Katrina Colt: My Anal bonus for Client!

Slinky and sophisticated, Katrina is the comeliest up-and-comer in the LA real estate game. When a big-time buyer takes an interest in one of her listings, Katrina shows him some additional built-in features that come with this hot property.

The hills of Bel Air had never looked more golden than they did that Tuesday afternoon, the late California sun setting everything ablaze with that particular light that made people pay millions for a view. Katrina stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Glass House—as the property was known in architectural circles—and allowed herself a small moment of satisfaction. She’d landed this listing against three other agencies, convinced the owner that her fresh perspective would reach buyers the old guard couldn’t. Now all she needed was the right client.

Her phone buzzed. Her assistant’s name flashed on the screen.

“He’s here. Black Range Rover, pulling through the gate now.”

Katrina smoothed her already impeccable blazer, checked her reflection in the glass, and composed her features into professional warmth. This was the moment she’d been working toward for five years—since she’d moved to LA with nothing but a real estate license and enough ambition to frighten her more cautious family members.

The elevator chimed, and Marcus Sterling stepped into the penthouse.

He was not what she expected. The photos she’d found online showed a man in his fifties, silver-haired and distinguished, the kind of tech billionaire who’d made his fortune in the early days of the internet and now spent his time collecting art and properties. The man who walked toward her was younger than his pictures, with dark hair only lightly touched with gray at the temples, and eyes that assessed everything with quick intelligence. He was tall, fit, dressed in a suit that cost more than most people’s cars. And when he smiled at her, something in Katrina’s carefully calibrated professional demeanor flickered.

“Katrina?” His voice was warm, with a hint of amusement. “I’m Marcus Sterling. Though I suspect you already knew that.”

“Mr. Sterling.” She extended her hand, pleased that her grip was steady. “Welcome to the Glass House. You have excellent taste—this is one of the most unique properties in the city.”

“Please, call me Marcus.” He held her hand a moment longer than necessary, then released it to survey the space. “And I don’t know about taste. I know what I like. Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

The tour that followed was pure professional theater. Katrina knew every inch of this property, had memorized the square footage, the ceiling heights, the names of the Italian marble in the bathrooms and the German engineering in the kitchen. She pointed out the retractable glass walls, the infinity pool that seemed to pour into the city below, the home automation system that controlled everything from lighting to climate to security.

Marcus followed her through the rooms, asking intelligent questions, but his attention seemed divided between the property and Katrina herself. She caught him watching her more than once, his expression unreadable but not unwelcome.

“How long have you been in real estate?” he asked as they stepped onto the wraparound terrace.

“Five years. Though it feels like longer.” She leaned against the railing, the city sprawling beneath them. “I started in residential in West Hollywood, worked my way up. This is my first luxury listing in Bel Air.”

“First? You’d never know it. You handle yourself like a veteran.”

The compliment warmed her more than it should have. “Thank you. I’ve prepared for this my whole career.”

“I can tell.” He moved to stand beside her at the railing, close enough that she could smell his cologne—something subtle and expensive. “Tell me something, Katrina. In your experience, what separates a good property from a great one?”

She considered the question seriously, the way she considered everything related to her work. “Details. Anyone can buy square footage and nice finishes. But the properties that really sell—the ones people remember—they have details that tell a story. The way light falls at a certain time of day. A view that makes you feel something. Spaces that anticipate how you want to live before you know yourself.”

Marcus was quiet for a moment, studying her. “And what story does this property tell?”

“This one says you’ve arrived. That you’ve worked hard and succeeded and now you deserve something that reflects who you’ve become.” She met his eyes. “It says you’re not just wealthy—you’re sophisticated. You appreciate design, craftsmanship, the things most people never notice.”

“Most people,” he repeated slowly. “But you notice them.”

“I make it my business to notice.”

The silence that stretched between them felt charged, electric with something neither of them named. Then Marcus smiled—a different smile than before, warmer somehow, less guarded.

“Show me the rest,” he said. “The parts most people don’t notice.”

Katrina led him through the property again, but differently this time. She pointed out the custom millwork that blended seamlessly into the walls, the way the architect had positioned windows to capture the morning light in the bedroom, the hidden speakers in the ceiling that delivered concert-quality sound without a single visible wire. She showed him the wine cellar, climate-controlled and curated with bottles from the owner’s personal collection. She showed him the rooftop garden, accessible only through a hidden staircase, where olive trees grew in planters and the view stretched to the ocean.

