Chapter 1
I smooth my pencil skirt beneath me as I take a seat at the polished conference table, positioning my leather portfolio precisely one inch from the edge. The air conditioning blasts at an arctic level—typical men’s office temperature—but I refuse to shiver. Our managing broker, Richard, stands at the head of the table, his Mont Blanc pen tapping an impatient rhythm while the last of my colleagues filter in. I catch the subtle scent of expensive cologne before I see him—Adam Reynolds slides into the chair directly across from me, his blue eyes catching mine for just a moment before his lips curl into that infuriating half-smile I’ve come to despise.
“Perfect timing, Reynolds,” Richard says, though Adam is actually two minutes late. Men in this industry are allowed these small privileges. If I arrived even thirty seconds past the hour it would be noted, remembered, and somehow transformed into evidence that women aren’t reliable enough for the biggest deals.
I arrange my face into pleasant neutrality while inside I catalog Adam’s navy Tom Ford suit—custom-tailored of course—and his perfectly coiffed dark hair. Everything about him screams inherited wealth, connections, and the unearned confidence that comes with never having to prove yourself. Unlike some of us.
“Let’s get started,” Richard announces, dimming the lights as the projector flickers to life. “First quarter numbers exceeded projections by twelve percent, largely thanks to the Westbrook Tower closing.” He nods in my direction, and I allow myself a small, modest smile. The Westbrook deal was mine, closed despite three competing offers and a nervous seller. That transaction alone covered my expenses for the year.
Adam shifts in his seat, the leather creaking softly. Even his fidgeting annoys me. I know he had been angling for that property before I secured it.
The Monday morning gathering fills with the subtle sounds of ambition: pens scratching notes, fingers tapping on tablets, the occasional throat-clearing when Richard mentions available properties in coveted neighborhoods. Seven of us arranged around this table like poised vipers, each hunting the choicest meat.
“The Peterson portfolio is being divided,” Richard continues, clicking to a slide showing five commercial properties in Brooklyn. “Emily and Marcus, you’ll handle those.” The two junior agents exchange pleased glances. It’s a solid assignment, though nothing spectacular.
I take a small sip of my espresso, savoring the bitter warmth. Richard typically saves the prime listings for the end of these meetings, building tension. I’ve closed more properties than anyone else in this room for three consecutive quarters. The Chinese investor prospect has been floating around the office for weeks—a genuine whale with a multi-million dollar Manhattan property to sell and an appetite for procuring more. That deal has my name written all over it.
“James and Sophia, team up on the Downtown revitalization project,” Richard announces, and I feel a flicker of relief. That wasn’t the one I wanted anyway.
Adam leans back in his chair, legs spread wide in that space-claiming posture men adopt when they’re feeling confident. Our eyes meet briefly across the table. There’s a gleam there that makes my spine straighten. He knows something.
“Now for our most significant opportunity this quarter,” Richard says, clicking to a slide displaying an elegant high-rise in the heart of Manhattan. “Mr. Zhang Weilong’s property portfolio.”
My pulse quickens. This is it—the deal I’ve been positioning myself for since I first caught wind of it. I’ve researched everything about Zhang’s business interests, even taught myself basic Mandarin greetings. I’ve earned this.
“I’ve thought about this for weeks, had several meetings with Mr. Weilong and decided it requires our absolute A-team,” Richard continues, his gaze sweeping across the table. “We’re talking about a one hundred and fifty million dollar initial sale with potential acquisitions that could triple that figure.”
I feel a bead of sweat form at the nape of my neck despite the chilled air. My fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around my pen. Don’t be obvious, Ashley. Act like you expect this.
“Ashley and Adam will co-lead this account.”
The words hit like ice water. Co-lead? With Adam? My expression doesn’t change—years of client negotiations have given me perfect control—but beneath the table, my free hand clenches into a fist, nails digging into my palm.
“Mr. Zhang Weilong specifically requested our top performers, and frankly, you two have the numbers to back it up,” Richard explains, as if this partnership makes perfect sense, as if he hasn’t just thrown me into a shark tank with the most infuriating predator in our office.
