28. Michelle
MICHELLE
My hands stay steady on the wheel as the city slides past in streaks of light.
“You’re okay,” I whisper. I learned how to say that early. When there’s no mother to pull you close or smooth your hair, you become the one who does it. You learn how to be the comfort you never had.
“It’s not you,” I say. “This time, it’s really not you.” I say it again, slower, like I’m convincing a child to trust the words. I need to hear it.
Once again, the truth wasn’t what I thought. I went to Dean believing the decision was mine, but he made sure I made that choice. He’s been shaping my life from the background, nudging things without my knowing.
What else has he touched? What else have I missed? I can’t stop wondering how many lies I accepted as truth.
I take a slow breath and push him aside. That heartbreak can wait. Right now, I need to focus on Vinnie.
While Dean came with warning signs I chose to ignore, Vinnie is family. He’s been in my life forever. We aren’t close, but I always believed there was a line we wouldn’t cross. A built-in loyalty that didn’t need words. I thought it went both ways. Turns out I was wrong about that too.
I pull into the lot outside Vinnie’s apartment, shift into park and lean back against the headrest, eyes closed, letting the quiet settle around me. The engine ticks as it cools.
The phone on the passenger seat lights up. Dean. I don’t touch it. I just watch his name glow, then disappear when the call ends.
I flip down the visor and switch on the light.
The reflection staring back at me looks calm, more put together than I feel.
My mascara is intact, eyeliner still sharp, like nothing in my life has shifted.
I look like someone in control, not like someone whose reality just got pulled out from under her.
Part of me wants to pretend I didn’t hear what Dean said.
To act like everything is fine and keep moving forward.
But I’ve never been good at pretending. I don’t like confrontation.
I don’t want a fight, or a fallout. I just want things to be okay again, but right now, it doesn’t feel like they ever will be.
I force myself out of the car. Before I can knock, the front door swings open.
Vinnie’s standing in the doorway, and he looks awful. Hair sticking up. Face pale and thinner than days ago, with sunken eyes and dark circles. Everything about him screams desperation.
“Michelle,” he says, “tell me you fixed it.”
Even now I feel that tug. The part of me that wants to take care of him. Pushing it down takes real effort. But I do it.
“I didn’t fix it,” I say.
“So what the hell am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know.” The words come out quieter than I intend, but I press on before I lose my nerve. “You’ve been stealing my clients.”
His expression falters. Just for a second, the mask slips, and the confusion he always fakes doesn’t land.
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t lie to me,” I cut in. “I know.”
He exhales, sharp and irritated. “Fine. Yeah. But they came to me.”
“Dean Carter came to you?”
“He told you?”
“Yes.”
The color drains from his face. Under the hallway light, he looks pale and drawn.
“Look, that was a one-time thing.”
“It wasn’t,” I say flat. “You’ve done this before. You turned my clients against me. Then you poached them.”
He slumps like it’s regret, but his eyes are calculating.
“You’re done, Vinnie. I can’t have you at the agency.”
His whole demeanor shifts. He straightens, mask snapping back into place.
“I’ve won, Michelle,” he says. “Tomorrow I’m closing on a whale. You want to keep working at Pierce? Then you better accept that I’m about to be in charge.”
His words wash over me at first. I can’t quite believe them. Then they sink in.
The fight drains from me all at once. A year of overtime. Everything I sacrificed to get ahead. And it was all for nothing.
I wait for the anger. For something explosive. Instead, there’s just quiet. A kind of peace I wasn’t expecting. If he’s won, then there’s nothing left to fight for. Nothing left to save. So I stop trying.
“Take the agency. Take the clients. Burn it all down if you want. I’m done.”
“You’re quitting?”
“Yes.” I’m as surprised as he is.
He scrambles. “What about the condos?”
“That’s your problem.” I hold his gaze. “And for the record, Dean got your permit pulled. So take it up with him.”
I don’t know where else to go, so I drive to the office. It’s close to ten. The building is dark, the parking lot empty. That’s what I need right now. Leaving is easier when no one is there to see it. No questions. No looks filled with pity.
I carry my things to the car in armfuls.
There’s no box, so I make do. When everything is out, I return to my office and sink into the chair.
It’s the same place I’ve sat almost every day of my adult life.
I press my hands to the armrests and sit there for a moment.
This was never how I imagined leaving. Pierce Real Estate wasn’t just a job. It was my life.
My gaze catches on the framed newspaper clipping on the wall, and I can’t believe I almost left it behind.
I take it down and return to the chair, knowing this is the last time I’ll sit here.
I’m not usually sentimental, but tonight I let myself be.
Leaving is the right choice. Dean was right about one thing.
