--
Delilah slammed the door to her office harder than necessary.
The sharp *click* of the lock echoed like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. She leaned against it for a full three seconds, eyes closed, breath ragged—as if she could physically hold the outside world at bay.
But it wasn't the world she was trying to keep out.
It was him.
Hunter Bancroft.
Her assistant, Tasha, looked up from her desk, startled mid-sip of what smelled suspiciously like third-cup-of-the-day coffee. "Bad client?" she asked, lowering her mug.
Delilah tossed her bag onto the nearest chair and yanked off her blazer like it had betrayed her. "Worse. Hunter Bancroft."
Tasha blinked. "Wait—the Hunter Bancroft? The one with the yacht named after his ex?"
Delilah groaned, running a hand through her hair. "Yes. And he just called me."
Tasha's eyes widened like she'd just been handed front-row tickets to a train wreck. "To yell at you?"
"To flirt."
Now Tasha looked like she'd been hit with a plot twist. "Girl, what?"
Delilah paced the room, her heels clicking against the worn hardwood like a countdown. "He said he doesn't like being told no. I told him he's going to hate me."
Tasha whistled low. "Savage."
Delilah didn't smile. She felt… off. Like she'd stepped into a game she didn't agree to play—one with rules written in gold ink and enforced by people who'd never missed a meal.
"He's dangerous," she said quietly, stopping by the window. Outside, the city pulsed with ambition and exhaust fumes. Just another Tuesday in New York.
Tasha tilted her head. "Because he's rich?"
"No." Delilah turned, arms crossed. "Because he's charming. And bored. And used to getting what he wants."
She walked back to her desk and sank into her chair, the leather sighing under her weight. "I can't afford distractions. Not now."
And she meant it.
Her firm—Rivera Realty—was barely two years old. It had taken every ounce of grit, every late night, every skipped meal to get it off the ground. She'd maxed out credit cards, lived on instant noodles for six months, and once sold her grandmother's locket just to cover office rent.
Now, she was finally gaining traction. Clients were calling *her*. Referrals were flowing. And the Bancroft penthouse listing? That was her golden ticket—the kind of deal that could put her on the map permanently.
But Hunter wasn't just a client.
He was a complication wrapped in a Tom Ford suit with a smirk that could melt steel.
And her heart? It hadn't gotten the memo.
Because when he'd said her name on the phone—low, amused, almost intimate—something in her chest had fluttered. And when he laughed after she hung up?
She'd smiled.
Just for a second.
And that scared her more than anything.
---
### 🏠 **Later That Evening – Queens Apartment**
Delilah's apartment smelled like garlic, old books, and determination.
She kicked off her heels by the door and padded into the kitchen, where her younger brother, Mateo, was hunched over a stack of medical textbooks at the tiny dining table. His dark curls were a mess, his glasses askew, and there was a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich beside his notes.
"Hey," he said without looking up. "You're late."
"Big day," Delilah replied, opening the fridge. She pulled out leftover rice and started reheating it on the stove.
Mateo finally glanced at her. "You okay? You look… tense."
"I'm fine." She stirred the rice absently. "Just closing a deal."
"The Bancroft one?"
She froze. "How do you know about that?"
Mateo shrugged. "You left the file on the couch. I saw the logo."
Delilah sighed. "I'm sorry. I'll be more careful."
"You don't have to hide it from me, Dee." He closed his book and turned fully toward her. "I know what this means for you. For us."
Her throat tightened. She didn't want him to carry that weight. He was twenty years old. He should be worrying about exams and crushes, not whether his sister could afford his tuition next semester.
"I've got it handled," she said firmly.
Mateo studied her. "Is it the Bancrofts? Are they giving you trouble?"
Delilah hesitated. "Not exactly."
"Then what?"
She turned off the stove and leaned against the counter. "It's… complicated."
Mateo raised an eyebrow. "Complicated how?"
