20. Michelle
MICHELLE
The charity gala is lavish to the point of feeling theatrical.
It’s meant to raise money for Elder’s Children’s Hospital, but the energy in the room has little to do with sick kids and everything to do with who can out-donate, out-dress, and outshine everyone else.
I’ve been to plenty of events like this, but something about this one makes me self-conscious in a way I didn’t expect.
I look the part in a floor-length black dress with a square neckline and an open back. From a distance, I could pass for one of them. But I don’t feel like I belong.
The venue is a restored art deco building downtown.
Marble floors, soft lighting, polished brass fixtures.
The ceilings are high enough to make you feel small.
A terrace runs along one side, lit with warm lights and a clear view of the skyline.
There are ice sculptures. Plural. The bar is open, the champagne is French, and servers weave through the crowd with trays of food I don’t recognize.
This isn’t ordinary rich. This is buy-a-vineyard-on-a-whim rich. Buy-a-house-because-you-liked-the-banister rich. The kind of wealth that doesn’t pause over interest rates or bad months or whether something’s worth it.
Dean’s that kind of rich. I forget sometimes, with his beat-up car and his modest house by Alton Hills standards. But he is. I’ve never let myself dwell on it. I know better than to.
Max let it slip not long after he started working for me.
We were talking about a nine-million-dollar commercial listing, and he said something ridiculous about the right club owner coming along.
I told him investors buy buildings like that, not the businesses.
He shrugged and said his brother buys all of his outright.
I remember asking what happens if the club fails. Max said he’d seen Dean’s tax return, said he could cover that kind of loss in a month. He delivered it casually, like it was an unremarkable detail.
I don’t like thinking about it. It scares me a little, even now. I’m not someone who pretends money doesn’t matter. I’d love more of it. But over nine million a month, plus whatever he inherited? That’s not just wealthy. That’s another planet.
I almost said no to coming tonight. Small talk isn’t my thing, even if faking it is basically half my job. But I’m not in a position to turn down opportunities. Not when they might lead to a sale.
I haven’t had much luck so far but I’ve only been here twenty minutes. Casually slipping “Could you please buy a seven-million-dollar eco-house in the Hills so I can save my agency?” into conversation isn’t exactly smooth.
I spot Dean across the room. He’s clean-shaven tonight, and irritatingly good-looking for someone who so clearly hates every second of this. The tux fits him perfectly, but he wears it like a temporary inconvenience, like he’s counting the minutes until he can take it off.
There’s a small group gathered around him, all angled in, listening. He speaks calmly, unhurried, and whatever he’s saying lands. Someone laughs at the right moment. No one interrupts.
Max is at the bar, nodding along as a tall woman in a backless dress talks at him. He’s good at this, charming without seeming to try.
Their mother, Silvia, floats from conversation to conversation in a navy silk dress, diamonds at her ears and throat catching the light. She never stays in one place for long. She’s fashion-thin, the kind that photographs beautifully but, up close, makes you pause.
I make myself look away. I’m not here to watch Dean and his family. I’m here to work.
A trio of women stand near one of the marble columns, drinks in hand, laughing at something I didn’t catch. I recognize one of them from a closing a couple years ago—Lana something. Her husband was obsessed with smart homes. Wouldn’t shut up about integration. I still flinch when I hear that word.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and walk over.
“Hello ladies.”
Three faces turn toward me, each wearing the same bright, distant smile. The kind that looks friendly until you’re close.
“Oh, hi,” Lana says, blinking like she’s trying to place me. “You’re—sorry, I know we’ve met...?”
“Michelle Pierce. Pierce Real Estate.”
They all nod. The blonde with the pixie cut gives me a fast once-over. The kind that weighs your shoes, your face, your dress and decides you’re not in the club.
“I remember your husband was into smart homes,” I say to Lana. “I’m representing a new eco-build in the Hills. High-efficiency systems, low-impact design.”
She tilts her head. “An eco-house?” she repeats, like I just said composting toilet.
“Exactly,” I say, keeping my tone even. “It’s all the rage right now.”
“Oh, that’s so Alton Hills,” the blonde cuts in. “It sounds exhausting. Who wants a house that lectures you the second you walk in.”
They all laugh. I force a smile.
“Sounds like a tough sell,” Lana says lightly, angling her body toward the others.
I take the hint and step back. “Enjoy your evening.”
