LUCIANA

Change.

They say change is inevitable. But sometimes I ask myself: at what cost?

It’s safe to say my life was once normal-ish. There was a routine in my family that looked normal. And by that, I mean, waking up, going to work and coming back home in the evening for dinner, business meetings, business trips, busy parents, outings with friends…

The little laughters felt like home.

Until the melody began to fade away. Slowly.

It all began when the family company was on the verge of collapsing, and it felt like I was using my hands to hold it together, which was stressing the hell out of me.

It was almost as if someone had suddenly unleashed an attack on the Vargas family.

And it all started three months ago.

Yes, three months ago.

*

*

*

THREE MONTHS AGO

I’m sinking into a bottomless pit. The harder I try to fight my way back up, the faster I am sucked into the void, like a vortex from which I cannot escape.

My savior is only an inch out of reach. I try to grasp his hand, but just as our fingers brush, two mean-looking men the size of polar bears appear beside him, and one lands his beefy hand on my savior’s shoulder. In the blink of an eye, they are gone, and I fall rapidly into the darkness.

“Luciana,” a gentle, yet panicked voice whispers in my ear. “Wake up.”

I jolt up as I force my eyes open. Through my haze, I notice a familiar figure sitting on my bed.

“Dylan?” I whisper, blinking the drowsiness away.

She makes a show of looking down at her chest. Last time I checked, I was a woman, and my name is Paula.

Her joke is lost in the void, much like I was in the dream I just woke up from.

“Are you having nightmares again?” She feels my forehead.

Nightmares…is that what it was? It felt so real. I know dreams are insane and often make no sense, but it felt like much more than that.

Paula shuffles out of my room and returns with a glass of water and painkillers.

“I’m fine,” I tell her.

“What you are is far from fine if you're having nightmares, Luciana,” she says sternly, practically shoving the water in my face so I can drink it.

It’s only when I take the first sip that I realize how thirsty I am, and I end up gulping the whole thing in a few huge swings.

The recurring nightmares only worsen when I’m stressed, and between trying to save my family's company and several clients canceling on me, the last few weeks have been hectic. I’d explain this to Paula, but she would still make a mountain out of a molehill.

When I try to get out of bed, she presses my shoulder down. “You need to rest, young woman. You were up working late last night.”

I give her the look that lets her know not even chains of steel can keep me down. She gives up, but says, “Have some breakfast, at least. I’ll make you some of those sunny-side-ups you love, and if you say no, I’ll shove them down your throat.”

I smile. She's talking about the sunny-side-ups she used to make, with pineapple pieces on the edges. With two strawberries on the face and a banana a few inches beneath them, my breakfast plate would resemble a smiling sun.

She’s one of the best things that has ever happened in my life, even if she thinks I’m still six.

I’ve freshened up by the time Paula returns with my breakfast, and I’m sitting on the couch, pondering a new strategy.

She places the plate on the coffee table before me as she mutters, “If this is about Vicente again…”

I laugh at her unfinished threat.

“That's water under the bridge, Paula.”

She nods and leaves, but her words linger in my mind. Vicente who?

I’m trying to save a famous multimillion-dollar company—it may be on the verge of bankruptcy, but it used to be the only real estate agency anyone worth mentioning would look to.

Am I grasping at straws?

I know I am. Vargas Real Estate is a sinking ship, and my efforts will probably go to waste. But if it keeps me from thinking about my traitorous ex-boyfriend, it's a welcome distraction.

_________

I’m about to head off for work, but not before having a word with my dad. I walk to his study.

He's been juggling between reviving VRE and the new Construction Company project he's been working on for months. He calls that his Plan B.

He’s on the phone when I poke my head in, but he waves me over and ends the call soon after.

“Looks like I’m not the only one pulling all-nighters around here,” I tease, nodding to the documents strewn all over his desk. One of us is going to give the worrisome Paula a stroke.

“Just an early bird.” He adjusts the rims of his glasses. I realize he has grown a few more wrinkles in the last few weeks, and it gnaws at me. I need to put VRE back on its feet pronto.

