The Nightclub Owner's Vice

1. Michelle

MICHELLE

Don’t look desperate.

Buyers can smell desperation on a realtor the way sharks smell blood in the water. Show even a flicker of need, and their offer drops twenty percent.

So I play the part.

Even as Pierce Real Estate slips through my fingers.

I show up looking like I’ve already closed the deal: crisp white skirt suit, eyeliner winged with precision, platinum hair masking the grays creeping in at thirty-seven. It’s all calculated. Because confidence doesn’t have to be real.

It just has to look it.

I’m standing near the concierge desk inside The Union, one of Alton Hill’s newest apartment towers. They all have names like that now. Short, declarative, vaguely upscale. A little branding meant to set them apart, at least before they inevitably start to blur together.

It’s a nice place. Luxurious in the way everything in this price range is. The air still smells faintly of drywall and fresh paint.

Max, my maddening associate, told me there’d be four potential buyers. Only three have shown. We’re waiting on the last.

The two women, both named Jennifer, haven’t looked up from their phones since they walked in.

But it’s Preston Russell I’m watching. An investor.

I’ve sold to him before. I know the signs.

He’s done two slow laps of the lobby. Asked a few targeted questions.

I bet he’s going to make an offer. I can feel it. And thank god for that.

If Preston buys this apartment, I’ll finally close the gap between me and my brother, Vinnie. I’ll be within striking distance.

There are only eighty-seven days left in our father’s twisted contest. He didn’t have the spine to name a successor while he was alive, so he left us a competition instead. One year. Whoever racks up the most sales takes the agency. The loser walks away with nothing.

I’ve been chasing my tail this whole time, always a step behind. Now I’m running out of time.

I watch the entrance. I should really get Preston upstairs and get started, but I can’t leave a potential buyer stranded in the lobby. If they actually show up.

In this business, you never really know who’s going to make an offer. Someone can walk in dressed like money, ask a million questions, take a contract and vanish. Meanwhile, the guy in jeans who barely looks around might sign that same day.

I’ve learned not to judge. Everyone gets treated like they’re the buyer.

Still, I can’t wait all day.

Preston clears his throat behind me.

That’s my cue.

“This way.” I lead the group to the elevator, the picture of practiced ease. “The marble down here cost a fortune. But the real money went into the quiet upstairs. You’ll understand when we reach the fifteenth floor.”

When we’re all inside, I hit the button. The doors begin to slide shut.

“The ascent is part of the experience—” I start.

A hand shoots into the gap and the doors jerk open. A man steps in and the air shifts, tightening around the space he occupies.

Something low in my stomach twists. I’m used to powerful men.

They move through my world every day, and I know their scent and their currency without thinking about it.

With him, though, the reaction is different.

His presence settles the room around him, steady and unquestioned.

Like the world doesn’t adjust itself for him. It gives way.

His eyes meet mine, deep brown and unreadable. Then I take in the rest of him. The sharp line of his collar against his throat, the rough shadow of a beard along a strong jaw, and a straight, almost elegant nose that only makes the rest of him seem more dangerous.

He gives me a once-over that feels more like an appraisal than a look. I swallow, gathering myself, but before I can speak, he cuts in.

“So. You’re Michelle.”

He says it like it confirms something for him. What, I have no idea. Then he turns his back to me, facing the elevator doors as they close, like the conversation’s already over.

I swallow again, pushing down a flicker of irritation. He’s late, and he’s not exactly charming, but he’s still a potential buyer.

There’s something familiar about him, though I can’t quite place it. Was he at the gala last month? Maybe something in commercial sales?

I offer a polite smile he can’t see. “And you are?”

“Dean,” he says, like that’s all I need to know.

Alright then.

“As I was saying,” I continue, turning back to the Jennifers and Preston with a smile that feels just a little too tight, “the elevators are among the fastest in the city. Efficiency is a theme here.”

I think I hear Dean laugh through his nose, barely. I tell myself I imagined it and push ahead, finishing the pitch.

“It means less time in transit, more time enjoying—”

The elevator dings, cutting me off. The doors slide open onto a pristine, silent hallway.

Dean steps out first and takes the lead. He’s too broad to see around, like a linebacker in a suit. He moves with an unnerving certainty, like he’s been here before. But I bet he hasn’t. He’s just that kind of man. Sure-footed on any terrain.

He stops at the apartment door and slides his hands into his pockets, turning just enough to glance back at me like I’m the one keeping him waiting.

I step around him and tap the black sensor beside the handle with my access chip. The lock clicks open with a satisfying sound.

“Touch-free entry,” I say, my voice slipping easily back into sales mode. “Secure, modern and seamless.”

Dean’s eyes flick from the sensor to me. “Also clone-able,” he says, flat. “I’d install a real lock.”

I pause, just for a beat, letting that hang in the air.

“You’re welcome to install whatever hardware you like,” I reply. The door swings open. “Assuming you’re the one buying.”

He doesn’t answer. He just steps inside. The others follow.

I take a breath, and reclaim the room. “Now, the first thing you’ll notice,” I say, guiding them toward the window, “is the view.”

It’s a clean skyline, good angle. Nothing unique for the price, but buyers eat it up. The Jennifers look impressed. Preston, less so. He’s seen it all before. And Dean looks like I’ve shown him a rat infestation.

