Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“This is a hell of a place,” he says, and I can’t tell if it’s admiration or appraisal. Maybe both. “Does he ever cook?”
I shake my head. “There’s a chef that comes three nights a week. The rest of the time, it’s takeout or microwave meals. I’m the only one who uses the stove.”
He nods, making a note on his phone. “And the art?” he says, gesturing to a wall of monochrome prints.
“Mr. Cahill picked it out himself, as far as I know,” I say. “He likes the stark look.”
“Makes sense.” Evan’s voice is softer now, more thoughtful. “He’s a pretty stark guy, from what I’ve heard.”
I want to ask what he’s heard, but I bite my tongue. There’s a rhythm to this conversation that I don’t quite understand, a game he’s playing where I’m not sure if I’m the pawn or the queen. I lead him down the hallway to the master suite, which is even cleaner than the living room and twice as sterile. Thank god the cleaners already finished here. The bed is made perfectly, not a wrinkle in sight. The nightstand has a single book on it—Zero to One, the Peter Thiel autobiography, which Trevor hardly ever reads, seeing that he’s busy fucking me these days.
Evan walks around the room, pausing to look at the bathroom. He doesn’t step in, but he gives the shower a long, appraising look.
“He must do well for himself,” Evan says, and this time his tone is pure wolf, the kind of voice that expects you to drop your guard and confess everything.
I keep my hands at my sides. “He does. Counterpoint AI will be going public soon. There’s a rumor he might buy a company in Europe to expand its reach.”
Evan’s mouth quirks again, but this time it’s a real smile. “Ambitious. I guess that explains the square footage.”
He looks back at me, and for a second, there’s nothing at all in his expression—just a blank, unreadable openness. Then, with a shift of the jaw, he’s back to business.
Evan makes a note on his phone, then gestures toward the hall. “Can I see the rest?”
I nod, and walk ahead, keeping a full three steps between us. We move through the guest rooms—each staged but obviously unused, the pillows still creased from being delivered in plastic bags. The media room, which is a shrine to European soccer and vintage James Bond movies. The private office, which Trevor uses for Zoom calls with his business cronies. It’s a whirlwind tour, with me talking so fast that the words must be garbled, but Evan doesn’t comment. We end at the balcony, where the blonde man takes a long moment to look out over the city grid, the streets already shimmering with late-morning heat.
He leans on the railing, elbows set just so, and turns to look at me. The light off the buildings bounces into his eyes and makes them even bluer than before.
“So tell me,” he says, and his voice is a full octave softer, “what’s it like working for Trevor? You seem… comfortable.”
I stifle a laugh, mostly out of self-defense. “He’s demanding, but fair. He likes things the way he likes them, but he’s not a psycho about it.”
Evan nods. “He’s lucky. I haven’t met many assistants with your attitude.”
He says the word “assistant” with a little catch, and for a second, I think he’s going to press for details. Instead, he watches me with that same steady, not-quite-smiling expression.
“Do you like it here, Kayleigh?” he asks, and the question feels both easy and pointed.
I take a breath. “It’s certainly better than my old place.”
He tilts his head, inviting me to elaborate.
I don’t.
He lets the silence build, then straightens. “Well, Mr. Cahill’s done an excellent job of staging and artwork. It’ll show beautifully.”
The compliment feels genuine, but also like it’s hiding something else. I thank him, then gesture back to the front of the apartment. “If you need to measure anything, or take pictures, I’ll just be in the kitchen. I have a call in ten minutes.”
He nods, takes one more look around, then heads for the door. I follow, resisting the urge to watch him walk. He moves with the economy of someone who never wastes energy.
At the foyer, he turns and pulls a card from his portfolio, holding it out to me. The card is heavy, matte, embossed with his name in silver.
“Here,” he says, voice a little lower than before. “I still have your number from that night, but this is just in case. I’ll be in touch about the listing.”
His fingers graze mine as I take the card. The contact is brief, but electric—enough to make me shiver in the AC.
“Thanks,” I say, and my voice is barely above a whisper.
He gives me one last smile, then slips out into the hallway, the door hissing shut behind him.