After parking my car, I lingered for a moment, scanning the building before striding toward my apartment—conveniently located right next to my secretary's. My thoughts were spinning, wild and relentless, so the first thing I did after entering was head straight to the cabinet. I pulled out a bottle of whiskey, poured myself a generous glass, and downed it in one go. The sharp burn sliding down my throat was oddly comforting—like it was searing away the chaos in my head.
Then I heard it—laughter, loud and carefree, echoing from the next apartment. Hers.
The sound instantly set me off. How could she laugh like that after upsetting my father so badly his blood pressure spiked? Whether it was her fault or Lucy's, she was clearly too unbothered for my liking.
I suddenly remembered the paper-thin walls in this place. The soundproofing was terrible, and with most tenants gone for the evening, I knew exactly how to rattle her cage. A wicked idea formed in my head. I grabbed my Bluetooth speaker, paired it with my phone, and cranked the volume all the way up. Music thundered through the walls like an earthquake. Even the neighboring blocks could probably feel the bass.
Smirking, I walked to the bathroom, drew myself a hot bubble bath laced with lavender, and sank in with a glass of wine. I wasn't proud of what I was doing, but the mischief felt strangely therapeutic. I was just waiting for her reaction.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, a furious knock rattled my door.
"Excuse me! I don't know who you think you are, but could you please turn that music down? Some of us are trying to sleep!" she yelled, punctuating every word with a fresh round of pounding on the door.
I almost reached for a bathrobe. Almost. But some part of me—let's blame the whiskey—told me to wrap only a towel around my waist and open the door like that.
As I approached, I heard her muttering to herself. "Karma, you absolute bitch… First, I get a nightmare of a boss, and now a neighbor from hell. What did I do in my past life?"
I nearly laughed. This woman was unintentionally hilarious. I might need to visit this place more often if this is the kind of entertainment I'd get.
But when I opened the door, I wasn't prepared for the sight in front of me.
She stood in the hallway in a crimson satin nightdress, the fabric catching the light, her bare shoulders pale and smooth under the dim lighting. My eyes traveled instinctively, taking in more than I should have. I gave myself a mental slap and tried to snap out of it.
She looked frozen too, her mouth slightly parted, eyes wide as they roamed across my wet chest, lingering too long before darting away. Her ears turned pink.
It wasn't until a phone started ringing behind me that the moment broke.
"I'm sorry about the music. I didn't realize the walls were that thin," I muttered, suddenly feeling oddly awkward. "I'll turn it off. Goodnight."
I shut the door before either of us could say more, then went to answer the phone. Seeing the caller ID made me sigh—it was one of the twin troublemakers I called friends.
"Alex! I was beginning to think you'd ghosted me," he said cheerfully.
"You know I don't pick up unless it's work-related," I replied flatly.
"Well, lucky for you, this is. We're planning to debut the fall collection right after your company's annual event. We'd love to collaborate."
"I'd be open to that, but most of my A-list models are booked out for the rest of the year. I only have a few lesser-knowns available—some are pretty green."
"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Your brand has a loyal following. I'm sure we'll make it work."
"Fine. I'll see what I can do. Is that all?"
"Actually… when's the last time you got laid, man? Come out with us for once—"
I hung up before he could continue. He always found a way to steer the conversation into nonsense.
But his parting words stuck in my head.
When's the last time you got laid?
Suddenly, I was back at the door again, staring at Emma in that red nightdress. My brain played it on a loop—her lips, her shoulders, the way she looked at me…
God. I was turning into a pervert.
A heat crept over me, low and dangerous. I tried brushing it off, but it only grew stronger. My body betrayed me. I tried cold water. Nothing helped. Desperate and frustrated, I caved like a hormone-crazed teenager and pulled out my phone.
I searched for videos—anything to distract myself—but even then, my mind replaced every face with hers. I hated myself for it, but I couldn't stop. When release came, it was intense, like I'd emptied a reservoir.
Afterward, I showered again and collapsed into bed. But Emma hadn't finished haunting me. In my dream, she was in a bar, dancing on a stripper pole, seducing me with every movement. Just as I was about to touch her—
I woke up.
A strange wet warmth greeted me. I stared at the sheets.
Shit.
I'd just had a wet dream… about my secretary.
Un-freaking-believable.
What was happening to me? I got up, cleaned myself off, and changed the sheets, but sleep didn't come. I stared at the ceiling for hours, the memory of her laughter—and that dress—etched behind my eyelids.
And through all of it, one thought kept circling back.
After everything she did to me… how was she sleeping so soundly?
She should pay. For everything.