I steer everyone into the kitchen, hitting the talking points. Imported marble. Smart home integration. The luxury touches that move units in this market. “And this,” I say, “is the heart of the home. The Calacatta island—”

Dean runs a hand along the countertop. “Stains if you look at it wrong.”

I keep my smile perfectly in place. “Then don’t look at it wrong.”

He gestures to the professional range. “This kitchen is a disaster if you actually cook. The stove’s in the wrong spot. It’s a bottleneck.”

“For an apartment at this level, meals are usually delivered, not cooked. The layout is designed for entertaining.”

Before he can fire back, I turn on my heel. “Now, if you’ll follow me to the primary suite, the real ‘wow’ factor is just through here.”

I guide them through the spacious walk-in closet and into the lavish ensuite, highlighting the custom tile work and the freestanding tub.

Dean doesn’t follow us in. He just lingers in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

His eyes make a slow, dismissive sweep of the room.

The verdict is clear: wholly unimpressed.

He trails the rest of the tour like a dark cloud, offering a quiet, critical comment here and there.

By the time we circle back to the living area, my professional smile has become fixed and painful.

Selling a place is hard enough without an active saboteur.

Either he’s just an asshole, or he’s trying to scare off the other buyers so he can lowball me later.

My money’s on the former.

Preston seems completely unfazed by Dean’s comments. He stays engaged, nodding along, while the two Jennifers trail behind, absorbed in their phones.

“And this,” I say, tapping my tablet and realizing I’ve called every feature the ‘real gem’ or ‘main event,’ “brings us to the most practical luxury. The on-site private garage. Secured access, full valet capability, 2 spaces per unit. It’s virtually unheard of in this zip code.”

I see it land. Preston raises his eyebrows, impressed. One of the Jennifers even looks up from her phone.

Then a voice cuts through from behind me.

“Actually, the garage isn’t part of the building,” Dean says.

I turn to face him, my expression carefully schooled. “Sorry?” I ask.

He lifts his chin a fraction, addressing the whole group now. “It’s in the lease terms. The garage belongs to the neighboring parcel. This building just rents it. The lease expires in four years with no guarantee of renewal.”

I feel the air shift. Behind me, I can almost hear Preston’s focus snap into place.

“That’s a very common arrangement,” I say. “Long-term easements are standard with shared lots. It is incredibly likely the lease will renew. There is simply no reason it wouldn’t.”

“And there is no guarantee that it will. Which makes it a tangible risk. Personally, I wouldn’t take it.”

My spine straightens. Is he serious right now?

“There’s also no guarantee a drag-racing strip won’t be built across the street,” I say evenly. “Cities evolve. Properties change. I’m selling this unit, not every hypothetical what-if for the next decade.”

“Sure,” he says easily. “But if you’re selling long-term value and investment, then future variables are the point.”

He’s right, of course but my expression gives nothing away.

“For any detailed questions,” I tell the group, my voice polished and bright, “my office is the perfect place to discuss them.”

I get through the parting formalities. The Jennifers drift out. Preston lingers just long enough to be polite, but he sidesteps every suggestion for a follow-up, slipping away before I can press him.

Then, it’s just Dean. He hasn’t moved.

I wait at the doorway, expecting him to follow but he stands at the window with his hands in his pockets.

I clear my throat. He doesn’t stir.

Irritation flares. I cross the living room. “Unless you’re about to make an offer,” I say as I join him. “The tour is over.”

He nods toward the glass.

“See the guy on the scaffold?” he says.

I follow his gaze. Across the street, a construction worker is repositioning a large panel. He’s moving fast, one foot braced a little too far over the edge.

“He didn’t adjust the base lock. Now he’s leaning past the counterweight.”

A second later, the platform gives a violent jolt. The worker stumbles, his body slamming against the railing as he barely catches himself. The panel slips from his grip and plummets, shattering stories below.

My heart leaps into my throat.

Dean doesn’t even flinch. “Sloppy,” he says.

I turn to stare at him, the near-disaster outside already forgotten.

“Is this a hobby for you? Critiquing everything?”

“Max said you needed bodies,” he replies. His tone is flat, matter-of-fact. “Consider me a favor.”

He turns his full attention on me now. A prickling heat climbs the back of my neck but I’m not about to let him know he’s knocking me off balance. I hold his gaze, refusing to look away.

“You’re welcome,” he adds, like he’s actually expecting me to thank him.

That’s when it clicks. The sheer arrogance. The unshakable certainty that he’s the center of any room he walks into. I should have known.

Dean Carter—Max’s brother. The one I haven’t met, though I’ve heard things. He owns half the restaurants and nightclubs in the city. Apparently allergic to daylight.

I stare at him, already drafting the text I’ll send Max. He didn’t just send a body. He sent a man with enough unchecked ego to tank a seven-figure deal out of boredom.

He tilts his head slightly. “Relax, Corporate Barbie. Some moron’ll buy this place. You’ll get your commission and buy more kitten heels.”

Of course. Reduce the woman to her outfit. How original.

“For the record, these are six inches,” I say, my voice cool. “I’d advise you not to project your own shortcomings onto my footwear.”

I let the implication hang between us, my gaze dipping to make sure the target of my insult is perfectly clear.

He doesn’t flinch. Just gives me a lopsided grin.

God, I don’t have time for this.

“Don’t come to one of my listings again,” I say, turning to leave.

“What’ll happen if I do?” he calls after me.

I pause at the door and glance back over my shoulder.

“You’ll wish you hadn’t.”