Chapter 2: The Landlord

"Ian, she needs to leave."

Emily's fists clenched at her sides, holding on to whatever dignity she had left.

Ian scoffed. "You don't tell me what to do."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping low.

"If you don't like how I do things, file for divorce. Oh wait—you won't. Because without me, you're nothing."

He turned and left.

Emily stood trembling—not from fear.

From humiliation.

That night, she cried in the shower until the water ran cold.

Then she fell asleep alone in a bed meant for two.

The silence of the massive condo pressed down on her, as suffocating as her loneliness.

The next morning, Emily woke to her phone buzzing.

Nadine. Her assistant—the one she owed a month's salary.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hunter!" Nadine's voice was bright as always.

"Hi, Nadine." Emily's voice came out groggy.

She wiped her eyes. "What do we have for today?"

"Twelve p.m. meeting with Everdale Pottery."

Then Emily remembered Papa Chen's call.

Panic shot through her.

"I'll call you back."

She hung up and sat upright, her mind racing.

Papa Chen had said the building had a new owner.

Maybe she could convince him to give her more time.

She had to try. She couldn't lose her office now.

Hope flickered in her chest.

She showered quickly and dressed in a white flowy dress with slits at the knees. Dresses always made her feel more confident.

She checked her reflection, slipped on flats, and headed to the kitchen.

Then she froze.

Jane stood at the counter in one of Emily's nightgowns, holding Emily's favorite mug.

"What are you—"

Emily's voice caught.

Jane turned, a slow smile spreading across her face.

"Looks better on me, doesn't it?" She took a sip from the mug. "Ian definitely thinks so."

Emily's jaw tightened.

Anger simmered beneath her skin, threatening to boil over.

She had too much on her plate to entertain this.

Not today.

Emily reached past Jane and grabbed an apple from the counter.

"I don't have time for your games."

She turned to leave.

Jane grabbed a fistful of Emily's hair and yanked hard.

"Where do you think you're going, bitch?"

Before Emily could react, Jane dumped the contents of her mug down the front of Emily's dress.

Cold liquid soaked through the fabric, reeking of gin and juice.

"Ian is mine now. All of this is mine now." Jane released her hair with a shove.

Emily gasped, staring down at her ruined dress.

She looked up at Jane, disbelief freezing her in place.

Her phone buzzed.

Missed call. Papa Chen.

She couldn't deal with this. Not now.

Humiliated, Emily turned and ran out of the condo.

Jane's laughter echoed behind her.

Emily hailed a cab and gave the driver her office address.

In the rearview mirror, she caught sight of herself.

Her hair was a mess. Her dress was stained yellow and reeked of alcohol.

Gin and juice. Wine last night, gin this morning. Jane's a drunk. Great choice, Ian.

"Asshole," she muttered under her breath.

"Grieving my ass."

"You okay back there?" The driver glanced at her in the mirror.

Emily's cheeks flushed. "I'm fine. Sorry."

Great. Now I'm talking to myself.

She couldn't believe his mistress had spent the night.

After everything she'd tried.

Her mind drifted back to last night—forcing Ian's hand between her thighs, desperate and pathetic.

She cringed, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

He'd never touched her willingly.

Except once.

A few months ago, Ian had come home drunk and grabbed her roughly, undoing her bra.

For one breathless moment, she'd thought he finally wanted her.

Then he'd passed out on her chest.

The next morning, he'd acted like nothing happened.

"We're here."

The driver's voice snapped her back to the present.

Her office was in a small, organized section of a much larger multipurpose building. It had decent foot traffic—enough to keep her hopeful.

She paid the cab and stepped out, steadying herself.

She still hadn't come up with anything convincing to say.

I guess we're winging it.

She muttered the words under her breath before entering the building.

She stepped inside and saw a towering figure in a sharp blue suit. Broad shoulders. Perfectly tailored.

Papa Chen stood beside him, looking small and nervous.

That must be the new owner.

Now or never.

Emily whispered to herself, "Just ask for more time. Be confident."

She tried to smooth her hair, then approached.

"Good morning, sir. I—this is my office. I own—"

She stumbled over her words.

Stupid. You're making it worse.

Her face twisted with embarrassment. She looked down, ashamed.

Before she could recover, Papa Chen cut in. "Sir, I already spoke to her. She understands the situa—"

The man raised one hand, silencing him.

"Let the lady speak."

His voice was deep. Steady. With just enough rasp to make her look up.

It sounded like a low rumble—controlled but powerful.

Emily's eyes traveled upward.

Her head barely reached his chest. He towered over her.

Styled hair. Clean shave. Well-tailored suit.

Expensive brown shoes that matched his belt and his watch.

He smelled expensive too—clean, with an intensity that felt deliberate.

Like a man who had his life perfectly arranged.

Too perfect.

No one's this put-together unless they're hiding something.

Her job was all about aesthetics. She knew when something was staged.

"Go on," he said, his tone patient but firm.

Emily swallowed and forced herself to meet his eyes.

Blue. Sharp. Unreadable.

"Thank you, sir." Her voice came out quieter than she wanted. "It's been a tough year, sir. I lost most of my clients, and I—"

She paused, her throat tightening.

"I just need a little more time. Please, sir."

He studied her for a moment, saying nothing.

Then his gaze dropped to her dress.

"Maybe you shouldn't drink so much."

Emily blinked. "I—I don't understand."

He reached forward.

With two fingers, he lifted the edge of her dress slightly, revealing the yellow stain.

"I understand the stress. But alcohol won't solve your problems."

He let go and straightened.

"You have two weeks."

He patted her shoulder once—brief, impersonal—and walked past her toward the exit.

Emily froze, mortified.

He thinks I'm a drunk.

Her phone buzzed.

[Nadine: Reminder: Everdale meeting at 12 p.m.]

Not in this dress.

---

Emily hailed another cab home.

On the ride, she scribbled ideas for the Everdale pitch, trying to focus on anything but the morning's disasters.

She paid the driver and walked toward the condo.

Then she heard it.

A scream.

Her pulse spiked.

Blood rushed through her body. Impulse took over.

She raced toward the living room.

Another sound—a loud groan, guttural and desperate.

Her eyes widened.

Someone's in danger.

Emily's pulse doubled.

"Ian!"

She stumbled through the living room, nearly tripping over empty wine bottles scattered across the floor.

Pain shot through her toes, but she didn't stop.

She limped to the bedroom and threw open the door.

Then she froze.

Jane was bent over on the bed.

Ian behind her, thrusting hard and fast.

Both of them lost in each other.

Neither of them aware of her presence.

Until she screamed.