The Love Development: The perfect work place, enemies to lovers romcom!

Chapter 1

My vegan patent leather boots soared over the edge of my ex’s rooftop terrace. Could a person be impaled by a high heel from six floors up?

I broke up with Denzel five minutes ago and hoped we could end on good terms. So na?ve of you, Scarlett.

Instead of having an adult conversation, he bundled up what I’d left here and threw it down to his neighbor’s patio to elicit a reaction. Proof that he never knew me at all.

“Why aren’t you stopping me?” he taunted, like a five-year-old in kindergarten and not a six-foot-four professional basketball player about to turn thirty. The beaming sun overhead gave his dark umber skin a bluish tint.

“Because you’re being childish.”

I won’t lose my dignity playing tug-of-war over a Hermès scarf. Also, why would I risk falling to my death when I could go downstairs and knock on Mr. Anderson’s door to retrieve everything? The ninety-year-old former stockbroker used to give me advice on up-and-coming shares in the elevator and always kept a box of Milk Duds in his pocket. I considered him the grandfather I’d always wanted.

But what I wanted right now was to make sure my ex wouldn’t end up on the Midtown sidewalk, and I wouldn’t end up on the evening news as a murder suspect.

“Admit you promised we’d have kids, and I’ll stop, Scar,” he whined, beads of sweat forming on his top lip. “You led me on.”

“You knew my stance on kids when we met.” I could protect a child by not having any. “And I’m not the bad guy from The Lion King. My name is Scarlett.”

His biceps bulged like overripe cantaloupes tucked under his skin as he flexed his arm. “What about the Dior bag? I know you’ll care if I throw this.”

“No, I won’t, because I told you not to buy it.”

Strolling down Fifth Avenue four days ago, we’d argued about what we wanted for the future. I felt happy with us. He’d tried to convince me we needed more.

I glanced at the bag in the window, looking for a distraction. Despite numerous objections on my part, Denzel bought it while I lingered outside. It represented nothing more than an expensive bribe. That’s when I knew we were coming to an end.

The fate of the cream bag mirrored that of my boots, echoing the emptiness of our relationship as it landed with a hollow thud. “I don’t get you—any other girl would be crying right now.”

“I don’t cry.” I focused on a chipped aqua fingernail that needed to be remedied ASAP. “But I do need to go. Viv’s waiting downstairs for me, and I have an open house to get to.”

A handful of pastel camisoles floated from the balcony like butterflies being set free from a cage. “This is what I’m talking about—you’ve always cared more about work and making partner than what I want.”

“Making partner will change my life in the way that I want. What you want me to do would ruin it. Trust me, I’m doing you a favor,” I said, moving back from the door and into the living room so I could grab my handbag.

With empty arms, he followed me inside. “You… you… you’re impossible.”

“Because I value my career?” I scoffed.

This could be the week my life changes—the culmination of years spent brown-nosing every developer in the city to get my foot in the door. My chance to sell a Manhattan skyscraper. Make millions in commission. Buy my dream home. Become someone. If I could close this chapter and get to work.

“You don’t need a career. I can take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me, and I don’t want your money. I want my money,” I stated. “I didn’t come this far to sit eating macaroons until you find a younger ass to chase, and then I’m left with nothing.”

“It’s not healthy to be this shut off.” He stopped for a breath. “You don’t want a boyfriend. You want a houseplant.”

I knew it wasn’t healthy, but I couldn’t scribble out the past and invent a new Scarlett. My story was written in black Sharpie.

I checked my ponytail in the full-length mirror next to the door. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Satisfied my black strands were behaving themselves, I turned to him. “I would never own a houseplant.”

He glared at me. “I’ll send the rest of your stuff to your apartment.”

I pulled open the heavy wooden door and paused, not looking back. “Don’t bother—there’s nothing here I want anymore.”

* * *

My driver and assistant, Viv, remained parked at the curb where I’d left her. Having her chauffeur me around meant I could answer the six hundred emails waiting in my inbox and mentor her as she studied for her real estate license. Also, I feared mowing people down given how little I’d drove in the last ten years.

“I swear I saw a dog walker go past with the Dior bag Denzel bought you,” she informed me as I yanked open the back door. “The one you showed me on your phone?”

“At least Denzel’s tantrum benefitted someone.”

I’d gone to Mr. Anderson’s door and given him a spiel about Denzel having a psychotic episode that had resulted in some things landing on his terrace. None of it mattered, but I’d bundled it all into the two brown paper bags Mr. Anderson had given me so I could at least save him the trouble of disposing of it all. He’d handed me a glass of OJ for vitamin C and advised me—in that thick New Jersey accent that made me feel at home—to buy shares in a mining company he’d read about.

I’d downed the OJ in one gulp and wrapped my arms around his liver-spotted neck for a brief second, then retreated, promising to email him and arrange a brunch.