“This is where I’d have my coffee,” Marcus said quietly, standing among the trees. “Every morning. Just… this.”

Katrina watched him, seeing the tension in his shoulders ease for the first time since he’d arrived. This was the moment she lived for—the moment a client stopped seeing a property and started seeing a home.

“It could be yours,” she said softly. “If you want it.”

He turned to look at her, and something in his expression shifted. “What about you? Is this where you’d have your coffee?”

The question caught her off guard. “I… I don’t usually think about myself in the properties I show.”

“Indulge me.”

She considered the question honestly. “I’d probably be too busy to sit. There’s always something to do, somewhere to be. But if I did stop…” She looked around at the garden, the city below, the sky beginning to deepen into evening. “Yeah. This would be the spot.”

Marcus nodded slowly. “Then it’s a good spot.”

They stood in comfortable silence as the sun finished its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple. Katrina was acutely aware of his presence beside her, the warmth of his arm inches from hers, the way the fading light caught the silver at his temples.

“Katrina,” he said eventually, “I’m going to be honest with you. I’ve looked at seventeen properties in the past three months. Good ones. Beautiful ones. Places I could have bought without a second thought.”

“And?”

“And none of them felt right. Not until now.” He turned to face her fully. “But I’m not sure if it’s the property I’m responding to, or the person showing it to me.”

Katrina’s heart skipped. “Mr. Sterling—”

“Marcus.”

“Marcus.” She took a breath, steadying herself. “I’m flattered. Truly. But I’m also a professional, and you’re a client, and—”

“I haven’t made an offer yet.” His voice was gentle, unpressuring. “Technically, I’m just a man looking at a property with a beautiful woman. No deal has been struck. No commission is on the line.”

She laughed despite herself. “That’s some impressive legal reasoning.”

“I have good lawyers.” He smiled. “Look, I’m not trying to make this complicated. I’m just… I’ve spent twenty years building a company. I’ve been married, divorced, learned a lot of lessons the hard way. One thing I’ve learned is that when something feels right, you don’t ignore it. You explore it. Carefully. Respectfully. But you don’t pretend it isn’t there.”

Katrina looked at him—really looked, past the billionaire exterior to the person underneath. She saw intelligence, yes, but also loneliness. Ambition that had cost him something. A desire for connection that money couldn’t buy.

“What would exploring look like?” she asked.

“Dinner. Tomorrow night. Somewhere private where we can talk without thinking about square footage and sight lines. Just two people, seeing if they might like each other.” He held up a hand. “No pressure. No expectations. Just… a conversation.”

She should say no. She knew she should say no. This was every cautionary tale she’d ever heard about mixing business with pleasure, about jeopardizing a career for a moment of connection. But she also knew that opportunities like this didn’t come often—not just the property, but the person. The chance to meet someone who saw her, actually saw her, beyond the professional facade.

“One dinner,” she said slowly. “And if it doesn’t work, we go back to business as usual. You buy the house or you don’t, but our professional relationship stays professional.”

“Agreed.” He extended his hand. “Deal?”

She took it. His grip was warm, firm, exactly right. “Deal.”

They rode down in the elevator together, the city lights beginning to glitter below them. In the parking garage, Marcus paused at his Range Rover.

“Tomorrow night. I’ll send a car.”

“You don’t need to—”

“I want to.” He smiled again, that warmer smile she was beginning to look forward to. “Goodnight, Katrina. Thank you for showing me the features most people miss.”

She watched him drive away, then stood alone in the garage for a long moment, processing what had just happened. She’d come here to sell a house. She might leave with something entirely different.

Her phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number.

“By the way, I’m buying the house. We can discuss terms tomorrow. But I wanted you to know—you earned this sale. No strings attached. – M”

Katrina stared at the message, then laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the concrete space. He’d bought the house. Before dinner, before anything else, he’d bought the house on its merits—and on hers. Whatever happened tomorrow night, she’d already won.

She typed back: “Congratulations on your new home. I’ll have the paperwork ready. And Marcus?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For seeing clearly.”

His response came immediately: “I always do. See you tomorrow, Katrina.”

She walked to her car with a lighter step than she’d had in months. In the hills above, the Glass House glowed like a beacon, waiting for its new owner. And somewhere in the city below, a man was waiting too—for a conversation, a connection, a chance at something neither of them had expected to find in a real estate showing.

The additional built-in features, it turned out, weren’t in the house at all.