My new neighbor is a nightmare.

It’s after midnight on a Tuesday, and I’m debating whether to call security or an exorcist. 

The screeching next door suggests he’s either wrestling a demon or having sex with someone who thinks the orgasms in porn are too subtle. 

“Oh yes! Give it to me, big man!” I wince. God, I miss Ms. Kenda. At eighty-seven, she was quiet as a church mouse. Why did she have to go and die on me?

I paid far too much for this apartment to be listening to the vocal styling of what sounds like a wounded seagull. 

My phone lights up with a text. I don’t need to look to know it’s my assistant, Cinda. 

She’s a tiny package full of manic energy. 

She’s indispensable, hardworking, has a complete lack of boundaries, and she’s the only person I would let get away with texting me this late. 

Cinda (12:03 AM): Reminder: Meeting with the Breckenridge curator, Dr. Naomi Voss, at 10. Don’t wear black (again). Also, the new neighbor? I couldn’t find out much. Just that he’s in his late twenties or early thirties and single. Robert was weirdly hush-hush about it. 

Single my ass. I call her instead of replying. She picks up on the first ring.

“He’s a menace,” I say as the headboard resumes its assault on our shared wall. “I need you to bribe the super. Or hire a hitman. I’m flexible. If I wanted to hear mediocre sex, I’d watch that sex tape you made with Mace. The one you tried to convince everyone was performance art.”

Cinda snorts. “Hey! You’re just jealous I got laid. Besides, you’re the one who told me anything could be art.”

“I was wrong.”

Silence. I sigh with relief, but then a bass-heavy playlist kicks on. That’s it. “Stay on the line in case I murder him and need you to call my lawyer.”

I shrug into a short black robe, slip on the stilettos I kicked off when I got home this evening, and stalk into the hallway. The music pulses louder as I reach his door. I give three loud knocks. From the sting in my knuckles, I may have overdone it. 

The music cuts out. Then the locks click.

And then there he is.

Tall, with dark, mussed hair. Tattoos peek from under his rumpled T-shirt, and grey sweatpants cling to what’s clearly a regular gym habit. His grin is all boyish charm, dimples and all, but his eyes, dark, alert, drop to my robe’s plunging neckline before snapping back up.

“Shit,” he says, not looking sorry at all. “You must be my neighbor. I apologize for the noise. I’m Carter.” He holds out his hand, but awkwardly drops it to his side when I don’t take it. I don’t know where that thing has been. 

“Isadora.” I lean against the doorframe, glancing pointedly past him. “Is there a reason we’re treating the building like a frat house?”

Before he can answer, a woman’s arm snakes around his waist. The pretty brunette is wrapped in a towel, and her plump lips are set in a petulant pout. 

She has a full face of makeup, despite her damp hair. I see a million girls just like her come through the gallery on the arms of wealthy men. 

“Babe,” she whines, ignoring me entirely, “you didn’t join me in the shower. And why’d you turn off the music?”

Carter clears his throat. “Uh, Laura, this is my neighbor....”

Her face scrunches, and she cuts off his introduction. “It’s Lena.”

Cinda’s cackling laugh bursts from my phone, reminding me she’s still on the line. “Oh my God, this is amazing. Quick, FaceTime me. He sounds hot—”

I hang up. Biting my lip to keep from laughing, I watch as Carter’s cheeks flush. 

Lena finally looks at me. Her smile is saccharine. “Oh! Sorry if we were a little loud.” (She’s not.) She pats his chest like he’s a show pony. “Carter’s just... really passionate. You remember what it was like to be young, I’m sure.”

Pathetic. I let the silence stretch, staring into her eyes until her fingers twitch on Carter’s chest, and she looks away.

Carter rubs his neck, looking embarrassed. “We’ll keep it down. Promise.”

“See that you do, big man,” I say sweetly. Then, to the girl clinging to him like human Velcro: “It was nice meeting you, Laura.”

I walk away to the sound of her indignant whine and the distinct thud of the door closing.

I bang my head against the door the second it closes. Fuck. Me.

Great first impression, dickhead.

Laura—Shit—Lena, whatever her name is, is still chattering behind me, oblivious to my existential crisis. “Are we getting a car to take us to the party on Thursday?” she asks, flopping onto my couch and swiping through her phone like she owns the place.

Shit. 

The Laurent Gallery opening.  

I’d stupidly mentioned it tonight when she was sucking my earlobe at that damn BookTok event. 

The next book in my series is set in the art world, and I thought it would be fun to do a little hands-on research at the exclusive event. My publicist loved the idea and jumped at the chance to snag me an invitation.

Now, I’m not so sure I want to go.

“Yeah, but it’s not really a party,” I correct, scrubbing a hand over my stubble. “Industry thing. It’ll be boring. You may not want to go.”

Liar.

This night has been one huge mistake. My new neighbor’s face pops into my head.

Isadora.

Pissed off in that short robe, she’d looked like something out of a noir film. All dark waves and cutting cheekbones, the robe clinging to generous curves and showing off her long legs. 

And her voice. Low. Smoky. The kind that wraps around your spine like a whip.

She’d looked at me like I was a misbehaving puppy, amusing, but hardly worth her time. I’d spent my whole life winning over teachers, bosses, women… but her? Not even close.

And then my date had to make it worse with that “You remember what it was like to be young” bullshit.

I press my palms into my eye sockets hard enough to see stars. Pure fucking jealousy. That’s all that was. Isadora looked to be in her late thirties, possibly early forties, but she’s the kind of beautiful that makes men forget their own names. 

Or their date’s name.

And now, thanks to the noise and Lena’s childish territorial pissing, she probably thinks I’m an asshole.

Perfect. 

Just fucking perfect.

It shouldn’t matter. Except it does, because for the first time in a while, someone saw through my act and walked away unimpressed.

It’s going to make running into her around the building awkward. Maybe I should bring her some flowers and smooth things over with a better apology.

“Babe?” Lena calls. “Can I borrow a shirt to sleep in?”

I bite back a groan. Of course, she’s staying. I toss her the first t-shirt I touch from my dresser and retreat to the bathroom. The mirror reflects a man who’s made a lot of bad decisions recently. A twenty-eight-year-old idiot who forgot where he came from. 

Two years ago, I was eating ramen in a studio apartment, praying my debut novel wouldn’t flop. 

Now? A huge advance for the trilogy, studios circling for the option rights, and this is how I’m celebrating? 

Disappointing sex with some wannabe influencer. 

Lena’s voice pierces the cracked bathroom door. 

“Your neighbor’s kinda bitchy, huh?”

I stare at my reflection. “She’s not wrong about the noise. We were rude.”

A pause.

“Whatever. You’re Carter Vaughn.” She says my name like it’s a brand, not a person. A year ago, that name might have gotten me a free drink at my favorite dive bar. Now it’s a fucking hall pass for bad behavior.

That’s the thing about making it: nobody tells you how lonely it gets. How everyone starts treating you like a prop in their own story.

Success is like trading one kind of hunger for another. At least when I was scraping by, people wanted me, not just my name on their guest list. Now I’m expected to play a role that never quite fits, smiling through dinners, meetings, and interviews where I’m passed around like a party favor. 

One exception may be Isadora, who looked at me tonight like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe. My usual charm evaporated the second those hazel eyes locked onto mine. 

Lena’s still talking. “So, the party, do you think anyone famous will be there?”

I exhale. Fuck my life.

“Probably,” I say, and turn on the shower to drown out her excited squeal.