“So,” I take a seat. “Caught any worms, yet?”

“Someone got to it before me.” He knits his brows in frustration, but attempts a smile when he looks at me. “How’s it going with you?”

“Same old. It must be because I wasn't the early bird.” I attempt a joke to lighten the mood, but the situation is too dire to be pushed under the rug.

He doesn't ask for details, but his disappointment is apparent—not in me. I know he blames himself somehow, when none of this is his fault. Times change, and we just happen to be on the wrong side of it this time.

I promise myself to revive VRE by hook or crook.

______

When I enter my office, my secretary follows me in, and I look at her over my shoulder.

“You look like you have good news for me. Did some billionaire perhaps get redirected to the wrong website and end up booking an appointment with us?”

She winces through a forced smile, and I don't need a verbal answer. We have been too down on our luck for such a miracle to happen.

“So what grenade exploded in our kitchen this morning?” I ask as I sit at my desk, as if that will help me brace for the inevitable bad news.

“The Coopers’ attorney sent a contract termination letter.”

“How could they? It's not even been—” never mind. There's no point arguing. It was bound to happen sooner or later, as usual.

Sofia is still standing before me, her clipboard clutched tightly close to her chest.

“Anything else?” I probe.

“Someone has been waiting for you in the conference room.” She mutters, sneaking a glance at the door like she's ready to bolt out in avoidance of my wrath.

She’s acting quite strange for someone who's worked for me so long that we've become more like friends than boss and employee.

“Is it the Grim Reaper or something?”

“I think you should see him for yourself,” she says and quickly retreats.

“Give me ten minutes and then let him in,” I tell her.

I use the time to check my emails in case I've missed anything.

So far, my inbox is exactly the way I left it—as empty as my ex-boyfriend’s ability to come up with a believable excuse.

I'm sailing on a ship of thoughts when the door cracks open. I expect Sofia to be back with more news, but what meets my eye is someone I would rather poke my eyes out than see.

“What are you doing here, Vicente?”

“My morning has been great. Thanks for asking.” He struts in like he owns the place, as though I owe him a second out of my busy day.

Can we reverse time back to when Sofia announced someone was here to see me? I would prefer meeting the Grim Reaper to this dork, thank you very much.

He makes himself comfortable in the seat opposite me, usually reserved for clients. If I knew he was coming, I would line it with cactus.

“I have a solution to your problems,” he offers, opening his arms wide and glancing down at his chest. “Me.”

LUCIANA

The distaste I feel must be evident on my face, because he frowns in irritation. “I am just trying to help, Luciana!”

“I don’t need it.” I’m on the verge of losing the battle against my anger. What makes him think he has the right to strut into this building like he owns it, order my staff around, and tell me what to do?

My family’s company may be teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, but that doesn’t justify any of his actions. Maybe I would be more willing to accept a lending hand if the man offering it wasn’t the same one I found rolling in bed with a real estate agent in the very house we were supposed to move into.

I would rather make a deal with the devil.

He’s looking at me like I’m the unreasonable one, as though I should be overjoyed to get help from him. He sighs in frustration and says, “Look, Luciana. I know what I did was wrong, and I have apologized for it a thousand times.”

I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off.

“Are you going to let your parents’ hard work go to waste just because you don’t want to speak to me?”

What I don’t want is to stare at the man who betrayed everything we had and called it a ‘one-time mistake’, but whatever floats his boat. I cross my arms. “We will get clients soon enough.”

The chortle that leaves his mouth must have been unintentional. He covers his mouth awkwardly but can’t take it back, so he clears his throat. “What clients? Everyone is checking out listings online these days. It would be best if you sold what is left of VRE and—”

Sofia interrupts by opening the door, thankfully. She pokes her head in. “Luciana, there’s a Mr. Morata here to see you. I can’t find his name on the booking list, but he swears he made an appointment online with you.”

I shoot a look at my perplexed ex. “You were saying?”

He huffs, swiping imaginary lint off the shoulder of his cashmere sweater. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from responding to his jinx.