Adam’s smile widens, revealing perfect teeth. “Looking forward to working together, Ashley,” he says, his voice smoother than the silk blouse I’m wearing. “I’ve been hoping to see your techniques up close.”
The double entendre isn’t lost on me. I return his smile with equal insincerity. “Happy to show you how it’s done,” I reply, the sweetness in my voice masking the venom beneath.
Richard continues outlining the deal’s particulars, but my mind races ahead. This is a strategic nightmare. Adam will try to dominate every meeting, take credit for every breakthrough. I’ll need to establish boundaries immediately, ensure that Zhang sees me as the primary contact.
“Mr. Zhang arrives from Beijing on Thursday,” Richard is saying. “He’s invited both of you to dinner at Eleven Madison Park that evening. His assistant will send the details.”
Three days to prepare a strategy not just for landing Zhang’s business but for handling Adam. I glance at my rival across the table. He’s taking notes, his expression professionally engaged, but there’s a subtle curve to his mouth that suggests he’s enjoying this twist far too much.
I tune back in as Richard assigns the remaining properties to other agents. None compare to the Zhang portfolio. This deal could mean partner track if I navigate it successfully—or professional humiliation if Adam manages to edge me out.
“Questions?” Richard asks, wrapping up the meeting.
A few clarifications are raised about timelines and marketing budgets for the smaller properties. I remain silent, already plotting. When the meeting adjourns, I gather my materials with deliberate movements, taking my time. I won’t rush out like this assignment has rattled me.
Adam approaches as the others file out, standing closer than necessary—invading my space.
“I figure we should coordinate our approach before Thursday,” he says, voice lowered so only I can hear. “Unless you’re afraid I’ll steal all your secrets.”
I click my pen closed with more force than necessary. “My calendar’s tight, but I can spare thirty minutes tomorrow morning. Eight a.m.”
His eyebrow arches, “someone’s feeling territorial.”
“Someone’s efficient,” I correct him, standing and smoothing my skirt. At five-foot-eight plus my four-inch Louboutins, I can almost look him directly in the eye. “Zhang represents commission that could buy me a summer home in the Hamptons. I don’t intend to let your usual tactics derail this deal.”
“My tactics?” Adam laughs softly. “That’s rich coming from you, Ashley. We both know you didn’t land Westbrook on charm alone.”
The insinuation makes my blood simmer, but I keep my expression cool. “Eight a.m. tomorrow, coffee at Bespoke. Don’t be late.” I turn and walk away, feeling his eyes on me as I leave, already calculating how to ensure that when this deal closes, it will be my name alone that Zhang remembers.
My fingers brush against the cool glass surface of my desk as I collect my phone and tablet, the screen lighting up with three new messages that will have to wait. My colleagues have scattered to their desks, already diving into phone calls and emails. I need a moment alone to process the Zhang situation—and to formulate a strategy for ensuring Adam doesn’t hijack what should have been my exclusive client.
The Zhang account should have been mine alone. Every major deal I’ve closed in the past year has been solo work—my pitch, my relationship building, my commission. That’s how I’ve designed my career: no dependencies, no complications, no one to blame but myself if things go sideways. Now I’m shackled to Adam Reynolds, of all people, who matches my closing rate while operating with half my work ethic and twice my family connections.
I slide my tablet into my Prada tote and straighten my shoulders. A passing junior agent catches my eye and quickly looks away—my expression must be broadcasting danger signals. I soften my features, remembering that perception is currency in this office. Anger reads as emotional, emotional reads as unprofessional, and unprofessional doesn’t get additional leads from the managing broker.
The hallway to the elevators gleams under recessed lighting, my heels clicking a determined rhythm against the marble floor. I press the down button, noticing the slight tremor in my finger. Coffee or fury—could be either at this point. I’ve been in the office since six this morning, reviewing contracts for a closing next week. Now it’s nearly noon, and I need to escape this building, find somewhere quiet to re-calibrate and plan my approach to the Zhang account.
