and it’s beautiful, but it was never meant to be a permanent place.
It doesn’t feel like home. The thought of buying a pile of bricks for myself never appealed to me—until now.
Recently, I’ve found myself craving a place of my own, somewhere far from the bustle of work and the world.
It’s probably tied to what happened over the past six months, but my story begins much earlier than that.
I was twelve when our family fell apart completely.
Max was ten, and Levi was nine. Life wasn’t idyllic before, but when my mother unexpectedly died in a car accident, everything crumbled.
My father turned to liquid comfort, drowning his grief in alcohol.
Our house became anything but a home. The household and parenting duties for Levi and Max became my responsibility, because my father couldn’t handle raising three sons.
He was never satisfied, and when he’d had too much to drink, he wasn’t shy about showing his frustrations with his hands.
Being the oldest, I bore the brunt of it.
I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, because it meant Max and Levi were somewhat spared.
Though “spared” is relative. After two years of living in that hell, we were removed from our father’s custody.
Not that we had a choice, but I still don’t know which would have been worse: staying or leaving.
Three boys, three teenagers between eleven and fourteen years old—what foster family wants that?
More than you’d think, but just as many suddenly didn’t want us shortly after.
Maybe we were truly a bunch of troublemakers, or maybe we just had bad luck.
Either way, we were forced to move from one foster family to another, much to our frustration.
That lasted until I turned eighteen. From then on, we were on our own.
I found a job, rented a small apartment, and took custody of Max and Levi.
I didn’t exactly earn my computer science degree by attending classes religiously.
Instead, I relied on other students’ notes and online resources.
Levi was fifteen at the time, a teenager who adapted quickly to everything.
Thanks to the stability I managed to provide, he turned out well.
He’s now a thriving landscape contractor with a flourishing landscaping company and living life to the fullest. If I’ve done one thing right in my life, it’s raising that kid.
You wouldn’t think he’d been through anything.
As for me, taking responsibility at such a young age taught me ironclad self-discipline and determination, which proved invaluable in my career.
At twenty-five, I founded B-Tech, my very own, very successful tech company.
B-Tech develops software solutions for businesses.
Our systems are now fully optimized and sell themselves.
Anyone who buys our software packages can automate their entire accounting.
In five years, I’ve turned it into a multimillion-euro company with fifty employees.
Professionally, I’ve always kept a firm grip on the business, but outside of work I indulged in everything success seemed to demand: power, women, alcohol, and the occasional drugs.
After a life of poverty and sorrow, it was finally our time.
Our time, because my brother Max shared the same hedonistic lifestyle as me since he joined B-Tech about three years ago.
Max had a rebellious adolescence but eventually followed the same studies as I did and also became a computer scientist. Working together, partying together—we were finally free together.
At first, it was like a fairy tale, but Max got too caught up in the temptations of success, met my bad influences which ultimately cost him his life.
A cocaine overdose on a wild night about six months ago, and I lost my brilliant brother.
Dad’s still alive; Max is dead. It’s hard not to be terribly angry at the world and at myself.
This should never have happened. I lost all control, made the wrong decisions, and Max’s death was the result.
I should have seen it coming, but I did nothing.
Worse, I just went along with it. That’s done now, back to work and self-discipline.
Since my brother’s death, I’ve become a radical workaholic.
It helps me avoid having to think. Aside from the ongoing lawsuit against one of those bad influences, I’m now solely focused on the future.
Professionally, with the ever-increasing demand for new software solutions, it looks very promising.
The growth of the company is my top priority.
A clear, controllable goal gives me something to hold onto.
Temptations of any kind are not welcome.
When Bertrand sent me the listing for this house, I was sold immediately.
Villas like this in Bruges don’t come on the market very often.
The materials are exclusive yet warm, the location ideal.
It boasts plenty of rooms and bathrooms. A pool with a wellness area and a gym.
The entire house is built in one large L-shape so that every room, with floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooks the garden.
A garden with a wide view, several football fields of grass, and partially bordered by shrubs and trees at the back.
Where the trees end, the garden opens up to the Bruges polders.
The view is unobstructed, and in the distance, you can see the city’s iconic towers.
It’s a place where I can breathe. Unless the photos are wildly deceptive, this house is about to be mine.
I’m twenty minutes early for the house viewing, but apparently, I’m not the only one who’s punctual.
Typical of female real estate agents to drive around in a brightly colored Fiat.
I don’t want to think in stereotypes, but they’re not making it easy for me.
My preconceived thoughts come to an abrupt halt when I see the female real estate agent in question standing there.
I only have a view of her backside, as she’s clearly still fetching various items from her car.
Her tailored suit accentuates her delightful curves.
Seeing a woman in that bent-over position, including high heels that give her backside just that extra lift, I can’t remain indifferent to that.
My crotch lets me know that my primal instincts are still working.
After months of self-imposed abstinence, this is the first time I fear I might have to walk around with a certain…
discomfort. I park next to her and step out of the car.
I quickly grab my phone from its holder and turn around.
The moment I look her straight in the eyes, I know my fear was justified.
She’s so fucking beautiful. This is going to be a long, physically uncomfortable tour.
She addresses me as Bertrand. For her, I’d be whoever she wants me to be.
She looks momentarily thrown off. That’s nothing new; I know the effect I have on others.
On women. She tries to hide her reaction.
This is going to be fun. I can’t help it; she makes me smile for the first time in a long while. My facial muscles need time to adjust.
I follow her to the house. Nora maintains a professional, almost distant demeanor.
She’s well-prepared and gives me all the details of the house.
She does her real estate agent thing as it should be done.
However, you can’t fool me; her body is also reacting to me, and she’s doing everything she can to hide it.
It’s not working. Her voice quickens, her breathing is shallow, and a faint blush colors her cheeks from the moment we locked eyes.
I know the effect I have on women, and Nora is no exception.
Still, I can’t resist pushing her buttons a little, testing her.
I position myself in the doorway, close enough to catch her scent—a mix of fresh shampoo and light floral perfume.
I never miss a scent. She smells divine.
As I lean in slightly, I notice goosebumps trailing along her skin, her nipples subtly visible beneath her white blouse. Bingo.
She shakes off the discomfort, wriggles free from her “precarious” position, and positions herself a few steps away by the counter. After I admit I hardly ever cook, she smoothly resumes her pitch about the house.
“So much love and attention to detail went into this house that it absolutely deserves to be lived in. The previous owner couldn’t make much use of it, and that’s a shame for a house like this. It’s not just an investment piece or a collector’s item,” she says. As if that’s for her to decide.
“Is that a warning?” I ask sternly.
“Not at all! That wasn’t my intention. Whoever decides to buy this house is, of course, free to do with it as they please.” I notice her hesitation.
“I sense a ‘but’,” I interject.