I can’t spend my life trying to stop Vinnie from turning this place into a circus.
He’s going to do it anyway. I need to let him.
I look down at the clipping and trace my mother’s image with my finger, the glass cool beneath my touch. She looks proud. Certain in what she built.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry about the agency. I hope you can forgive me.”
I draw one last breath and tuck the frame under my arm. As I walk toward the door, footsteps echo down the hallway.
My heart jumps. I left the front door unlocked. It could be anyone.
“Michelle,” Max calls, his voice cautious but familiar. “You here?”
I exhale and step into the hallway. Max stands there with his hands in his jacket pockets, his hair slightly rumpled.
“Thought that was your car outside,” he says.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “It’s late.”
“Contract I need for tomorrow morning.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Figured I’d grab it now.”
“Right.” I nod. The words I should say sit heavy in my chest. I’ve quit. I’m leaving. None of them make it out.
“There’s something you should know,” Max says. His voice shifts, softer than before. He rocks back on his heels, eyes dropping to the floor before he looks at me again. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I’m leaving real estate.”
That's not what I was expecting.
“Why? You were just starting to get good at it.”
“I know.” He lets out a breath. “But the more I do it, the clearer it gets. This isn’t where I belong. I tried. But it doesn’t fit.” He hesitates, then adds, “There’s something else I’m supposed to be doing. I don’t know what yet. I just know it’s not this.”
I study his face, the tension I’ve noticed over the last few weeks finally making sense.
“Okay,” I say.
He looks at me, startled. “Okay? That’s it?”
I shrug. “You were never great at paperwork.”
He laughs, the sound loosening something between us.
“For what it’s worth, you’ve come a long way. You’ve grown here. You should be proud of that.” I meet his eyes. “I am.”
He grins, a little lopsided. There’s a lightness in his face, a happiness that catches me off guard.
My throat tightens before I understand why.
A tear slips free. I take a breath, telling myself to stop, to stay steady, but it’s too late.
Another tear follows. Then another. And then I’m crying. I can't stop it.
“Hey,” he says, stepping a little closer. “I thought you’d be glad to be rid of me.”
He hesitates, shifting his weight like he’s not sure what comes next. Then he moves in and pats my shoulder. It’s awkward and tentative, but it’s kind. And somehow, that makes me cry even harder.
I turn into him. My arms slide around his waist and I press my face into his shirt as the sobs take over.
I stop trying to hold them back. For a moment, he stays still, caught off guard.
Then his hand settles against the middle of my back.
It pauses there, unsure, before drifting lower. Then lower again.
“Figured you had a thing for me,” Max says into my hair, his voice quiet, almost careful. “Now that we’re not working together…”
His hand keeps moving until he gives my ass a deliberate squeeze.
I pull back at once, wrenching myself out of his arms. “I’m not crying about you, you idiot.” The words come fast and sharp, fueled by embarrassment as much as frustration.
Color rushes to his face. “I didn’t. I mean, I wasn’t. I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” I snap, wiping at my eyes.
“Shit.” He rubs the back of his neck, his expression collapsing in on itself. He hesitates, then looks at me more carefully. “So what’s going on?”
I drag my hands down my face and force myself to breathe. My shoulders drop as the worst of it eases, just enough to let the words through. For some reason, telling Max the truth feels easier than keeping it locked inside.
“Vinnie won,” I blurt. “He’s been poaching my clients. And Dean had the permit pulled on Vinnie’s condo project…and I quit."
Max stares at me, his brow slowly pulling together as he processes it. “Dean,” he says carefully, “as in my brother?”
“No, Dean Martin,” I reply. “Of course him.”
He blinks, trying to catch up. Then it lands. His eyes widen and he actually takes a step back, like the realization hit him in the chest. “Oh. You and Dean?”
His gaze flicks down to where his hands were a moment ago, and real panic flashes across his face. “Maybe you shouldn’t tell him that I, you know, touched your ass.”
“No problem,” I say flatly. “I’m never talking to him again. He’s a liar.”
“Right. Okay.” He nods too fast, still trying to keep up. Then his expression shifts again, certainty snapping into place. “You and Dean. That’s why you’re not into me.” He says it like that could be the only possible reason.
I look at him, too tired to argue. “Goodnight, Max.”
I reach into my purse, pull out my office key, and set it gently on the desk.
He watches me, uncertain, like he’s weighing whether he should say more. “Night,” he says. After a beat that stretches too long, he adds, quieter, “And for what it’s worth, he’s not a liar.”
I stop at the door. I walk to reception, grab a pen from the cup, tear off a sticky note, and write down an address. Then I go back and press it into his hand.
“Go here,” I say. “Then tell me he’s not a liar.”