4. Michelle
MICHELLE
Iwake up alone. I always do. I don’t let Josh stick around once I’m done with him.
I tried, for a minute, to pretend we could have a conversation after, but the man is a total bore.
It’s golf, golf, and more golf. Like his brain is just one long, perfectly manicured fairway with nothing interesting in the rough.
Besides, I have to shut my cat, Monty, in the other bedroom the entire time Josh is here and Monty does not take that well.
He’s still glaring at me from his usual spot on the bed, curled in the warm dip of the comforter like a wronged prince. His sleek black fur stands out against the white sheets. I reach out to pet him. After a brief hesitation, he tilts his head into my palm, and a low purr starts up.
He showed up the day after Jason left. A skinny, scratched-up kitten with a feral look in his eyes.
I had left the balcony door open, and he walked straight in, tail high, like the decision had already been made.
I fed him, cleaned his cuts, and he stayed.
Now he sleeps in my bed, watches the door like a bodyguard, and hisses at anyone who isn’t me.
Monty loves exactly one person, and with everyone else, it’s claws first, questions never.
Which is part of why I don’t have company over. The other part is, I don’t want it.
“Come on, breakfast then,” I say, swinging my legs out of bed.
Monty is already up, launching off the mattress and trotting down the hallway. His tail flicks once as he disappears around the corner, always just a few steps ahead of me, as if he’s the one feeding me.
My apartment is on the seventh floor. It’s high enough to see the city stretch out, but not so high that standing on the balcony makes me lightheaded. I renovated a couple of years ago, stripped everything back, and rebuilt it exactly the way I wanted.
The space is all white. The walls, the marble countertops, the cabinetry.
Even the orchids are white. An art teacher once told me white is too stark.
That it isn’t calming. That true serenity lives in cool blues and greens.
I don’t agree. There’s a different kind of peace in the absence of color.
It doesn’t compete or demand. It just lets you breathe.
No one likes to talk about what happens after you get a space exactly the way you want it.
When the last tile is laid and the final coat of paint dries, something starts to itch.
I’ve seen it happen with clients more times than I can count.
They find their “forever home,” pour their money and identity into every detail, make it flawless, and then they put it on the market.
They go looking for the next project. The next mess to fix.
I never understood it until it happened to me. But I get it now. There’s a strange comfort in the fixing.
Monty meows, already pawing at his dish like he hasn’t been fed in years. I grab a tin of his food. It’s the real expensive stuff because like me, he has expensive taste. He rubs up and down my leg in a frenzy as I place it in his bowl.
“Eat,” I say, but he gives me several more dramatic head rubs before finally turning his attention to the bowl.
The morning routine passes in a familiar blur. Shower steam. Navy trousers, a silk blouse, diamond studs. Then my favorite part. Shoes. They’re my indulgence.
Today, it’s the Vue heels. Black leather, cut with brutalist lines and fastened by a severe silver buckle.
I bought half their collection a couple of years ago, back when they were remaking themselves.
Their clothes weren’t just beautiful—they made you feel powerful.
Then they pivoted, moved into streetwear, and lost the plot. They lost me, too.
I drink my coffee by the window just before seven, watching the city slowly wake up as I scroll through my emails.
The first one is a reminder for a ten o’clock property viewing.
It’s a follow-up with a buyer who ghosted me after I spent two weeks finding him three perfect options.
Or at least, he tried to ghost me. I’m a hard woman to ignore. I’ve built a career on it.
After that, I have a catch-up with Vinnie. It’s the weekly meeting he insists on, a chance for him to loom over my desk and talk about the future of the agency. He hasn’t officially won yet, but he likes to act like the keys are already in his pocket.
A call comes through as I’m opening the next email. An unknown number. It’s early, but real estate never stops. I answer, my voice cool and clipped. “Michelle Pierce.”
The line crackles for a moment, then settles. “Good morning,” the man says.
I’d recognize that low, self-assured voice anywhere. Dean Carter.
“How did you get this number?” I ask, before immediately remembering it’s printed on my business cards, my website and every single listing.
“Lucky guess,” he replies.
I roll my eyes.
“How can I help you, Mr. Carter?” I ask.
“I have a question,” he says.
