The Penthouse

The elevator opens directly into the penthouse, and I step out with practiced confidence.

Fifty-two million dollars. That's what this apartment costs. Three floors of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, Italian marble throughout, a private rooftop pool, and finishes that were imported from six different countries.

I've shown this penthouse eleven times in the past three months. Tech founders. Hedge fund managers. A Saudi prince. None of them made an offer.

Today's client is Cole Blackwood, and I know nothing about him except what my assistant could scrape together in thirty minutes: private equity, mid-thirties, no public photos, and net worth listed simply as "undisclosed billionaire."

The kind of man who exists as a rumor more than a person.

I smooth my pencil skirt and check my reflection in the entrance mirror. Hair pulled back in a sleek low bun. Minimal makeup. The silk blouse I chose this morning is professional but fitted enough to suggest there's a woman underneath the real estate agent.

Rule one of selling to the ultra-wealthy: they buy the lifestyle, not the property. And the lifestyle includes the person selling it.

My phone buzzes. Client in lobby. Five minutes.

I take a breath and walk through the space one more time, making sure every light is set to the perfect warm glow, every curtain drawn just enough to frame the views but not overwhelm.

When the elevator opens again, I turn with my professional smile already in place.

It freezes on my face.

Cole Blackwood is not what I expected. I've dealt with billionaires who look like accountants, billionaires who look like trust fund kids playing dress-up, billionaires who have that soft, doughy quality of men who've never had to work for anything.

He is none of those things.

He's tall—six-two at least—with broad shoulders that strain against a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car. Dark hair, slightly longer than corporate standard, swept back from a face that's all sharp angles and dangerous shadows. A jaw that could cut glass. And eyes.

God, his eyes.

They're gray. Not the soft gray of rain clouds but the cold gray of steel, of weapons, of things that cut.

Those eyes sweep over me with the same calculating precision I'm sure he uses in boardrooms. Starting at my heels. Climbing my legs. Pausing at my hips, my waist, my chest. Finally reaching my face.

He doesn't smile.

"Ms. Kim." His voice is low and measured, the kind of voice that expects to be obeyed. "I've heard you're the best."

"At selling penthouses? I am." I keep my voice steady even though something hot and uncomfortable is uncurling in my stomach. "Thank you for choosing Atelier Realty, Mr. Blackwood. Shall we begin the tour?"

"Not yet." He ...