2. Michelle
MICHELLE
Ireturn to the office, and the room falls silent. The team look away from me, fixing their eyes on keyboards and screens. In any workplace, you’re faced with a choice between being liked or being respected. I chose respect. This is a consequence of that choice.
I don’t understand why they treat me like I’m frightening. I don’t yell or threaten. I’m just firm, the same way Vinnie is. Only he’s called decisive. I’m called a bitch.
Whatever. Let them think what they want. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to close deals. But right now, I’m here to find Max.
“Max?” I ask Emma, Amanda, and Evelyn. Amanda and Evelyn gesture toward the lunch room, and I turn in that direction.
Vinnie and I, as the lead agents, have our own offices.
The rest of the team works in an open-concept layout with hot desks.
It’s less a design choice and more a practical one; the agents are always on the move, and we physically couldn’t fit another permanent workstation in here.
Vinnie has suggested moving to a larger space more than once, to expand the team.
But that’s not the agency I want to run.
We are a boutique firm, and I intend to keep it that way.
Pierce Real Estate has owned this building for forty years. My mother was prouder of that than any deal she ever closed, or so my father tells me. She died when I was four, so all her stories come to me secondhand.
I understand her attachment to the place.
We’re on a tree-lined street in the financial district, in a low, white-brick building designated as a landmark, its facade softened by ivy.
Its best feature is the front: a wall of enormous arched windows that flood every office with light.
It doesn’t try to compete with the glass towers around us. It just outclasses them.
The giggling drifting out of the lunchroom tells me Max is in there. Lia, our newest agent, is laughing like she’s just heard the funniest story in the world. Max leans against the counter, watching her with a focus so intense you’d think he’d never been this into a woman before.
He has, of course. He’s been into most of the women here.
He’s only three years younger than me, but sometimes the gap feels generational. He has that easy, all-American charm that leaves women a little breathless, which, to be fair, helps with sales.
Max was a total buffoon when he started, but I saw the potential and spent a lot of time on him.
Less on the sales tactics, which came naturally, and more on showing up on time, following up with clients, and not arriving at work hungover from a DJ gig.
Also, not sleeping with everyone in the office.
Of course, no one admits to that last part.
They all cover for him and tell me I’m imagining it.
I’m not stupid. What I don’t understand is why they defend him.
They all must know they’re not the only one, that he’s not committing to anyone, and yet the loyalty remains.
As long as there’s no drama, I really don’t care if he’s sleeping with everyone at the same time.
While he’s matured over the last few years, the ghost of the charismatic fraternity president is never far from the surface. He still operates on the belief that a well-timed smile can smooth over any problem. It never works with me.
I clear my throat and both of them straighten.
“I better—“ Lia says as she looks to the ground and dashes out.
“Michelle,” Max says. “How’d it go at the showing?”
“You’re brother came,” I say.
Max’s face lights up with a self-congratulatory grin. “Yeah? I asked him to swing by. He’s a solid guy, right?”
“He torpedoed a seven-figure sale.”
His smile drops.
“Oh…shit.”
I let the silence hang in the air for a long moment. “Yes, Max. Shit.”
“I’ll make it right,” he says, running a hand through his perfectly-styled hair.
I can see the frantic calculations playing out behind his stupidly handsome face.
Even though I still think he’s an idiot—a family trait, apparently—he’s one of our top sellers.
And I would never admit it, but I do have a soft spot for him.
A small one. He tries so hard, and I don’t think he’s as thoughtless as he pretends to be.
I know he asked his brother to come in to help.
He’s always making those little efforts.
But that’s exactly why I can’t give way. If he knew I had a soft spot for him, he’d stop trying so hard. He needs the pressure. So I’m hard on him. Strict. It’s the only thing that works.
“Send a Carter to one of my open homes again,” I say, “and you’ll be showing studio apartments to college students for the rest of your career.
” I turn to go, then pause, glancing back at his tie.
It’s a deep, electric blue silk patterned with small, swirling paisleys in a clashing shade of burgundy.
It’s the kind of loud, expensive statement piece meant to suggest a rakish personality, but on him it just looks like he’s trying too hard.
His suit, however, is impeccably tailored.
A charcoal grey that fits his shoulders with a precision that almost makes you forgive the tie.
Almost. “And for god’s sake, that tie is awful. Burn it.”
Later that afternoon, I’m in my office, replying to emails.
A buyer’s agent is questioning the square footage of a listing.
A nervous couple wants to revisit their offer on the waterfront condo, again.
My photographer needs to reschedule tomorrow’s shoot for the eco-house listing.
Just the usual queries, delays, and small crises that keep my colorist in business.
My door opens and Vinnie strolls in. His cologne hits me first, a smoky, amber scent.
He has the solid, compact frame of a boxer, softened by his expensive navy suit, but no less imposing.
The thick gold chain at his neck and the gaudy watch on his wrist makes him look less like a realtor and more like someone who runs a casino.
But he does well enough. Better than me, apparently.
“Another big sale this morning,” he says, his tone deliberately casual.
“Good for you.”
“You missed us ringing the bell.” He doesn’t wait for my reply. Instead, he raises his voice toward the open floor. “Evelyn! Ring it again for Michelle.”
A moment later, the sharp clang of the bell echoes through the office. Vinnie insists on ringing it for every closed deal. I’m not against celebrating a win, but with the clock ticking down on our contest, finding the enthusiasm to cheer for him gets harder each time.