She almost told him. Almost said, *Their son keeps looking at me like I'm the answer to a question he didn't know he was asking.* But she swallowed it down.
"Just business," she said instead.
Mateo didn't look convinced, but he let it go. "Well, don't let them walk all over you."
Delilah smiled faintly. "Never."
After dinner, she retreated to her bedroom—a small space with a twin bed, a desk, and a closet that doubled as a storage unit. She changed into sweatpants and an old NYU t-shirt, then sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her phone.
It buzzed.
> **Hunter**: You hung up on me.
She stared at the message. Her thumb hovered over the screen.
> **Delilah**: You called to flirt. I don't do flirty.
> **Hunter**: What do you do?
She exhaled sharply.
> **Delilah**: I work. I survive. I protect what's mine.
A pause. Then:
> **Hunter**: I like that about you.
Delilah set the phone face-down on the bed.
She didn't reply.
Because liking her wasn't enough.
Wanting her wasn't safe.
And needing her? That was a luxury neither of them could afford.
---
### 📞 **The Next Morning – Office**
Delilah arrived at the office at 6:30 a.m.—two hours before Tasha.
She needed quiet. Space. Clarity.
She reviewed the penthouse listing again, refining her pitch, double-checking comps, drafting a private buyer profile. She wanted this sale to be flawless. Impeccable. Unquestionable.
Because if Victoria Bancroft was watching—and Delilah knew she was—then one misstep could cost her everything.
Her phone buzzed again.
> **Hunter**: Meeting today? 10 a.m. My office?
Delilah typed back quickly.
> **Delilah**: My office. 11. Don't be late.
She hit send before she could second-guess herself.
Because she wasn't running.
She was strategizing.
And in her world, strategy always won over sentiment.
---
### 🏢 **11:00 a.m. – Rivera Realty**
Hunter arrived exactly on time.
He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms and a silver watch that probably cost more than her car. But he didn't swagger in like he owned the place. He knocked. Waited. Then stepped inside with a quiet confidence that was somehow more disarming than arrogance.
"You came," he said, offering a small smile.
"I don't run from opportunity," she replied, gesturing to the chair across from her desk.
He sat. "Good. Because I need someone who doesn't flinch."
They spent the next hour discussing the penthouse—pricing, staging, buyer vetting. Hunter was sharp, focused, and surprisingly respectful. He listened. Asked questions. Didn't interrupt.
Delilah found herself relaxing—just a little.
Until he said, "My mother doesn't know I called you."
Delilah stiffened. "Why not?"
"Because she'd sabotage it."
Delilah crossed her arms. "So this is your rebellion?"
Hunter met her gaze. "No. This is my choice."
She studied him. He looked tired—not physically, but emotionally. Like someone who'd spent years playing a role he didn't believe in.
"I don't want to be the man she raised," he said quietly. "I want to be better."
Delilah's heart softened. Just a fraction.
"Then prove it," she said. "Not with words. With actions."
Hunter nodded. "Starting with this deal."
Delilah extended her hand. "Then let's talk numbers."
He took it.
And for the first time, it felt like they were on the same side.
---
### 🌃 **That Night – Reflection**
Back in her apartment, Delilah stood on the fire escape, wrapped in a hoodie, watching the city lights flicker like distant stars.
She thought about Hunter's hand in hers—warm, firm, steady.
She thought about the way he'd looked at her when he said, *I want to be better.*
And she thought about her mother's voice, years ago, saying, *"Mija, love won't pay the bills. Hustle will."*
She'd believed that. Lived by it.
But now?
Now she wasn't so sure.
Because for the first time in her life, Delilah Rivera wasn't just fighting for survival.
She was fighting for something real.
And that terrified her more than any rejection, any eviction notice, any empty bank account ever had.
She pulled out her phone and typed a message she never thought she'd send:
> **Delilah**: Don't make me regret trusting you.
She hit send.
Then turned off her phone.
Because some risks couldn't be calculated.
And some hearts couldn't be protected.
Not even hers.
---
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