The elevator chimes its arrival, doors sliding open to reveal an empty car. Small mercies. I step inside, pressing the lobby button and reaching for my phone. The doors begin to close when a hand shoots between them, forcing them back open.
Adam’s hand.
Of course.
“Going down?” he asks with that irksome smile, stepping into my sanctuary without waiting for an invitation.
“Apparently,” I respond, moving slightly to the side, creating more distance between us in the confined space. His cologne fills the elevator—subtle notes of sandalwood and something citrus that probably costs more per ounce than most people’s entire fragrance collections.
The doors close with finality, sealing us together for the forty-floor descent.
“So,” he begins, standing just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, “have you met Zhang before? I had drinks with him last year when he was exploring the Boston market.”
Of course he did. I keep my expression neutral while mentally adding this to my list of disadvantages. “I haven’t had the pleasure,” I admit, hating that he’s already one connection ahead. “But I’ve handled several transactions for his competitors.”
Adam nods, his reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator revealing the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “He’s traditional. Values relationships over immediate results. Not your typical approach.”
The implied criticism makes my jaw tighten. “I close my deals, Reynolds. My approach works just fine.”
“No argument there. Your numbers speak for themselves.” His eyes meet mine in the reflection. “Though I wonder what your success rate would be without that...” his gaze drifts downward and back up, “killer instinct.”
I open my mouth to deliver a cutting response when the elevator lurches violently, the lights flickering. My body slams against the wall as the car shudders and stops with a metallic groan. The main lights go out, replaced by dim emergency lighting that casts everything in an eerie blue glow.
“What the—” I begin, but my words evaporate as the reality hits me. We’re stuck. Suspended. Trapped in a metal box hanging by cables in an elevator shaft.
My heart begins to pound against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. The walls of the elevator suddenly seem much closer, the ceiling lower. I press myself against the wall, trying to control my breathing as the first tendrils of panic wrap around my chest.
“Perfect,” Adam says with a sigh, seemingly unperturbed by our situation. He presses the emergency call button. A static-filled silence follows before a distant voice responds, assuring us that maintenance has been notified.
“Estimated time?” Adam asks, his voice steady and authoritative.
“Could be thirty minutes, sir. Maybe longer. There’s been a power surge in the building.”
Thirty minutes. I close my eyes, focusing on pulling air into lungs that suddenly feel constricted. This is fine. This is manageable. I am not going to lose my composure in front of Adam Reynolds.
“Well,” Adam turns to me with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “at least we have time for that strategy session now.”
I attempt a scathing look, but the effect is ruined by the slight tremor in my hands, which I quickly hide by crossing my arms.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his expression shifting.
“Fine,” I reply too quickly, my voice tighter than I intend. “Just thinking about the time I’m losing.”
Adam studies me for a moment, his head tilted slightly. “You know, they say elevators are the safest form of transportation. Statistically, you’re more likely to be injured by a vending machine.”
“That’s incredibly helpful, thank you,” I snap, a bead of sweat forming at my hairline despite the cool air. The elevator feels like it’s shrinking by the second, the walls inching closer.
“Just trying to lighten the mood.” He leans against the opposite wall, giving me space. “Though I have to admit, seeing the unflappable Ashley rattled is a rare sight.”
My breathing comes faster now, shallower. The metal box feels like it’s spinning slightly, though I know it’s not. My fingernails dig into my palms, the pain a desperate attempt to ground myself.
Dropping my Prada tote to the floor with a soft thud, I pivot away from Adam and press my burning forehead against the cool metal wall of the elevator. The surface feels like ice against my feverish skin. I inhale deeply through my nose, counting to four, holding for seven, exhaling for eight—a technique my therapist taught me years ago—trying desperately to cage the wild animal of panic clawing at my ribcage, threatening to escape in a humiliating display of vulnerability.
Then I feel it—Adam’s hand on my shoulder, tentative at first, then firmer. His palm slides up to the base of my neck, fingers gently brushing my hair aside. Before I can protest, both hands find the rigid knots where my shoulders meet my spine, thumbs working in slow circles that draw an involuntary sigh from my lips.