“Yeah, sure.” I roll my eyes. Why did I ever think I’d struck the jackpot with him? I must have messed with a higher power in my previous incarnation to receive this kind of retribution. “I hope you remember your way out. I have an important client to tend to.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but the look I shoot him shuts him up.

‘Don’t let the door hit your ass on your way out.’

I return to my emails—my inbox may be empty, but I would rather answer non-existent messages than listen to Vicente.

When the door opens again, I’m on the verge of groaning when I look up and realize Vicente is not back as I feared. An Adonis is standing before me, looking dashing in a crisp, black three-piece suit. He stands there wordlessly for a while, making me wonder if he mistook my office for a modelling agency—he certainly looks like a model, even if he is dressed like one of those imposing lawyers I’ve had to deal with lately.

The thought of yet another lawyer makes me want to curse. What is it this time?

I don’t have it in me to be friendly. “May I help you, sir?”

“I need a house as soon as possible,” he says.

I’m about to tell him to hand over whatever legal documents he has when my brain registers what he just said. A what?

Sofia did say someone booked an appointment with me. Unless my sanity is farther gone than I thought, we haven’t had anyone ask about us, leave alone book an appointment.

I try my luck nonetheless. “Mr. Morata?”

“That seems to surprise you.” He cracks a smile.

He should do that often.

On second thought, he shouldn’t. I’m already having enough lapses in my brain’s functionality without factoring in the sight of man who looks like a walking aphrodisiac.

His brown hair is neatly combed back, save for a few strands that hang over his face right beneath his brows. They must have defied whatever overpriced pomade he used, but they add charm to his already heaven-defying looks.

I find myself lost in his looks for a tad longer than is professionally acceptable before I remember my manners and stand. I circle my desk and offer my hand in greeting.

“There was a slight mix-up. I’m sorry.”

He casts those ocean-blue eyes at me, making me shiver slightly, although I’m sure it’s quite warm in the office. “You have nothing to be sorry about, Miss…?”

“Luciana Vargas,” I supplement.

He shakes my hand, and I have to pretend not to notice how his hand covers mine. He is much taller than me, so I look up to meet his eyes. Our gazes lock for a few heartbeats, my hand still in his. He doesn’t look like he has any intention of letting go anytime soon.

Not that I’m complaining, but we have to get started on finding that house if there’s any chance to get the job done today.

He lets go of my hand just as I’m about to retract it, so I offer the visitors’ seat opposite my chair. “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Morata.”

He still looks imposing when he sits, and I’m beginning to question how my brain will function while looking at that handsome face.

“Thank you, Miss Vargas.”

There’s something odd about the way he says my name, but I don’t have time to dwell on it.

I take out a writing pad and click my pen as I ask, “Tell me about yourself.”

I wait a few moments for him to speak and look up when I don’t hear a response, only to find him staring at me with that charming smile.

“Why do you need to get to know me? Your job is to find me a house.”

“This is how I do my job. I have to know details that will help me pair you with the perfect house.”

He pushes his chair back and stands, making me wonder what I did to shoo this one off so fast. All I did was ask one question.

Seeing my confusion, he explains as he heads to the left side of my office, my mini-resting lounge, sparsely furnished with a couch and coffee table. “The chair is too stiff, and you did tell me to make myself comfortable.” He slouches on the couch and kicks his legs up on the armrest, crossing them at his ankles.

‘Get your legs off—’ I don’t finish my thought. Clients can have their quirks sometimes, and this man could be the key to saving Vargas Real Estate. Besides, those perfectly polished shoes probably cost twice as much as the couch.

Once he is as comfortable as he prefers, he flashes me a goofy grin. “You were saying something, Miss Vargas.”

I’m lost for words. I may not be a fortune teller, but I know this is going to be an intense roller coaster.

LUCIANA

Knight in shining armor?

I take back everything I said about this man being the key to saving VRE. It's more accurate to describe him as a psychopath who thrives on other people's distress. Though, between making the wrong decisions for the company and falling in love with a jerk, is it astounding that my knight in not-so-shining armor turned out to be a migraine in disguise?

