Can I Read Real Estate By The Numbers Online For Free?

One childhood crush. One unbreakable rule. One mansion where every hallway feels like a trap. For fifteen years, Leighton Hayes has loved Noah Knight from afar, the untouchable older brother of her best friend Chloe. Now twenty-three, broke, and freshly homeless, Leighton has nowhere to go but the sprawling estate of the man who once barely noticed her. Noah remembers her all too well. The billionaire who built an empire from nothing has spent the last six months trying to become a better man, and the shy girl in oversized hoodies who just moved into his guest wing is the most dangerous temptation he’s ever faced. Chloe’s single rule was always clear: her friends are off-limits. Especially to Noah, the reformed Playboy who used to burn through supermodels and headlines. But late nights, shared secrets, and one stolen shirt ignite a fire neither of them can extinguish. What begins as whispered confessions and almost-kisses explodes into a secret affair neither wants to end, even as the lies stack higher. When Chloe discovers the truth, the betrayal threatens to destroy the only family each of them has ever known. Leighton must decide if love is worth losing her best friend. Noah must prove he’s finally ready to risk everything for the one woman he swore he’d never touch. Some rules are made to be broken. Some hearts refuse to stay forbidden.

"Sign it," he said. Three years of marriage ended with a line and a pen that trembled in her hand. It wasn't the papers that hurt—it was the way he didn't even flinch when she did. Amelia Hart walked out of his penthouse that night with nothing but a suitcase and a broken heartbeat. She'd given Daniel Sterling everything—her love, her identity, her silent devotion—only to be discarded the moment she became inconvenient. But when the empire he built begins to fall, when the cold CEO who never looked back suddenly needs the woman he threw away, he returns with the same hands that once let her go, now reaching for what he destroyed. Only this time, there's a clause he didn't read…

Warning: This collection contains explicit adult content, including intense power dynamics, dominance/submission, dubious consent themes in fantasy context, BDSM elements, age-gap scenarios, breeding kink, group play undertones, and graphic sexual situations. All stories feature consenting adults in fictional scenarios. In this scorching anthology, eight ruthless, ultra-wealthy billionaires each claim total ownership over the woman who enters their world—whether through debt, auction, obsession, or sheer predatory desire. Every novella stands alone, delivering a different flavor of erotic heat while threading the addictive "owned by the billionaire" fantasy throughout. Dive into whichever kink calls to you... or devour them all.

Christopher Hudson, eldest son and CEO of The Hudson Group, has his eye on four hundred and seventy acres of land in Bethel, Vermont. He wants to purchase the land and build a luxury resort. It is his vision that the resort will be the corner stone of The Hudson Group for years to come. The problem is the land will cost him more than he wants to pay. Selena Fitz and her friends are The Fantasy Fiction Writing Club. After a typical day at work, she relaxes with her club buddies with a glass of wine and her laptop at the ready. That’s when she discovers that she switched the club’s flash drive with the flash drive she gave her boss. The stories on the flash drive detailed all the dirty things the club members wanted to do to Christopher Hudson and his brothers. Desperate to get the drive back, the club members break into the Hudson Mansion. Instead of retrieving the flash drive, Selena is presented with an opportunity of a lifetime all because she owns a piece of land that her family has handed down from generation to generation.

While visiting a property development with my fiancé to buy our first home, I ran into a two-faced real estate agent.   She showered my fiancé with compliments, praising him for being young and successful enough to afford a Rolls-Royce.   Then, she suggested I was a fake socialite with a knockoff designer bag, implying that I was just using my charms to snag a free house.   When she found out the property was meant to be a marital home, her voice grew loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.   “I just think the sugar daddy who bought you those two properties last time treated you pretty well!” “Oh, wait. Miss Gwen, don’t you have several sugar daddies? Do they all know about each other?”   I chuckled. What she didn’t know was that my “sugar daddies” were my godfathers and I really was a socialite.   The kicker, though, was that my so-called wealthy fiancé wasn’t rich at all. In fact, he was just a scholarship student I had been financially supporting!

I am a real estate agent. For the past three years, I have been the top seller in the industry. It is not because I am a smooth talker; it is because I can hear houses speak. The houses will chatter about a hollow wall, a leaking pipe, or a window with a bad seal. During move-out inspections, I point out exactly what tenants try to hide. When showing a place to renters, I warn them about hidden red flags. I have been doing this so long that both sides treat me like family. Then, one Friday, a regular client, Eleanor Wilson, shows up. "Devan, the tenants at the Eastmere place are moving out." Eleanor is in her 60s. Her husband is long gone, and she lives off the rental income. She is a sweet soul. She charges 20% below market rate and even makes cookies for her tenants during the holidays. The couple moving out this time is Henry Johnson and his wife. They run a fruit stand at the local market and have a six-year-old daughter, Lea Johnson. "Lea is missing," Eleanor says, her eyes welling with tears. "She vanished outside the market last month. Just like that, in the blink of an eye. Henry and his wife have been searching for a month. They're worn out and broke. They just can't take it anymore." A heaviness settles in my chest at her words. I grab the keys and head out with her. Eleanor gasps for air with every flight of stairs we climb. I walk ahead of her. The moment I slide the key into the lock of Apartment 602, the doorknob vibrates violently against my palm. A second later, I dial 911. "I want to report a case of murder. There's a hidden body on the sixth floor of 18 Montclair Heights, Eastmere. The victim is their daughter."