Chapter 2
"Dreams," Fleetwood Mac
Victoria
On my fifth birthday, my parents surprised me with a trip to FAO Schwarz in Rockefeller Center to negotiate the purchase of my Barbie Dream House. I informed the manager, “I’ll take the upgraded floor model, with the elevator and two-story pool slide.”
He shook his head. “That display isn’t for sale.”
Glee filled my chest as he withered under my father’s cool gaze. Dad’s hand squeezed my shoulder, prompting me to repeat what he’d taught me: “Everything is for sale, for the right price.”
Growing up in a real estate dynasty taught me to plan for all contingencies, never waiving the inspection or leaving anything to chance.
So when my meticulously planned life fell apart and I ended up in a podunk city in Upstate New York—200 miles from the closest Neiman Marcus, for Christ’s sake—I decided to indulge in retail therapy by purchasing a 6400-square-foot commercial building …
and maybe those Prada patent leather slingbacks I’d been eyeing to match.
When I arrived last week, Alexander was borrowing space in his dad’s office, housed in a humble bungalow. Even the word felt dirty. “Bung,” a mashup of bum and dung, and “low,” reminding me I’d fallen on my ass.
I needed to get out of there, stat.
After eleven showings of uninspiring strip malls facing parking lots, my hopes for adequate office space were dwindling.
Our real estate agent Lawrence spent the morning looking down my dress instead of explaining the amenities, which was fine because I'd learned more about real estate by my tenth birthday than he ever would.
Although Alexander had witnessed men blatantly ogling me—including our law school professors and firm partners—he’d ignored it for years. But now, after a few weeks around his feminist sister, he was growling like a caveman.
Frankly, it was annoying. I could take care of my damned self.
When Alexander whined about lunch, I put an extra swing into my step to draw Lawrence’s attention and Alexander’s ire … stopping in my tracks at a Greek revival with FOR LEASE commercial signage out front.
I flicked my fingertips to Lawrence for the specs. While he fumbled, Alexander tried to veto the property for being too large. I didn’t budge, impatiently demanding access. After a day of Berber carpet and styrofoam ceilings, I needed to bask in something beautiful.
As soon as Lawrence unlocked the door, I felt what I’d been missing: that rare buzz along my skin when something I desired was in my reach.
Although he tried to guide us upstairs right away to the vacant office space, I ignored his prompts, choosing to inspect the ground floor retail unit, admiring the white oak floors and giant street-facing windows.
It had been a women’s clothing boutique, but this building’s side street entrance didn’t get enough foot traffic to sustain the margins. The location would be better suited for a salon or spa, somewhere that drew repeat customers.
The middle floor was occupied by an insurance company, which my father always said was a solid tenant, second only to financial firms. My family’s properties relied on Wall Street investment banking tenants, but stockbrokers wouldn’t be caught dead this far upstate.
Lawrence encouraged me to lead the way up the final staircase—probably to check out my ass—to the vacant third floor.
The building’s top level. Where I belonged.
Not the 78th floor where I’d cut my teeth, but the closest to be found in this second-rate city.
The previous occupant, a nanotech firm, had outgrown the space. Cubicles filled the main area, surrounded by small private offices. No surprise the real estate company was struggling to rent this ugly space.
But my mom always taught me to see beyond reality into the potential.
I could walk through their boring foyer and envision a giant Blackstone & Clarke logo behind the reception desk.
I looked past the gray cubicle farm to visualize our conference table.
I imagined those five tiny private offices turned into two large executive suites, one for each founding partner—I’d take the larger one overlooking the street.
Alexander was correct: This space was twice what we needed for our small firm. Leasing a smaller space would be the smart—albeit conservative—financial move.
But the stately Greek revival reminded me of all the properties my mom purchased because they spoke to her soul, finding the perfect tenants to turn them into long-term assets.
Blackstone & Clarke could be the flagship tenant until Alexander came to his senses.
When we moved away, the upgraded space would rent for more than its current listing and I’d pocket the profits.
I may have walked away from my family’s business 13 years ago, but Sinclair blood still pumped in my veins.
And Sinclairs don’t rent.
Over the cubicle walls, Alexander’s scowl deepened.
Just like this building, I’d discovered him as a lump of coal and polished him into a diamond.
He looked good here, his charcoal suit complimenting my vision as the indirect light from the late afternoon sun made his raven strands shine almost blue.
When Forbes called, we’d pitch a trip upstate to show off our humble roots. Flyover states eat up small-town origin stories.
“I have to make a phone call,” I said, breaking the silence.