Why did I change my mind so fast, you may ask?

I've spent the better part of the last two hours showing him pictures of properties; not only does he keep rejecting all my suggestions with the strangest excuses, but he also doesn't want to tell me what he wants in a house either.

Not even the last few months could have prepared me for this.

“What do you mean the flowers aren't green enough? It's a garden, sir. You can plant whatever you want.” I'm on the verge of losing my patience.

His response isn't any less annoying than the previous ones. “And I don't want to have to plant anything.”

“You will not. Your garden will be primed according to your tastes before the purchase is complete,” I coax, only to receive a sly grin.

“Miss Vargas, I'm beginning to question your professionalism.”

I can't believe the nerve of this man. I take pride in my work ethic, and I will not let some infuriating silver spoon accuse me of being unprofessional, not even if he looks like a million bucks and an underwear ad model all at the same time. Six months ago, I would have told him to shove his offer where the sun don't shine.

But we need him. Quite honestly, I’m still surprised he chose VRE amid the pile of glamorous real estate companies. Luck doesn't shine on the same place twice—at least not on VRE.

I know that if I seal this great sale, it will revive us, and I will no longer have to deal with lawyers canceling contracts left and right, and my dad can finally have a good night's sleep.

The arrogant asshole on my couch probably thinks he has the world wrapped around his pinky finger just because he has the looks that make just about any woman willing to bend a knee for a mere word with him.

Admittedly, I was momentarily lost in his looks when he walked into my office about two hours ago.

Everything, including his height, is every girl's dream. The proverbial tall, handsome, with a charming smile to boot; all of which vanish out the window in a puff as soon as he opens his mouth to speak.

Right now, he's merely the hell-sent asshole here to ruin my day.

When I look over at the couch, I find him fanning himself with one of the property magazines I gave him for reference. All he's done so far is scan the cover page for a second before casting them aside, making me wonder what magical mansion he wants and which fictional planet one can find it on.

This sounds like a trap, setting me up for failure before he gets his legion of friends and servants to one-star the hell out of VRE.

Fat chance. Between placating this bizarre client and taking Vicente’s deal, I’m not choosing the devil I know.

I will close this deal if it’s the last thing I do.

“Any more magazines for me?” He asks as though he were a petulant child demanding candy.

Would anyone notice if I went over to the couch and strangled the living daylights out of him?

“Miss Vargas, you seem to find me troublesome,” he drawls, shifting his position, so he’s finally sitting on the couch like a normal person.

No shit, Sherlock!

On the outside, I offer my sweetest smile—at least I hope I don’t look like a mad ghost on the verge of haunting his dreams. “Of course not, Mr. Morata. I’m only trying to figure out your perfect house.”

“Do your best, Miss Vargas. I will be waiting.” He resumes his previous position and starts whistling a tune. My ears threaten to bleed; I don’t know if that’s from the horrendous whistling coming from my new client or the exaggerated, sugary way he says my name.

Two minutes later, his attention is back on me. “Found it yet, Luciana?”

The way he drawls my name sounds like something out of a wet dream.

“Miss Vargas,” I correct him. It’s already bad enough that he’s making me start to hate my surname.

“But I like Luciana now,” he pouts.

Surely we're not here to discuss which name sounds better on his lips.

“You are in luck, Mr. Morata. Your future paradise awaits.” I click on a thumbnail to enlarge it. I am quite confident in my choice; humongous, extravagant, fitting for an arrogant asshole like him. However, I know what his answer will be, so I print out a questionnaire instead.

“Fill this in,” I place the sheet of paper on the visitor’s side of my desk and put a pen on it.

The man barely moves, merely blinking at me in confusion.

I forgot I was serving His Highness, Crown Prince of Psychoville. I take a deep breath and reluctantly deliver the questionnaire to the coffee table.

He glances down at the sheet of paper and raises a brow. “Why do I have to fill in a questionnaire? Do I remind you of a kindergartener?”

