Twisted Hate (Twisted 3)

“Here we are. The last available unit at The Mirage,” Pam said proudly. She opened the door, and Stella and I let out simultaneous gasps.

Oh. My. God.

It was like someone took my dream apartment and 3D-printed it into reality. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a balcony, gleaming parquet floors, a brand-new kitchen with marble counters, and a cooking island. I’d always wanted one of those.

I didn’t cook, but that was only because I’d never had an island. I could only imagine how good my food deliveries—I mean, my home-cooked meals—would look sprawled across that beautiful expanse of granite.

And while I shouldn’t spend so much money on food deliveries when I was trying to save money, it was better than wasting money on groceries that went bad because I didn’t know how to properly cook them. Right?

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Pam beamed with the enthusiasm of a pet owner showing off her prized poodle at Westminster.

I managed a nod. I might’ve also been drooling; I wasn’t sure.

Then Pam showed us the bedrooms, and I was positive I was drooling, because the bedrooms had walk-in closets. Small ones, but still. Walk-in closets.

A strangled noise slipped from Stella’s throat.

As a fashion blogger, she owned more clothes and accessories than any human should own, and I could already see her mentally color-coordinating her clothes.

On the list of things Stella would give up her left arm for, a walk-in closet ranked number three, after a collaboration with Delamonte, her favorite fashion brand, and an extended trip through Italy filled with pasta, shopping, and sunsets over wine.

I wasn’t making it up. She had a written list pinned to the bulletin board in her bedroom.

“The apartment is okay.” I attempted to sound as casual as possible. “How much is the rent again?”

Pam told us, and I almost choked on my spit. Even Stella flinched at the number.

Seventy-five hundred dollars. Per month. Not including utilities.

That wasn’t rent. That was highway robbery.

“Oh,” Stella said faintly. “Um, I think our friend mentioned we were eligible for a special discount. How much is rent then?”

Pam arched one penciled-in brow, her smile wilting. “That is the price of rent with the discount, dear.” Condescension dripped from the last word, and Stella flinched again.

I placed a protective hand on her arm and glared at Pam. Who did she think she was? She had no right to look down on us. Just because we weren’t obscenely rich didn’t mean we were any less than the residents at The Mirage.

“She is not your dear,” I said coldly. “And how is it legal to charge that much for one apartment?”

Pam’s nostrils flared. She drew herself up to her full height, her voice quivering with outrage. “Ms. Ambrose, I assure you, everything we do here at The Mirage is aboveboard. If the pricing is outside your budget, might I suggest you look somewhere more—”

“Is everything all right, Pam?” A smooth, deep voice sliced through the air like a freshly sharpened knife.

“Mr. Harper.” Pam’s patronizing tone disappeared with the suddenness of a blown-out candle flame. Breathless deference replaced it. “I thought you were in New York.”

I turned, curious to see who had the snobby leasing director so worked up, and the air whooshed out of my lungs in one strong gust.

Holy mother of God.

Thick, wavy, dark brown hair. Cheekbones that could chisel ice. Eyes the color of whiskey and broad shoulders that filled out his expensive Italian wool suit like it was custom-made for him, which it probably was. Everything about him screamed wealth and power, and his sex appeal was so potent I could practically taste it.

I’d met my fair share of good-looking guys, but the man before me…wow.

“My business in the city wrapped up earlier than expected.” The godlike man smiled at me. “Christian Harper. Owner of The Mirage.”

Harper.Why did that name sound so familiar?

“Jules Ambrose. Future owner of a penthouse at The Mirage,” I quipped.

After I became a partner at Silver & Klein, that is. It will happen. Stella was the woo-woo one with her crystals and horoscopes, but I low-key believed in manifestation as long as I mixed it with a healthy dose of hard work. It’d gotten me out of Ohio and into Thayer Law after all.

Amusement glowed in Christian’s eyes. “Nice to meet you, Jules. I expect you’ll be buying the penthouse from me sometime in the future then.”

My eyebrows rose. So he actually lived at The Mirage. I’d expected him to reign over a mansion in the suburbs, but on second glance, Christian Harper did not look like a man who would live in the suburbs. He screamed city vibes through and through.

Black coffee. Expensive watches. Fast cars.

Christian turned to Stella. His face remained relaxed, but something flared in his eyes, hot and bright enough to drown out his earlier amusement.

He held out his hand. After a brief hesitation, she took it.

“I’m Stella.”

“Stella,” he repeated, softly and slowly, like he was savoring the syllables. He didn’t move an inch, but the intensity of his stare was so strong it pulsed in the air. Time seemed to slow, and I wondered if that was a superpower of the rich—manipulating reality until it bent to their will.

A pink flush rose on Stella’s cheeks. She opened her mouth, then closed it and glanced down at where his hand still gripped hers.

Another long second stretched by before Christian released her hand and stepped back with an indecipherable expression etched on his perfect features.

The movement pressed play on the scene, and time returned to normal. Pam stirred, the faint honks of cars ten floors below filtered through the glass windows, and my breath rushed out in an exhale.

Christian’s gaze lingered on an uncharacteristically wary-looking Stella for a fraction of a second longer before he shifted his attention back to me. The intensity disappeared, replaced with a portrait of easy charm and hospitality once again.

“How do you like the apartment?” he asked.