Alexander’s eyes widened in disbelief, knowing the limited reasons I consulted outside advice.
“Give us a minute, Larry,” he said, gently taking my elbow to drag me out of the realtor’s earshot into a tiny private office. “You can’t be serious.”
“We’ll need to hire junior attorneys and paralegals soon, we should prepare for expansion.” Although we’ll have moved before that point.
“But what if we don’t expand?” Alexander asked.
Seriously? What was his problem?
I crossed my arms. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“I didn’t ask you to move here so we could recreate what we hated about Hamilton & Houghton or—” When I tensed, he shifted his weight. “We can do this our way. Make our own rules.”
“Where do you propose we work?”
“My dad said we—”
“No,” I snapped. Alexander had told me we’d be Blackstone & Clarke, but the Clarke & Associates sign outside that awful bungalow mocked me.
“So we find somewhere else. And we definitely don’t need to hire that creep,” he said, clearing his throat to get Lawrence to avert his eyes from my ass.
“I’ve dealt with worse,” I shrugged.
“That’s my point,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair. “You shouldn’t have to.”
I understood his argument, but no way could I let him win this one. If I was going to live in his hometown, surrounded by his family, I wanted our office to be mine—not some random place I hated.
‘Do it right the first time and you won’t waste time fixing your mistakes,’ my father always said. Then my mom added, ‘That’s why we only had you, Vickie. We got it right the first time.’
My bottom lip tried to quiver before I tightened it. I lifted my chin to meet his eyes—ugh, he was so obnoxiously tall that even in 4-inch stilettos I still had to look up—and said crisply, “You chose the city. I choose the office.”
Tense silence passed between us as frustration simmered in his eyes.
Five years ago, he would have conceded defeat, but I’d taken the calculated risk of teaching him my father’s negotiation strategies.
Our standoff could last hours. But I had an ace up my sleeve—especially if I led him to believe it was his idea.
“Although I’d have to find a tenant for that ground floor unit,” I said, chewing my lip to appear contemplative. “I’m thinking a salon or spa, a business in the wellness space.”
He stared blankly, my obvious hint still dangling.
“How big is your sister’s studio, anyway?”
“About 900 square feet,” he answered, still not getting it.
“And her classes sell out, right?”
The recognition dawned. Finally. All his gruffness melted at the thought of his sister, the sentimental chump. “Maybe her studio would work there.”
“That's not a bad idea,” I said before going for the kill. “Doesn't Grace work there too? She could visit you up here.”
Although my gut soured, when his eyes softened, I knew I had him. My desire for this property outweighed the annoyance of his peppy not-yet-ex-girlfriend’s visits.
He looked around the open space and threw a curveball. “Mallory’s been bugging me about taking over her business incubator. Could we host the meetings here?”
Ugh, small businesses were peanuts compared to enterprise-level corporations, but I'd agree to get out of that bungalow.
“We can accommodate them in this larger space.”
He dropped his arms in defeat. “Fine, call him.”
I moved to another private office, glancing out the window at the view I hoped would be mine. I suppressed all my emotions to navigate this conversation with pure logic—if he sensed any weakness, the pressure to move back to Manhattan would only escalate.
I tapped the second name on my speed dial.
He answered on the first ring. “Arthur Blackstone.”
“I sent you a listing: 6400 square feet, three stories. Decent parking, half mile from Broadway. We’d split the top floor, second-floor in-place lease, and strong candidate for the ground floor vacancy.”
A soft hum, a few clicks. “Start at 4.2, walk at 4.8.”
“I would have gone to 5.”
Another hum. “You must like it. Do you have the cash? Or want an early birthday present?”
I chuckled. Ordinary girls might get jewelry or perfume as gifts … but he always told me I’m extraordinary. “I got this one. Thanks, Dad.”
I told Lawrence, “Tell the developers I’ll give them 4.2 million for the whole property.”
His jaw dropped open. “It’s … it’s not for sale.”
“Everything is for sale, for the right price,” I countered. “If we can get occupancy within a month, make it 4.4. Cash.”
I wanted this building. Now.
Lawrence recovered from his surprise, mouth lifting into a smug grin. “I’m sure we can work something out. Now should you and I get drinks to celebrate?”
“Cool it, Larry,” Alexander growled.
Lawrence looked chagrined before his gaze turned lusty again. “When I woke up this morning, I never dreamed my new client would be a beautiful girl with millions in cash.”
I bristled at being called a ‘girl’—the only worse insult would be ‘Vickie.’ I bit back a retort as his eyes dropped not-so-subtly to my cleavage. “When I know what I want, I don’t hesitate.”