I head to the quieter end of the bar. I’d told myself I wouldn’t drink tonight. I wanted to stay sharp. But rejection still gets under my skin, no matter how practiced I am at brushing it off. And to be fair, no one asked for a realtor to corner them and start talking about eco-homes.
I take a glass of champagne and scan the room, spotting Preston Russell near the terrace doors. He’s standing alone, half-turned away from the crowd, expression faintly bored. I head his way.
He smiles when he spots me, leaning in for a kiss to each cheek. He’s been ghosting me ever since Dean scared him off at The Union, which still hasn’t sold. But tonight, it’s clear he’s decided to act like none of that happened, and I let him.
We slip into easy conversation. He tells me about his latest hillside project, something about a glass staircase. It’s the usual flex. His face lights up as he talks specs and square footage.
“It’s obscene, honestly,” he says, grinning. “The staircase alone cost more than my first apartment. But it photographs like a dream, and that’s all anyone cares about now.”
“Sounds like a statement piece,” I say, nodding along.
He leans in, just a little too familiar. “You should come see it. I’m looking for the right agent on the listing.”
My pulse kicks. A new listing. A good one, by the sounds of it. Exactly what I need right now.
“I’d love to,” I say, already thinking through timing, comps, how fast I could move on it.
“You’ve always had something about you, Michelle,” Preston says. “I noticed it the first time we met.”
I try to hear it as professional. Then his gaze drops to my waist, his hand brushes my arm, and the disappointment settles in.
Preston’s never been like this with me before. I thought he saw me as a serious agent. Maybe that was wishful thinking. Or maybe something shifted, and now he thinks I’m someone he can try this with.
Great. Now I have to find a way to shut it down without tanking a potential listing.
“Excuse us,” Dean says, stepping in, smooth as anything.
Preston blinks, caught off guard. “We’re in the middle of—”
“You’re done now,” Dean says.
Preston looks at me, confused. “Is there a problem here?”
“That depends,” Dean says. “How fast can you walk?”
I just stand there. Frozen. My mind fires off a dozen responses and lands on none of them.
Preston looks at me again, waiting. Expecting me to say something. To smooth it over. To tell Dean to back off.
I don’t.
There’s a pause, just long enough to register. Then he walks away.
There goes that listing.
“What the hell was that?” Dean asks, his voice tightly controlled. His jaw is set, the muscle ticking once before he catches himself.
“We were talking about a listing.”
Dean lets out a sharp laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah? Didn’t look like he was talking about business. Is that how it works now? Let someone get a little handsy if there’s a commission on the line?”
That snaps me back to myself. I stare at him, disbelief rising fast. “Are you serious right now?”
“What’s the going rate these days?” he asks, eyes hard. “First base for a condo? All the way for a penthouse?”
“You think I’d sell myself for a listing?” I ask.
“I don’t,” he says, his voice isn’t loud, but it carries. “But that’s what it looked like.”
The words sting more than I expect. Heat crawls up my neck. I glance around. A few heads have turned toward us. Two women at the bar are definitely watching now, pretending not to.
I lower my voice. “We’re not doing this here.”
“Right. Because we’re pretending we don’t know each other.”
“We agreed—”
“No,” he cuts in. “You agreed. I went along with it. Is this why you keep us quiet? So guys like that think they have a shot—”
“We’re not together, Dean,” I say, and he blinks, the briefest flicker before the mask slips back into place.
“Only because you refuse to say it,” he says, and he waits.
I can’t answer. Instead, I glance around, catching the edge of a few curious looks. When I look back at him, something cold has settled in his face.
“Fuck this,” he says, stepping back.
He disappears into the crowd without looking back.
I down the rest of my drink in two quick swallows and make my way back to the bar. The stem of the next champagne flute is colder than the last. I lean against the counter, fingers tight around the glass, trying to steady myself, but my thoughts won’t line up.
Dean has never spoken to me like that before.
Not even when I’ve deserved it, which I have, more than once.
He was angry, yes, but underneath it was something worse.
Hurt. The kind that comes from staying, from trying, from showing up again and again while I keep insisting we’re nothing.
But that hasn’t been true for a while now.
We’re something.
“Hey, Michelle.”
I turn. Max is suddenly beside me, looking as casual as ever.
“Didn’t know you would be here,” he says. His voice is easy, unbothered. I take it as confirmation he didn’t see what happened with Dean. Thank God.