Filthy Rich (Filthy Rich 1)

“True. But the rumor is that you’re…” I trailed off.

Aidan raised his eyebrows. “That I’m what?”

I cleared my throat. “That you’re getting laid.”

He scratched his chin for a second, thinking that over. “Offices are the worst fucking places, I swear to God,” he said. “Is anyone talking about you?”

It was the closest he’d come to alluding to what we did in our off-hours. “No one is talking about me that I can tell,” I said. “Certainly not to my face.”

“All right, then. But you’re right. I’ll be more discreet. In the meantime, tell me whether, if you had twenty million dollars, you’d buy this building or not.”

“I don’t know,” I said when we had finished the tour of the building. “I’m not an expert.”

The real estate agent had left, and we were standing in front of the building, looking up at it. It was in rough shape, there was no doubt—the building had been neglected for nearly ten years, and there was water damage and bad electrical wiring. But it was in a good spot on the Lower East Side.

“I’m not an expert, either,” Aidan said. “Do you want to know a secret? Most of the time I fucking guess.”

“Then why don’t you fucking guess this time?” I asked him.

He smiled at my profanity. He was flat-out gorgeous when he smiled, probably because it was so rare. “I don’t know. I’ve been second-guessing myself lately—I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m burned out.”

He was serious, so I gave it a try. “Well, it’s an eyesore,” I said, looking at how the building compared to the others on the street. “I’m not sure the building should be saved, even if it could be. You might have to tear down and rebuild.”

“So the property is twenty million, and rebuilding is another ten,” Aidan said. “The question is, will it be worth at least thirty million when it’s all over? Preferably forty, if I’m going to spend that kind of time.”

I looked at it again. It was a four-story apartment building, empty now. I couldn’t believe we were talking about twenty, thirty, forty million dollars as if it was pocket change. “You won’t have any renters while you rebuild.”

“Correct. No cash flow at all. Money going out and not coming in.”

“Is it being sold for below market value?”

“This is Manhattan, so absolutely fucking not.”

“But when it’s finished and you get renters, then you make money.”

“Over time, yes. Or I sell it and move on.”

I looked up and down the street again. “This is a nice street,” I said. “These are working people. There are bodegas and little restaurants. This building should be part of that, part of the neighborhood. Maybe row townhouses with young families in them. It would add to the community.”

I stopped talking, because he was looking at me. I couldn’t decipher his expression. “What?” I said.

“You’re sentimental,” Aidan replied. “You’re a romantic.”

“I’m not,” I protested. “You’re the one who said the art gallery added to the neighborhood.”

“I bought the art gallery for a song, and it’s gone significantly up in value.”

“Value you only realize if you sell it.”

“And I’m not selling,” Aidan agreed. “But I could.”

I crossed my arms. “I’m not an expert, like I said. But it seems to me that real estate is about more than just making money. It’s about making a neighborhood where people want to live, to work. Where businesses can open and make a profit. Where, I don’t know, where people could live good lives.”

“And my goal is to make money,” Aidan said. “As much money as humanly possible, and then even more.”

I thought of the Aidan I’d met on Saturday night, who had called himself William. It’s utterly cold and unfulfilling, he’d said of real estate. “I don’t believe you just want to make money,” I said.

“Oh no?” His voice was icy again. “Then what do I want?”