I threw the bags of salvaged items onto the back seat before I looked up at the building and said a wistful goodbye to Denzel’s double showerhead with its seven different settings and the cappuccino machine that made the perfect froth.

When you miss the amenities more than the man, it’s time to go.

Viv smirked and turned on the engine. “So that went well?”

“Is it that obvious?” Jumping into the passenger seat, I felt free to pull out my phone and start checking emails.

“Let me guess: Denzel tried to convince you to stay at home, popping out his offspring because you don’t need to work. But you told him to shove it. Hence the Dior bag becoming the property of Manhattan?”

I settled back into my seat and looked up from my phone. “On the first date, I made it clear where I stood on having a family because my career would always be the priority. He said no problem. But deep down he still wanted a housewife,” I said. “And I’m not the pearls and cardigan type. I’m doing him a favor.”

She clicked her tongue. “So I assume you’ll stay single for a while?”

“Your assumption is correct.” I punctuated this by turning off my phone and giving Viv our next address. “Now we’re heading to forty-five West Seventieth Street.”

“Is this the open house?” Viv asked, weaving her way through traffic like a pro.

“Yep, I’m previewing it for Ashley Tetherdale.” Ashley was an oil mogul’s soon-to-be ex-wife determined to spend her prenup pay-out, and I would be happy to help her.

“All right if I drop you and come back? I need to grab something for Connor’s dinner,” Viv explained.

“Wow, didn’t he eat yesterday?” I pulled a pair of Ray-Bans from my purse and slid them on. Even at 10 a.m., the sun beat down on us.

She turned a corner with one hand on the wheel. “He’s not a snake; he’s a kid. They tend to eat every day.”

“Even a snake would be too much work for me.”

As a single mom to ten-year-old Connor, Viv could be considered nothing less than incredible. I admired her for having a kid by herself and not giving him up when things got tough.

“Too much work? Says the woman glued to her phone twenty hours a day,” Viv pointed out.

I sent a message to the buyer of a condo in Tribeca, confirming our meeting later. “If I want to become partner, I need to focus. And that means landing The Crystal when I pitch to David Steel on Friday.”

David was the biggest real estate developer in Manhattan, and The Crystal—his latest project—was the tallest skyscraper in Manhattan, consisting of fifty luxury units and a potential commission of ten million dollars. My biggest deal in five years of real estate was about to come to fruition. If I didn’t fuck up the pitch.

“Isn’t Clarissa meeting with David as well?” Viv asked as she flipped off a cab that had pulled out in front of us.

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

Since that first day five years ago when I’d strode into The Lacey Group wearing a pink two-piece trouser suit from ASOS, Clarissa Darby had tried to shove me back out.

My clothes were too bright and too cheap. I didn’t have a standing hair appointment at YOSHIKO to tame my flyaway locks. The DIY manicure I’d spent two hours on had crooked white tips. My presence stuck out like a flamingo in a sea of zebras.

She’d deemed me unworthy of entering her Park Avenue and Prosecco bubble.

We’d agreed to hate each other as we’d battled our way to the top. When our boss, Lacey, had told us a month ago that whoever landed The Crystal deal would be made partner, the tension between us had reached levels a Manhattan skyscraper couldn’t touch.

Our boss Lacey—the founder and managing partner of our brokerage—didn’t make a habit of sending multiple agents for the same pitch, but David had requested her top two sellers. My nemesis also made the cut. Her family connections helped her get big business, whereas I succeeded because of my reputation.

Viv blew a watermelon-gum bubble and popped it. “What about that Jack Shane guy who moved here from Boston to front the Levine agency? I heard through my sources he’s going in?”

My fingers clamped around the grab bar above the door. “Yes, he is.”

“Are you making a point about my driving?” Viv asked, taking a corner on two wheels.

My fingers were already beginning to ache. “No. I just hate Jack Shane.”

Another loud pop. “You’ve never met the guy.”

“I hate lots of people I’ve never met.” I flexed my fingers and resumed my death grip. “You’re allowed to despise people who steal clients. Plus, the guy is a fucking ghost. Who works in real estate and doesn’t have any social-media presence?”

“Maybe he’s… private,” she suggested, blowing another pink bubble.

I’d end up with a migraine if I continued rolling my eyes. “No one is that private.”

Viv made the final turn onto the street and slowed down to cruise for a parking spot. “What are you gonna do if Jack gets the listing? Or Clarissa gets it and makes partner?”

“You’ll have to fish me out of the Hudson,” I joked as Viv pulled into a space right outside the five-floor brownstone. Because I’d have lost everything I’d dreamed of since they’d taken me away. “If that happens, in my obituary write, ‘Here lies Scarlett Munroe. Aged thirty-five. She lost her shit.’”

I checked my lipstick again before hopping out.

Viv rolled down the driver’s window as I walked around the front of the SUV and ascended the stone steps to the front door. “Do you wanna be buried or cremated?” she yelled at my back.

“Burn me,” I called over my shoulder.