Hunter Bancroft wasn't used to being dismissed.
Especially not by a woman in a thrift-store blazer and scuffed heels.
He watched Delilah Rivera walk out of the penthouse, her spine straight, her stride sharp—like she owned the hallway more than he owned the building. She didn't look back. Not once.
That was new.
Most women lingered. They batted lashes, dropped hints, left perfume in the air like breadcrumbs meant to lead him somewhere soft and willing. But Delilah? She left silence. And a challenge.
Hunter turned back to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittering beneath him like a kingdom he was born to rule. And yet, for the first time in a long time, he felt… off-balance.
"She's different," he muttered.
"Who?" came a voice behind him.
His assistant, Jordan, stepped into the penthouse, tablet in hand, eyebrows raised like he'd just walked in on a confession.
"No one," Hunter said quickly, too quickly. "What's next?"
Jordan smirked but didn't push. He'd worked for Hunter for six years—long enough to know when his boss was lying, and long enough to know not to call him on it unless absolutely necessary.
"The board meeting at three," Jordan said. "And your mother called. Twice."
Of course she did.
Victoria Bancroft didn't like surprises. She liked control. Predictability. Legacy. And Delilah Rivera was a walking, talking disruption—a storm in a blazer.
Hunter remembered the fire in her eyes when he'd tested her. The way she hadn't flinched when he leaned in, when he let his voice drop just enough to blur the line between business and something else. She hadn't played coy. Hadn't flirted back. Hadn't even smiled.
She'd just… *seen* him.
And that was terrifying.
Because in his world, people didn't see Hunter. They saw the name. The fortune. The headlines. The yacht in Monaco, the penthouse in Dubai, the scandal with the supermodel who claimed he'd promised her a ring (he hadn't). They saw the heir—not the man.
But Delilah?
She'd looked at him like he was just another obstacle to overcome.
And for some reason, that made him want to prove her wrong.
"I need her file," Hunter said suddenly.
Jordan blinked. "Whose file?"
"Delilah Rivera's."
Jordan hesitated. "Sir… your mother already pulled it."
Hunter's jaw tightened. "I don't care. Get me a copy."
Jordan nodded slowly. "You're serious about her."
"I'm serious about the deal," Hunter corrected, though even he didn't believe it.
He walked to the bar in the corner of the penthouse and poured himself a glass of bourbon—neat, no ice. The amber liquid caught the light, glowing like liquid gold. He took a slow sip, letting the burn settle in his chest.
He thought about the way she'd said his name—flat, unimpressed, like it was just another word. Not a title. Not a trophy.
*Hunter.*
Not "Mr. Bancroft." Not "the heir." Just… Hunter.
It felt strange. Intimate. Dangerous.
He set the glass down and pulled out his phone. Flipped through his contacts until he found the number from her business card—Delilah Rivera, Rivera Realty. He'd memorized it without meaning to.
He dialed.
It rang once. Twice.
Then her voice, cool and clipped: "Delilah Rivera. Make it quick."
Hunter grinned.
"I don't like being told no," he said.
A pause. Then: "Then you're going to hate me."
*Click.*
She hung up.
Hunter stared at his phone, stunned—and then laughed. A deep, genuine laugh that startled even him. It echoed through the empty penthouse, bouncing off marble and glass like a ghost finally finding its voice.
This woman was going to be a problem.
And he couldn't wait to solve her.
---
### ⏳ **Later That Evening – Hunter's Penthouse**
The city lights flickered below as Hunter sat at his desk, Delilah's file open in front of him.
**Education:** City College. Full scholarship. Graduated top 10% of her class.
**Work History:** Started as an intern at a mid-tier brokerage. Worked her way up. Launched her own firm two years ago.
**Family:** One younger brother, Mateo Rivera—pre-med student. Mother, Rosa Rivera—retired nurse, currently undergoing treatment for stage 2 breast cancer.
**Financials:** Modest. No debt. No luxury spending. Owns a 2016 Honda Civic. Rents a two-bedroom in Queens.
Hunter leaned back in his chair.
No scandals. No red flags. No hidden agendas.
Just… grit.
He scrolled further. There were photos—professional headshots, candid shots from industry events. In every one, she looked focused. Determined. Never smiling unless it was necessary.
He zoomed in on one image: Delilah at a charity auction, standing beside a banner that read *Rivera Realty Supports Local Youth*. She was talking to a group of teenagers, gesturing with her hands, eyes bright with passion.
She wasn't just selling houses.
She was building something.
And that intrigued him more than any socialite ever had.
His phone buzzed.
> **Victoria**: Did you sign the exclusivity agreement?
> **Hunter**: Yes.
> **Victoria**: Good. I trust you chose a reputable firm.
> **Hunter**: I chose the best.
