16. Michelle
MICHELLE
Weeks pass in a blur of contracts, closings, and more lattes than anyone should safely consume.
I’ve been lucky. A couple wandered into one of my opens just to get a feel for the market and ended up in a full-blown bidding war with a hedge-fund kid who thought he could lowball me.
I walked away with thirty over asking. Another buyer made her decision after a video tour and a two-minute call with her mother.
Vinnie’s still ahead, but barely. Only one sale separates us now, with two weeks left. For the first time since this competition began, winning actually feels possible.
My days follow the same rhythm: wake, work, dinner, see Dean, sleep, and then start over.
And alright, maybe Dean has something to do with my newfound optimism.
We’ve been spending most nights together.
I’ve always used sex the way other people use yoga or therapy, and it usually does the job well enough.
But with Dean, it’s different. He doesn’t just take the edge off; he settles something deep inside me.
Everything is going well, except for Max.
He still shows up, still answers my calls, still charms clients enough to keep things moving, but something feels off.
I’m worried about him. I mentioned it to Dean.
He said it’s nothing but it clearly is. Yesterday, Max bailed on the team lunch.
He said he had a listing appointment but he didn’t post anything to the portal and there was nothing on the internal calendar.
So here I am, parked a few houses down from his showing, engine idling, trying to come up with a reason for being here that doesn’t sound like: I want to support you.
It’s an airy two-bedroom condo that’s been on the market for two months. I don’t even know why I’m here. I guess I want him to see me, to know he’s not alone. That he can ask for help if he needs it.
Of course, that would mean actually getting out of the car.
I cut the engine and walk up the drive. Max’s SUV is out front. There’s one other car in the driveway, a white coupe with tinted windows and fresh detail work. Nice and…familiar-looking. Probably not hers. Amanda wouldn’t be here.
I keep walking.
The front door is slightly ajar. I push it open and step inside without knocking.
The condo is warm and well lit. Listing brochures are fanned neatly on the entry table, and the open house signs are still staked out front, which means the showing isn’t over. Even so, it feels like I’ve arrived too late.
He must be showing someone around. Normally, he’d be at the door, greeting visitors. I should leave him to it. I go to leave when I hear movement from the back of the condo. It’s subtle, a soft thud, followed by a breathy laugh that cuts off too quickly. A woman’s voice.
I follow the sound, careful and quiet, and come to a stop in the open doorway.
Amanda is pressed against the wall, legs wrapped around Max’s waist. He has her pinned by the hips, her skirt pushed up, and his head bent to kiss her neck.
She lets out a small, breathy giggle and clutches at his shoulders. Max reaches for his belt, and I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. Max and Amanda are one breath away from fucking at an open house.
It takes me a few seconds to find my voice. Even then, I can’t think of words, so I just clear my throat.
Max jerks back, and Amanda hits the floor with a yelp, nearly toppling over. She scrambles upright, her skirt still bunched around her waist. She tugs it down in quick, uneven motions. Strands of hair stick to her lip gloss, and when she tries to brush them back, her hand shakes.
“Michelle,” Amanda says, breathless. “I—this isn’t what it looks like.”
“Unless you were checking the walls for structural integrity, I’m going to assume it’s exactly what it looked like.”
Amanda grabs her purse and mutters something that could be an apology as she hurries past me and out the door.
I let her go. When Max moves to follow, I step into the doorway, stopping him.
“Don’t,” I say.
He looks like he wants to vanish, but he stops. And then I see it. Jesus Christ. I glance down, up, and down again, because apparently I didn’t learn the first time. He’s hard. And huge. I guess it runs in the family.
“You might want to put that away before we talk,” I say.
He follows my gaze and exhales. “Where exactly do you expect me to put it?” he asks, grabbing one of the display pillows from the bed and holding it in front of himself.
“Anyone could have walked in,” I say.
“I can’t get a single person to show up. I wasn’t exactly worried about an audience,” he says, resigned.
This isn’t how Max talks about things going wrong. He usually jokes, finds a way to keep it light, keeps moving forward. Things like this slide off him. Now he sounds tired. Close to defeated.
I hate how much that bothers me.
“You know, Max, people can’t help you if you don’t say when something’s wrong,” I say. I hear the irony the moment the words leave my mouth. I’d rather swallow glass than ask for help myself.
He doesn’t respond.
“The market’s been slow,” I add, offering him an out. “That’s rough when you’re used to momentum.”
“It’s not the market,” he snaps.
“Then what?” I ask, softer now.
He finally lifts his head. For the first time in weeks, he actually looks at me. Something shifts. His face loosens, like he might really say it, whatever it is. Then he scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, his jaw locking tight.
“Nothing, alright?” he says sharply. “Nothing’s going on. So go ahead. Give me the lecture. Rip me to shreds. Fire me. Just get it over with.”
I know exactly what I’m supposed to do. I should tear into him, lay down the law, reassert control. I should make an example out of him so no one else thinks they can pull this kind of stunt.
But I don’t, because something is clearly eating at him. As much as he deserves to be dragged over the coals, I can’t bring myself to kick him while he’s already down.
“No more warnings. Pull something like this again and you’re gone.”
He doesn’t respond.
“And you’re on weekend showings for the next month.”
I leave him and slide into my car, leaning back.
I should fire him. One whisper of this and our reputation would be tarnished.
But I can’t. I’m no better than the women in the office—covering, excusing, letting it slide.
The difference is, it’s not because I’m sleeping with him.
It’s because I care about him. And that’s probably worse.
