The Greatest Estate Developer Novels & Stories

I walked away with Daniel trailing behind me. The evening blurred into the usual nonsense. “Daniel,” I said smoothly, lowering my voice, “don’t stand too close to me. People might think you’re my date. I’m not interested in tonight’s headlines reading Billionaire Comes Out at Charity Gala.” Daniel choked on a laugh. “Not bad.” I gave him a stern look, lips twitching. “Now spread out. Look useful. Pretend you’re scouting investors.” “Christian Reed.” That fucking voice! I turned, jaw tightening. Robert Harper. Elizabeth’s father. His suit was pressed, his smile wide, but his eyes gave him away—hungry, desperate. The kind of man who would claw his way into any room that promised influence.

Purpose: Morrison Estate Infrastructure Development. My finger hovers over the enter key. Fifty million dollars. It’s the largest single personal expenditure of my life, a number that exists in the abstract until you have to move it. It’s more than my father spent building the original Hunt Capital tower in 1985. I am liquidating the Hunt legacy to fund a Bennett vision, and the irony tastes like copper and ash in the back of my throat. I click confirm. The screen blinks. Processing. One second. Two.

I always knew my father was in trouble. Not the screaming, dramatic kind—the quiet kind that eats away at a man until there’s nothing left. Marcus Reed—Daddy to me, Mr. Reed to everyone else—built Reed Construction from a single truck and a toolbox into one of the biggest luxury development firms in the state. Mansions. High-rises. Golf-course estates. The kind of projects that put his name on plaques and his face in local magazines. He had powerful friends.

Damien considered this, his brow furrowing slightly. "The estate belonged to my grandparents. My mother grew up here. After my grandfather died, the property fell into disrepair. I purchased it when my business first became successful, restored it for her." The revelation of this sentimental gesture from a man who presented himself as coldly pragmatic caught me off guard. "That's... incredibly thoughtful." He shrugged, dismissing the observation. "It was a sound investment." But I wasn't fooled. This massive estate, maintained at what must be astronomical expense, wasn't about investment returns. It was about preserving something meaningful for his mother.

I bought distressed properties when the market was low, quietly, strategically. The contracts went under my name. Not the company’s. Not Oscar’s. Mine. I told myself it didn’t matter. We were building a life together. What was mine was his. What was his was ours. Those properties became the backbone of the real estate empire. Entire developments grew from assets I personally financed. Oscar knew this. He signed off on it. He thanked me—privately. Publicly, the credit was always his. I didn’t fight it. I loved him.

“You can join me. The kids are already going to be here. You could get a new identity if you wanted.” “You said this is Isabella’s father’s estate?” Fatima asked, and he nodded. “He and I are very close. In fact, he’s the one who suggested this,” David replied. Fatima had been there long enough to know he was telling the truth. The owner of the estate, this very safe, heavily secured property, was indeed Isabella’s father. He worked for the White House as head of security and had been surprisingly welcoming when she arrived. The estate was enormous, likely funded by dirty money, which explained why it had been built here. It featured a main house and ten separate apartments designed like cot

This was a place where wealth had no limits and desires were indulged in absolute privacy. Sheikh Zayed Al-Mansour, 47, was one of the most powerful men in the Emirates — a billionaire real estate developer and member of an influential family. Tall, powerfully built, with sun-bronzed skin, sharp Arabian features, and piercing dark eyes, he moved with the quiet authority of a man who owned cities. He had seen her that evening at a private reception in the Burj Al Arab.

This child was a blessing to make things right again. She walked weakly in the serene environment of the estate. This estate was usually quiet because it was harbored by the richest people in California. With Zephyr being the number one richest business tycoon, this was definitely his standard. It was so crazy how she had been here twice just today. First in the morning and now in the evening. Nova increased her steps, excited at how this news would make Zephyr happy.

Dimitri Castello. The ruthless, powerful, and boringly attractive Lord of the Ford Empire Group, a Fortune 500 legend. He was the man who'd created a buzz at the Houston's Wildlife Trust gala three nights ago. Rumored to be ruthless and anyone who got in his way was disposed of without ceremony or even, it was said without emotion. He was like a permanent face card on every major magazine cover. He owned all of New York, and his connections and affluence extended across countries. He was the man every woman wanted and yet no one could get. His name alone screamed power.

I proceeded to ask. “This.” She answered, handing me some documents. The glee on her face implied it was about the Ivy estates project. The project had been the blood and sweat of everyone and now that it was nearing completion, I knew a sense of satisfaction was sure to wash over everyone who had a hand in the project. It had been a long and challenging journey to get to this point, but we had done it. The estate was going to be one of the most luxurious and exclusive residential complexes in the city. “The Ivy Estates project is almost finalized. We just need your signature on these papers, and we'll be ready to start selling." I flipped through the papers, scanning the details of the luxu