Actually, you do, I think, but I bite my tongue and give a more civil response. “I need to know your exact tastes.”

“My exact tastes…” he drawls in a way that makes me question if we’re on the same topic of discussion. “What's in it for me ?”

“The house of your dreams,” I state the obvious.

He hums, almost as if he’s considering it, but his answer makes me want to groan. “Not good enough.”

Who did I piss off in my past life?

“What else do you want, sir?” I try my luck.

“I only answer questionnaires over coffee. So have it with me, Luciana, and I will fill in everything you want me to fill.”

My skin burns up from the way he’s looking at me, but I shake my head to clear my mind.

You are not getting anywhere with those seductive eyes, sir. “No can do.”

“Well then.” He smiles and picks up the questionnaire, ripping it in half.

He might as well have ripped my brain into shreds while at it because I’m one second away from grabbing a broom and shooing him out.

“I have to say, Luciana,” he drawls, “I may not like your way of doing business, but I appreciate the view.”

It’s a relief when the telephone on my desk rings. I know it’s from Sofia.

“There’s a delivery that needs your immediate attention,” she reports.

“I’ll be right there,” I say and end the call.

There is no delivery—it’s a code Sofia created to give me breaks if I need them. I’m often dealing with perpetual assholes, and she’s such a lifesaver. Needless to say, I need to be away from this one for an entire year if possible.

I shut my devices down in case he thinks of trying something he shouldn’t, then I point to the discreet surveillance camera in the corner of the roof. “I’ll be right back.”

I let out a huge sigh when I’m at Sofia’s desk.

“Is Mr. Hottie Pants too much to handle?” She winks.

She has no idea.

“I need a break. Keep him company while I’m out, will you? Maybe get him a cup of coffee. Don’t forget to add enough sugar to send him into a coma—or rat poison, I’m not picky.”

“Okay?”

I leave before Sofia can ask any questions.

I’ve just managed to catch a waft of fresh air when I notice a familiar frame at the end of the hallway.

No way that idiot is still here.

When I walk over to check, I find Vicente flirting with the pretty girl from IT. Emma is her name, if I remember correctly.

At least it looks like they’re flirting until I hear her hissing, “I told you I have work to do!”

I see red. “She asked you to leave.”

I cross my arms. When Vicente turns to face me, I have the strongest urge to slap the teeth out of his mouth. It’s already bad enough to pester me relentlessly. What gives him the right to make my employees uncomfortable?

“You may leave, Emma,” I tell the pretty girl, who looks at me like I’m her savior before scurrying away.

“What the hell?” I frown at my ex.

“Someone’s still got her claws out,” he imitates a scratching motion, and I do want to claw his eyes out.

“I told you to leave.” I point to the elevators.

“I stayed around in case things didn’t go well with the new client and you needed me. Looks like I made the right call.”

“Leave before I call security,” I threaten.

He raises his hands as he grins… “Remember, you know where to find me.”

In your damn dreams.

If I was on the verge of giving up, meeting Vicente has fueled my resolve. I make a quick trip to the bathroom and splash water on my face, leaving me so invigorated that I can fight a bear, leave alone wrangle an infuriating silver-spoon.

When I return to my office, however, I feel like I’ve walked into an alternate universe.

Sofia and the new client are engrossed in conversation. Sofia is laughing her butt off as the man tells an elaborate story about his trip to Vietnam.

So, I’m the only one he’s an asshole to.

“You’re back,” he smiles as soon as he notices me.

“You’re hilarious, Mr. Morata.” Sofia wipes a tear of laughter from her eye as she stands. “I’ll be on my way.”

My secretary winks at me on her way out. I don’t think I want to know what that’s about, so I sit at my desk.

The gloom has returned to my office, the previously joyous man now sitting with his arms folded. I print several questionnaires and deliver them before him. “Don’t waste your time ripping them. I could print a thousand.”

“Then you will have an entire confetti to clean up, Miss Vargas,” he says with a dimpled smile. “Are we having this dance again? I already gave you a solution—go out for coffee with me.”