Later that night, I’m on the couch at home, idly typing Max’s name into the search bar, as if someone, somewhere, might have written an article about what made him lose his spark and how to fix it.
Nothing useful comes up. Just old press from a few sponsorships and a recent photo of him leaving a restaurant with an actress whose face I vaguely recognize.
I wonder what Amanda would make of that.
What any of the other women at work would say.
Then again, I already know the answer. They accept what he offers, even knowing he offers it elsewhere, because being chosen by Max Carter still feels better than being overlooked.
Part of me wants to judge them for that. The rest of me understands.
I shut the laptop and put Monty in the spare room. Dean will be here soon. I’ve already decided not to bring up today with him. I don’t want to embarrass Max.
Besides, I’m trying to keep it just physical, not that it’s working. We have sex, then talk, then laugh. He lingers longer each time, and I like it more than I should. Even with work waiting, he stays until I’m practically shoving him out.
A knock at the door jolts me from my thoughts.
I open it and Dean steps inside before I can react, shutting the door behind him and pinning me against it, mouth crashing onto mine.
My blouse is gone within seconds, his shirt half undone.
It’s urgent, messy, like we’ve been apart for a week instead of one night.
He turns me, guiding me face-first against the door, his breath hot at my neck. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he says, lifting my skirt and shoving my underwear aside. I hear the crinkle of the condom wrapper, feel the solid pressure of him behind me as he pushes in slowly.
The sound I make is all the permission he needs. One deep thrust and he’s fully inside. He moves with urgency now, each thrust deliberate. He knows exactly what I can take, how far he can push before I come apart.
His breathing turns rough against my ear, and it pulls something loose in me. I lose myself in the rhythm of it, my head brushing the door with every movement. He notices, slows, then stops.
I want to tell him not to, but I don’t get the chance. He pulls back, lifts me easily, and carries me to my bed, setting me down with a care.
I start to turn, instinct tugging me onto my hands and knees, but he catches me before I can move too far. He guides me onto my back instead. His hand moves through my hair, smoothing it away from my face, and the gesture quiets something in me I hadn’t realized was braced.
When he slides back inside me it’s slow.
His eyes stay on mine, like he’s asking me to stay right here with him.
My body responds before my head can interfere.
I loosen and relax, and I smile because in that moment, I feel something different.
A sense of being held, seen, chosen. Like this is where I’m meant to be, and he’s the one who knows how to keep me here.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he says, softly.
The ease drains out of me, replaced by a sudden, unwelcome awareness of myself. Of the room. Of what he’s asking me to say out loud.
I break eye contact. It’s instinctive, like touching a hot surface and pulling back before the pain fully registers. My hands come up between us, light but firm, creating space I don’t know how to explain.
“I want to turn around,” I say clumsily.
He doesn’t answer. He shifts his weight, grips my hips, and turns me without a word.
I face the mattress, my cheek pressed into the sheets, my breath uneven. He settles behind me again, familiar and also somehow impersonal, and I register his silence more than anything else. It should calm me. It doesn’t. My body knows the rhythm. My mind won’t let go.
I can’t quite relax back into it. My thoughts crowd in until I cut them off the only way I know how.
“Harder,” I gasp.
The change is abrupt and consuming, and it works. My thoughts fall away, replaced by sensation and movement, until my body takes over and I let it, gripping the sheets as everything crests and breaks.
Afterward, we lie there catching our breath, the room slowly coming back into focus. That’s when I notice my cheek is wet. I swipe at it, distracted, but my fingers come away damp again.
I’m crying.
I never cry.
The realization lands hard, followed by irritation, then something closer to panic. I know exactly what caused it. It’s him. The eye contact. That closeness. The way he lowers my guard, then asks for more than I’m ready to give. He’s trying to slip past my defenses.
“Pull a stunt like that again and we’re done,” I snap, already pushing up and heading for the ensuite.
He catches my arm before I can get away.
“Stunt?” he says, like he’s not sure he heard me right or just doesn’t like the word.
“I’m not yours,” I say. “I never will be.” I try to yank free, but he doesn’t let go. I keep my face turned away. I won’t let him see the tears sliding down my cheeks.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t do serious,” I say. “This is as far as it goes. If you want to stay here, don’t push for more. And don’t make me look at you—”
“Sorry,” he cuts in, sharp now. “Didn’t realize looking at you was a fireable offense.”
“Let go,” I say, pulling again, but his grip tightens.
“Jesus, Michelle,” he says. “Am I just a body to you?”
No.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s exactly what you are. I can’t be any clearer.”
That does it. He lets go, and I bolt for the ensuite. I shut the door and brace my hands on the counter, wiping furiously at my face.
“You can go now,” I say through the door. “My period’s due. I’ll call you when it’s done. Come or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me.”
I stay there, listening as he gathers his things and leaves.
Only when I hear the front door click shut do I move.
I splash cold water on my face and stare at my red eyes.
This is exactly why I don’t let people in.
Danger never looks like danger at first. It shows up calm and reliable, wearing a sharp suit, doing exactly what it promises.
It holds you like there’s nowhere else to be.
And before you notice what’s happening, he’s something to you.
When I walk back into my bedroom, I pause for a moment. He made the bed. I stare at it for no particular reason before heading to the spare room to scoop Monty into my arms.
I carry him to the couch and sit down, pressing my face into the thick fur at his neck. I should be happy. I did the smart thing. Kept the lines clear. Protected myself from a man who keeps trying to get in, no matter how many times I tell him I don’t want that.
“What is it with these Carters?” I say. “One’s falling apart, and the other’s making me fall apart.”
Monty just purrs, calm and indifferent. Unlike me.