A pause. Then:
> **Victoria**: Don't be reckless, Hunter. Reputation matters more than results.
Hunter didn't reply.
Because for the first time, he wasn't sure he agreed.
---
### 🌆 **The Next Morning – Downtown Manhattan**
Hunter skipped the board meeting.
Instead, he drove himself—no driver, no assistant—to a coffee shop near Delilah's office. He sat at a corner table, black coffee in hand, pretending to read the Financial Times while watching the street.
At 8:47 a.m., she appeared.
She walked fast, earbuds in, a tote bag slung over her shoulder. She wore a navy dress with a belted waist—simple, professional, no-nonsense. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, but a few strands escaped, framing her face like she couldn't be bothered to tame them.
She ordered a large black coffee, paid in cash, and walked out without looking around.
Hunter followed at a distance.
He watched her unlock the door to her office building. Watched her nod to the security guard. Watched her disappear inside.
He didn't go in.
He didn't need to.
He just needed to see her in her element—unfiltered, unguarded, real.
Back in his car, he called Jordan.
"Cancel my afternoon meetings."
"Sir?"
"I've got a new priority."
---
### 📞 **That Afternoon – Phone Call**
Hunter dialed Delilah again.
This time, she answered on the fourth ring.
"What do you want, Hunter?" she asked, voice tired but sharp.
"I want to talk."
"About what?"
"The deal. The penthouse. Strategy."
She sighed. "I sent you the proposal last night."
"I read it. It's good. But I have ideas."
"Then email them."
"I'd rather talk in person."
Silence.
Then: "Why?"
Hunter hesitated. "Because I respect you."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Fine," she said finally. "Tomorrow. 10 a.m. My office. Don't be late."
"I'll be early."
She hung up.
Hunter smiled.
---
### 🏢 **The Next Day – Rivera Realty Office**
Her office wasn't what he expected.
Small, yes—but warm. Plants on the windowsill. Framed photos of her brother in a cap and gown. A whiteboard covered in color-coded notes and property codes. No gold. No marble. Just hard work.
Delilah stood when he entered, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You're early," she said.
"I said I would be."
She gestured to a chair. "Sit."
He did. She sat across from him, posture perfect, eyes guarded.
"I'm not here to flirt," he said before she could speak.
"Good," she replied. "Because I'm not here to entertain."
Hunter leaned forward. "I want you to handle the penthouse sale. Not just list it. *Sell* it. To the right buyer. Someone who'll respect the space. Not turn it into a party pad or an Airbnb."
Delilah raised an eyebrow. "You care about that?"
"I care about legacy," he said quietly. "Even if I don't always act like it."
She studied him for a long moment. Then nodded. "I can do that."
"Good." He slid a folder across the desk. "Here's what I'm thinking—private viewings only. Target European investors. Discreet. No press."
Delilah flipped through the pages. "You've done your homework."
"I learn from the best."
She looked up. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't try to charm me."
Hunter held her gaze. "I'm not trying. I'm being honest."
She looked away first.
They spent the next hour discussing logistics—pricing, timelines, buyer profiles. It was professional. Efficient. But beneath the surface, something hummed between them—tension, curiosity, the ghost of something more.
When the meeting ended, Delilah stood. "I'll send the revised contract by tonight."
Hunter stood too. "Delilah."
She paused. "Yes?"
"Why did you say no to me yesterday?"
She turned fully now, eyes blazing. "Because men like you don't call women like me unless they want something. And I'm not in the business of giving things away for free."
"I didn't ask for anything."
"You asked for my time. My attention. That's currency to me."
Hunter stepped closer. "What if I told you I just wanted to know you?"
She didn't flinch. "Then I'd say you're lying. Or naive. Either way, it's dangerous."
"Why?"
"Because I don't do fairy tales, Hunter. And you? You're the prince in a castle built on someone else's bones."
The words hit harder than he expected.
He opened his mouth to respond—but she turned and walked out.
---
### 🌃 **That Night – Hunter's Reflection**
Back in his penthouse, Hunter poured another drink.
He replayed her words in his head.
*"You're the prince in a castle built on someone else's bones."*
Was she wrong?
His grandfather had made his fortune in real estate—buying up neighborhoods, displacing families, calling it "urban renewal." His father had expanded the empire with cold precision, never once asking who got left behind.
And Hunter?
He'd inherited it all without lifting a finger.
He'd never questioned it. Never doubted it.
Until now.
Until *her*.
He picked up his phone and typed a message.
> **Hunter**: You're right. About the castle. But I'm trying to build something better.
He stared at the screen for a full minute before hitting send.
No reply came.
But for the first time in his life, Hunter Bancroft didn't mind waiting.
Because for the first time, he had something worth waiting for.
---
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