For a second, I think he’s circling back to the apartment. Maybe he’s interested after all, just doing the usual tear-it-down-to-get-a-better-price routine. I know how to handle that. I open my mouth to respond—
“Have you fucked Max?”
My mouth snaps shut. That’s…not what I was expecting. It’s blunt, crude and completely inappropriate. I’m stunned into silence for half a beat.
“Should I take that as a yes?” he asks.
“No,” I bite out. “Absolutely not.”
“Good.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why is that good?”
“Call me old-fashioned, but I try not to sleep with my brother’s leftovers.”
I’m still trying to catch up. A second ago, I thought we were talking business. Now we’re interrogating my sex life like it’s part of a due diligence check. The audacity of it makes my jaw tighten. I snap back to myself.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’d need a head injury to consider either of you.”
“Come on, Michelle. You felt that spark.”
What the hell is he talking about? The only spark I felt was my patience short-circuiting.
“Why don’t I swing by,” he says, unfazed. “You had a theory. I’d be happy to present the evidence. Firsthand. Purely in the interest of scientific accuracy, of course.”
His audacity makes my cheeks flush.“Let me be perfectly clear. Your evidence is not getting anywhere near me. Not today. Not ever.”
There’s only silence on the other end. Then a quiet exhale that sounds something like amusement.
I hang up.
The phone lands on the couch beside me. I walk away from it, putting the width of the room between us, as if physical distance could scrub the sound of his voice from my mind. God, he is infuriating. Cocky, condescending, and completely unapologetic.
I shake my head. I have work to do.
By four o’clock, the professional smile I’ve kept fixed on my face has begun to ache. Don’t look desperate, I remind myself for the hundredth time. This is just another showing, a routine transaction. My entire future does not hinge on selling this place. I wish I could make myself believe it.
The house is a renovator’s delight. It’s a classic, older family home with excellent bones that a hopeful flipper tried to modernize in a hurry. The air carries the sharp smell of cheap paint, a thin attempt to cover a stubborn trace of damp. I don’t pretend otherwise.
“I’m going to be honest with you,” I say to the woman, tapping the peeling vinyl floor with the toe of my shoe.
“This place needs to be stripped back to the studs. But that’s exactly where the value is.
You’re not buying someone else’s mistakes.
You’re buying a sound foundation and the chance to make it perfect. ”
Her eyes glaze over at the words studs. Renovating isn’t for everyone, but I can’t, in good conscience, pretend this is a turn-key home.
And there are real benefits to a project like this. You get everything exactly the way you want it. You know the quality, because you control it. And my job is to find a buyer that understands the potential and who wants to put in the work.
Before I can continue, the woman’s gaze shifts.
Her mouth opens slightly, and for a second I think she’s finally noticed the original fireplace, it’s one true selling feature.
But when I follow her stare, I see the man standing in front of it instead.
Wide shoulders in a sharp navy suit. He gives the hearth a dismissive little kick with the toe of an expensive leather shoe.
Dean.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I excuse myself and cross the room, stopping just short of him. “You’re not here to buy,” I say. “So you can show yourself out.”
He doesn’t move. “Promised myself that if I was still thinking about you this afternoon, I’d find you.”
“You found me. Now go.”
“You said I’d regret coming.” His gaze drags over me. “No regrets so far.”
Against my will, a current of heat sparks low in my stomach. Irritation, I tell myself. It’s pure irritation. I cross my arms.
The truth is, I never expected him to actually show up. It was just a line, something you say. Now he’s here and I’m suddenly aware of every inch of space between us.
Then a saving grace appears. A couple walks in. I brush past him.
Ten minutes later, I’ve walked Mary and Liam Chen through the house, pointed out what needs work, answered their questions, and then given them space to talk privately.
They’re a serious couple. Newly married, judging by the matching rings and matching glances. And I’m almost certain she’s pregnant. She hasn’t said anything, but her hand keeps drifting to her stomach in a protective way.
I keep half an eye on the Chens and the other on Dean, who’s been lingering by the fireplace studying the wood grain. But then he looks at me. Then at the Chens. Then back to me.
I shake my head but it’s already too late. He starts walking.
“They don’t make them like this anymore,” he says, nodding toward the window trim as he approaches the Chens. “Solid bones. No shortcuts. You can feel it when a place is built right.”
Liam nods, clearly agreeing.