Sophia Reyes stepped out of her apartment, paintbrush still in hand, responding to the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway. A glance at her phone confirmed it was just past 11 PM—far too early for James Mitchell to be home on a Friday night.
"James?" she called out, catching sight of his broad shoulders as he fumbled with his keys, his normally fluid movements uncharacteristically jerky. "Is everything okay?"
He didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge her at all. Just shoved his key into the lock with such force that Sophia winced, expecting it to snap. In the year since she'd moved in across from him, she'd never seen James anything but composed, even after fourteen-hour workdays that would leave most people in a state of collapse.
As James practically threw himself into his apartment, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the hallway's framed artwork, Sophia stood frozen, paintbrush dripping cobalt blue onto the hardwood floor.
"What the hell?" she whispered to the empty corridor.
The James Mitchell she knew—polished, controlled, unfailingly polite—would never ignore a neighbor, let alone slam a door. He was the man who carried Mrs. Patel's groceries, who collected packages for residents who worked late, who never raised his voice even when the building's fire alarm malfunctioned at 3 AM.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Sophia approached his door, hand raised to knock, when a movement outside the building's entrance caught her attention. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the corridor, she spotted the sleek black town car that had been parked momentarily in their building's circular driveway now pulling away, its tinted windows concealing whoever had dropped James off.
But Sophia didn't need to see the passenger to know exactly who it was.
Victoria Sharp. The woman whose name James never discussed in detail but always defended fiercely whenever she was mentioned. In their year as neighbors, Sophia had learned that James kept his work life intensely private, but the few times Victoria's name had come up in conversation, his response had been immediate—a subtle straightening of his shoulders, a careful, measured defense of his boss that revealed more than he probably intended.
Making a split-second decision, Sophia rushed to the elevator, jabbing the button repeatedly. When it didn't immediately arrive, she darted to the emergency stairwell, taking the steps two at a time in her bare feet, paintbrush still clutched in her hand like an absurd weapon.
She burst through the lobby doors just as the town car was turning onto the main street. Though the vehicle was too far away to make out details, Sophia could see the outline of a woman in the back seat, her posture rigid and formal even through the tinted glass.
So that was Victoria Sharp. The brilliant, beautiful CEO who commanded James's complete devotion. Sophia had never met her, but she'd built a mental image from Google and fragments James had carefully not said—the way he protected any mention of her, the weekends he spent preparing materials no normal assistant would be expected to deliver, the way he deflected questions about his work with practiced ease.
The town car disappeared around a corner, leaving Sophia standing alone in the cool night air, her heart pounding with exertion and something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy.
What had happened tonight? She'd seen James's face for only a moment, but it had been enough to register the flush across his cheekbones, the wildness in his usually composed expression. He'd looked like a man barely containing himself—a volcano on the verge of eruption.
Slowly, Sophia made her way back upstairs, her mind racing with possibilities. When she reached their shared hallway, she paused outside James's door. She could hear movement inside—heavy footsteps pacing, the sound of something hitting a wall with force.
Concern mingled with an unexpected heat that pooled low in her stomach. She knocked, three sharp raps.
"James? It's Sophia. Are you okay?"
The footsteps inside stopped abruptly. Silence stretched for so long that Sophia was about to knock again when his voice finally came through the door.
"I'm fine, Sophia. Just—just a long day."
His voice was rougher than she'd ever heard it, a gravelly edge that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. This wasn't the polished, controlled James she knew—this was something raw, primal even. The sound of a man stripped of his careful defenses.
And God help her, it was sexy as hell.
"You don't sound fine," she pressed, fighting to keep her own voice steady. "Can I come in? Maybe bring you a drink? You look like you could use one."
More silence, then a sound that might have been a bitter laugh. "Not tonight. I appreciate it, but I just need some space."
Sophia rested her forehead against his door, torn between concern and a sudden, fierce desire to see James Mitchell completely undone. She'd spent a year admiring him from a distance—his perfect composure, his immaculate appearance, his unfailing politeness. But this glimpse of the man beneath that polished exterior was infinitely more compelling.
"Okay," she said finally. "But I'm right across the hall if you need anything. Even just to talk."
She thought she heard a sigh, then: "Thanks, Sophia. I'm sorry about... earlier. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, James."
She lingered for a moment longer, then reluctantly returned to her apartment, closing the door softly behind her.
Instead of returning to her canvas, Sophia went straight to the small balcony that overlooked the city. The night air was cool against her skin as she leaned against the railing, still clutching her forgotten paintbrush.
What had Victoria Sharp done to put that look on James's face? What had happened in that town car? The flush on his cheeks, the wildness in his eyes, the roughness in his voice—all pointed to something intensely personal. Something that had nothing to do with spreadsheets or presentations or client meetings.
Sophia felt her competitive instincts flare to life as the most likely scenario crystallized in her mind. Something had happened between James and Victoria tonight—something physical, something charged with the kind of energy that left a man looking exactly as James had looked in that hallway.
Sophia took a deep breath, trying to calm the jealousy that twisted through her at the thought. For a year, she'd watched James come and go—always impeccably dressed, always perfectly controlled, always maintaining a friendly but careful distance. She'd invited him for drinks, asked him to model for her paintings, tried to draw him out with conversation that went beyond neighborly pleasantries.
And all that time, he'd been devoted to another woman. A woman who, judging by tonight's evidence, either didn't appreciate what she had or had finally decided to acknowledge it in some complicated way.
Sophia returned inside, pouring herself a generous glass of wine and sinking onto her couch, her thoughts still across the hall with her neighbor.
She'd been drawn to James Mitchell from the moment she'd moved in—initially attracted by his movie-star looks, then increasingly intrigued by the intelligence and depth behind his reserved demeanor. Their conversations over shared bottles of wine had revealed glimpses of a man who was far more complex than his polished exterior suggested.
But always, always, there had been an invisible barrier. A part of James that remained inaccessible, no matter how warm their friendship became. Sophia had assumed it was simply his nature—reserved, private, somewhat formal—but now she wondered if that barrier had a name. Victoria Sharp.
Sophia took a long drink of wine, remembering James's face as he'd fumbled with his key. It wasn't vulnerability she'd glimpsed there, but raw, repressed desire—a hunger so intense it had transformed his usually handsome features into something almost feral. The sight had shocked her, yes, but it had also sent a bolt of answering heat through her own body.
That was the James Mitchell she wanted to know—the man behind the perfect suits and careful words. The man who could look like that, feel like that, want like that. She'd spent countless hours imagining what it would take to crack his composed exterior, to see him truly unleashed. And now she knew someone had managed it.
Victoria Sharp had unlocked something in James that Sophia had only ever pictured hints of. And that knowledge burned like acid in her stomach.
She was still contemplating this when her phone chimed with a text message. Her heart leapt, thinking it might be James, but it was only her friend Elise asking about tomorrow's gallery opening.
Still bringing your hot neighbor? I've got people I want him to meet!
Sophia stared at the message, remembering their conversation earlier that day when she'd impulsively mentioned she might bring James to the exhibition. It had been wishful thinking then—James had never accepted her invitations to anything outside their building—but now...
Now, James was in a state she'd never seen before. Something had happened with Victoria Sharp, something that had shaken his careful control. And in that disruption, there might be an opportunity.
I'll let you know tomorrow, she texted back. I have a good feeling about it this time.
Setting her phone aside, Sophia moved to her easel where the commissioned piece for the hedge fund manager sat unfinished. But her hand, when she picked up a fresh brush, strayed instead to a blank canvas leaning against the wall. Almost without conscious thought, she began to sketch a familiar jawline, the particular set of shoulders she'd admired from afar for months.