Page 2 of Guilty Pleasures

As he saunters away, I’m left seething, hardly able to form words. Fortunately, a few colorful ones emerge from my tight lips. “Silas Fraser, you pompous little troll. Don’t you dare return tomorrow! You said this was your final offer, and I’ve given you my final reply.”

Silas turns to face me, and his arrogant smile fades into a scowl. The corners of his mouth twitch with anger, and his eyes transform into dark slits. “Don’t make me angry, Harper,” he growls through gritted teeth. “You won’t like me when I’m angry.”

I roll my eyes and give him a dismissive wave, unimpressed by his threatening tone. “Please, stop embarrassing yourself,” I reply coolly. A small smirk plays at the corner of my lips as I watch him bristle with frustration before storming away. As he disappears from view, I let out a satisfied sigh and return to my work, confident I’ll see him again soon.

CHAPTER 2

SILAS

Istill remember the day I got the keys to the old La Belle Epoque Hotel. My grandfather’s pride and joy, once the crown jewel of Manhattan’s luxury accommodations, then a faded relic barely clinging to its former glory. As I stood in the dusty lobby, memories of childhood visits flooded back—the gleaming marble floors, the ornate chandeliers, and the impeccably dressed doormen had become nothing more than shadows and cobwebs.

Gramps had let it go in his final years, too stubborn to sell and too tired to maintain it properly. When he passed, leaving me that albatross around my neck, I knew I had a choice to make. I could sell it off for a fraction of its potential value or take a risk.

I chose risk. I poured every cent into the stock market, riding the waves of volatility with white knuckles and sleepless nights. When I scraped together enough capital, I started small—buying run-down properties, fixing them up, and flipping them for a tidy profit.

With each success, I set my sights higher. Apartment buildings, office complexes, retail spaces—I saw potential where others saw decay. All the while, La Belle Epoque loomed in my mind, waiting for its turn at redemption.

Now, twelve years later, it’s the jewel of Park Avenue. But this time, it shines far brighter than it did in my childhood memories. La Belle Epoque isn’t just a luxury hotel—it’s the cornerstone of my real estate empire. And I’m just getting started. I won’t let Harper Brooks ruin it with her pink explosion.

“Can you believe this, Margo?” I growl, gesturing at the offending storefront. “In the Pink—what kind of asinine name is that for a business? It looks like a child’s dream come to life, with bright colors and oversized letters splashed across the facade. I shudder at the thought of my high-end clientele having to walk past it to reach my hotel.”

Margo’s fingers pause on her tablet, her eyes widening with excitement as they follow my gaze. “Oh, it’s finally open!” she exclaims. “I’ve been dying to check it out. I ran into Harper Brooks at the coffeehouse on the corner, and she gave me a coupon for the grand opening.” Her voice is filled with giddiness and admiration. “Her social media presence is insane,” she continues, scrolling through the shop’s colorful Instagram feed. “I’ve already saved several of her posts and added them to my shopping list.”

I turn toward her, feeling a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “You can’t be serious,” I scoff. “That tacky little shop will drive down property values and cheapen the entire block.” My gaze lingers on the store, taking in its gaudy signage and chaotic display windows. Harper Brooks has so much potential. She’s fucking beautiful, and I love the way she challenges me. It’s been over a decade since a woman has had the brass balls to talk to me like she does. It turns me on far more than it pisses me off. But the thought of her horrible store becoming a permanent fixture so close to my hotel fills me with dread.

Margo shakes her head, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. “Silas, you’re overreacting. It’s just a harmless boutique. And from what I’ve heard, their products are quite high-end and popular with the younger crowd.”

“Younger crowd,” I groan. “La Belle Epoque caters to a discerning clientele of all ages. We don’t need some trendy pop-up shop attracting selfie-taking teenagers to loiter outside my five-star establishment.”

But Margo is barely listening, her attention back on her tablet as she scrolls through what I can only assume is In the Pink’s website. “Oh, they’re giving away pink rhinestone clutches to the first hundred customers on opening day. I better text my friends.”

I sink into my leather chair, pinching the bridge of my nose. I’ll get no sympathy from Margo, and the more I try, the more she’s bound to piss me off. I’ll have to take matters into my own hands to rid Park Avenue of Harper’s pink pestilence.

I pace back and forth in my office, tapping my chin as I mull over ideas. Margo sits at her desk, pointedly focused on her computer screen and trying her best to ignore me.

“What if we spread rumors that her products cause skin rashes?” I muse aloud, only joking, but raising my voice to ensure she can hear me from the hall. “Or maybe we could hire teenagers to loiter outside and scare away customers?”

Margo’s fingers freeze over her keyboard. She slowly turns to face me, her expression a mix of exasperation and disbelief. “Cut it out. You’re acting like that grumpy old man, Mr. Wilson, trying to throw Dennis the Menace off his block.”

“I’m not old.”

Sighing heavily, Margo pushes her glasses up her nose. “Then stop acting like it. It’s boring and beneath you. Besides, it’s an upscale boutique. You’re acting like it’s a biker’s bar.”

A grin spreads across my face as inspiration strikes. “I’ve got it. What about targeting their suppliers? If we can disrupt their inventory…”

“That’s pretty low,” Margo says with a frown.

“Get me a list of their main vendors. We’ll see about making them some offers they can’t refuse. No doubt I can make them disrupt or delay her deliveries. It won’t put her out busines––just cause be an annoyance.”

Margo scribbles furiously. “That’s very immature. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” I say, turning to Margo, who is already typing away on her computer. “Let’s look into their lease agreement. We must exploit some sort of loophole to get them evicted.”

Margo shoots me a disapproving look as she speaks up. “Just for the record, this isn’t like you. Why so much anger over a pink store?I have a feeling there’s something you’re not telling me. Did Harper reject your advances?”

I scoff at her words, my eyes still locked on the tiny figure with outstretched arms surveying her new pink kingdom. “Absolutely not,” I rasp. “She’s not my type.” I turn away, uncomfortable telling such a bold lie. Margo’s always been annoyingly perceptive, but I hardly

I walk toward the window and lean against it, pretending to study the busy street below while my eyes are fixed on her. Harper. Even from twenty stories up, I'd recognize that graceful figure anywhere. She's standing in front of her little shop, supervising the installation of that horrible pink awning, oblivious to my gaze. Why does the women who infuriates me most, make me so fucking hot?

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