If I lose, I’m not just losing a job. I’m losing my mother’s legacy.
She built this agency on integrity, on the belief that a fair deal was the only deal worth making.
She wanted to create something real in a business full of bullshit.
I want to uphold that. I want Pierce Real Estate to remain a trusted name.
Vinnie wants to expand, to go national and rebrand us as a franchise.
I don’t understand that hunger. He’s only two years younger than me.
Growing up, with our father working long hours, it was often just the two of us.
Naturally, I became his primary caregiver.
He was such a sweet boy. I don’t know when he became so insatiable.
Then again, I suppose I’m the same. Maybe he got it from me.
“Also got my permit.” Vinnie’s grin widens.
That’s the other thing. Selling houses isn’t enough for him anymore. Now he wants to build them. He has a luxury condo development in the works, complete with investors, a full marketing blitz, and renderings of rooftop pools and skyline views.
“That’s good,” I say, and hear the edge in my own voice. I soften it. “It’s going to be amazing, Vin.”
“I know,” he replies, his words full of satisfaction. Then he’s gone.
I sink into my chair. If Preston had made an offer this morning, I’d still be behind Vinnie, but I’d be less behind.
Dean Carter’s image flashes in my head. What an irritating man. Why did he bother coming? What did he think he was there for? I stop the thought before it can spiral. Forget him.
I have to focus.
I’ll follow up with Preston tomorrow. He was interested, and a little dedicated attention might salvage that. And Max has been handling a listing of mine that’s in escrow. The commission should be closing soon. I should ask him for an update on the timeline.
I’m on my feet and pause at my office door. If I want to find Max, I just have to follow the sound of giggling. Sure enough, it’s Amanda this time, over by the photocopier.
I can’t help myself. My steps are light, and I catch them huddled together in front of the machine.
I clear my throat. They spring apart like guilty teenagers.
“Max,” I say, my voice cool. Amanda busies herself with the photocopier, and Max turns to face me. “What’s the timeline on the Northridge property closing?”
Max squints, as if the act of narrowing his eyes will summon the answer. “I’ll find out,” he says, and then he’s already retreating down the hall.
I turn to head back to my office, but Amanda stops me.
“Actually, Michelle, could I have a word?” she asks.
I can tell it’s not good by her expression.
“Sure.”
She follows me inside, and I close the door.
“The Eldridge Avenue clients decided to go with Vinnie,” she says.
I pause. I don’t understand. I met that young couple at the brokers’ mixer last month. They were the ones who sought me out. I gave them the initial consultation, quoted the commission, did all the legwork. Why would they choose Vinnie to represent them? When did they even meet him?
The worst part is, this isn’t the first time it’s happened. I do the groundwork. I build the rapport. Then, at the last second, the client decides Vinnie is the better choice.
I’m not so delusional as to blame everything on gender. Clearly, I’ve gone wrong somewhere along the way. But sometimes, it feels exactly like that. As if, for a commitment this large, people find a certain kind of safety in a penis.
“Their loss,” I say, steeling myself.
“You’re okay?” she asks.
“I’m always okay.” And I sound like I mean it.
Amanda relaxes a little, tucking a strand of bronze hair behind her ear.
“Good. Because there’s something else.” She looks away now, her gaze dropping to the floor.
“I, ah...I saw Jason. And her. I just thought...maybe you didn’t know.
” She looks up, her eyes searching mine, trying to read if I understand.
I don’t. She lives in their apartment building.
She’s been at Pierce a long time. She was here when everything fell apart.
She knows the story. Not from me, but from Vinnie.
She was here when my engagement to Jason ended, and when I stopped speaking to my best friend, Elise.
She was here when the two of them simply vanished from my life together.
The truth didn’t need to be spelled out.
“She’s pregnant,” Amanda says finally.
For a moment, the entire world narrows to the sympathy in Amanda’s eyes. I manage a tight, controlled nod, my professional composure snapping back into place with an almost audible force.
“Why would you think I’d be interested in that?” I ask. It comes out colder than I intend.
“I’m sorry, I just thought—” Amanda stumbles, already halfway out of her chair.
She leaves quickly, the door clicking shut behind her. I turn my chair toward the window. It overlooks a small courtyard, mostly dominated by a large, green dumpster from the restaurant behind us. I fix my gaze on it, on the smudged lid and the single, rusted hinge.
You’re fine. You’re over this. You are so far over this.
I breathe in through my nose. Jason and I were a lifetime ago. I should be, by any reasonable measure, over it. But the heaviness in my chest doesn’t lift. It just settles.
I unlock my phone and pull up a contact. Josh Austin. He’s a realtor from a rival agency—handsome, uncomplicated, and most importantly, harmless. We have an understanding. We fuck sometimes. That’s it.
Michelle: Come by tonight. 9.
I’ll never trust a man again. I’ve accepted that. They lie. They leave. They take whatever softness you show them and twist it into leverage.
But using them? That I understand. Sometimes, I need to feel something other than this low, dragging numbness. To feel wanted. Even if it’s fleeting. Even if it’s transactional. Even if, in Josh’s case, it lasts all of twelve and a half minutes.
I open my email again. The screen glares back at me, already full of things that need doing, people that need pleasing, fires to put out before they spark.
It’s going to be another late one.