We put away the empty glasses and pour some new ones for the clients. With a brief, reassuring nod, we each take a floor as our main contact point, and I take two of them - the fourth and fifth. The most essential floors, Charter had said, with the three most important features: the bedroom, the kitchen, and the view.

It doesn't take long for the first batch to arrive. They trickle in slowly, taking in the kitchen's grand island and the perfectly positioned bouquets. The first couple - a man and woman in their mid-twenties - walk in holding hands, so I do what Charter had suggested and swan over.

"Gorgeous, isn't it?" I say. "Perfect for a first home."

The woman, blonde and exquisite in every way, smiles. "That's what we're looking for - our first home together."

"You've chosen the right place. Upper East Side is one of the most family-friendly areas in New York. Why don't I give you a tour?"

"That would be great," the woman says.

The man nods, but we've barely moved two steps when his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket, lifts it to his ear, and raises a single finger to his wife before walking off into the distance. The woman stares after him, sullen, then turns to me with her brightest smile.

"You'd think he'd be able to put his phone down for one second," she says, her smile faltering. "This is supposed to be something we do together."

I nod because I get it. Sometimes it feels like the more money these clients have, the bigger the properties, and the less happy they seem to really be. See, I have this dream where I show a couple around their new home, and they're shocked by how perfect it is. They fall in love with the house and, in turn, fall slightly more in love with each other. Despite several years of this under my belt, I've yet to see it happen.

"Come on," I say, my voice bright, "we'll fill him in later."

She nods, blinking back the tears, and follows me over to the living room. "It's big," she says, looking around. "Spacious."

"1000 sq ft," I say, "and perfect for hosting company." I can tell they're the type to have people over regularly, maybe throw a fundraiser or two, and her eyes seem to brighten at the word host. I lead her over to the terraced dining place, allowing her a moment to imagine the kind of dinner parties one could host here.

"Such an interesting design," she says. "Unique."

"It was designed by Emilio Vinaly, a globally acclaimed architect with several international projects. He represents some of the most sought-after buildings in Manhattan-" I turn to her and smile, "-something to tell your guests when you're hosting dinner out here."

She laughs and takes on a far-off look, imagining those dinners on a crisp Manhattan night overlooking the skyline. "It would be beautiful."

"It's also the perfect place to catch the sunrise over breakfast," I say. "You and your partner could sit at this table and enjoy the view over coffee."

That look on her face intensifies. Her eyes roam the table, picturing the pair of them laughing over coffee, his phone out of sight, because that's what I'm selling here. Not a property but a dream.

She turns to me now with a tilt of her head. "You're either very good at your job, or this property is one of a kind."

Smiling, I say, "I'd like to think it's a little bit of both."

In the distance, her partner reappears, phone in hand, and the woman turns and smiles. "I'm going to go and tell him I want this house," she says. "I'll be back in a little while, and then you could show us the rest?"

"Of course," I say, and I watch her hurry over to him, smile bright and filled with promise.

Hope.

I have to turn away, not because it's hard to see her happy, but because outside of this moment, it's clear that she's not. And maybe that's what scares me. If someone like her - beautiful, rich, with the world at her fingertips - can appear this unhappy, what chance do the rest of us have?

Straightening up, I ignore the gnawing feeling and turn to the living room, ready to hone in on another client, when the elevator doors slide open. A man steps out, his face partially obscured by one of the columns that separate the kitchen and living room. He's tall, though, exceptionally so, and wearing an expensive dark suit. I take a step closer, catching a glimpse of his face through the gap.

Wyatt.

The moment his eyes find mine, he smiles. It's a beautiful smile, the kind you'd see on a dental commercial or promoting some fancy teeth whitening device. It's the smile of someone making it clear they're happy to see you, which unnerves me in more ways than one.

I pull back my shoulders and head over, noting how his eyes lighten. "Wyatt - good to see you. How's life as a CEO treating you?"

He grins. "It's not so bad when I forget that I work alongside assholes. Figured I'd take a break and check out some properties. So, give me the breakdown of this place."

"The quick version? Six bedrooms, eight bathrooms, contemporary living with a view of Manhattan."

"And the longer version?"

"I'll show you." I lead him around the property, pointing out some of the key features or making suggestions of the types of things he might do in each room. Right now, I'm in my element, discussing each room like I built the place myself, but this is what I love. The history of each property and the way the clients' faces light up when they discover another new detail. Wyatt listens intently, watching me closely as I gesture toward the windows. "Every detail in this property has been carefully selected to make it unique. The glass traveled from Italy to Spain, where it was given its characteristic curved shape and was later laminated multiple times." I lead him into the elevator and up to the fifth floor, where I show him the master bedroom.

"Impressive," he says, looking around. "It always amazes me how people have the eye to design places like these."

"I know," I say because, finally, someone appreciates the architecture of this place as much as I do. "The walk-in closet is connected to a superb Bianco Dolomite marble bathroom," I say and open the door to show him the ensuite. "Each bedroom in the house also has the same floor-to-ceiling windows, so you can always wake up to a beautiful view."

Wyatt looks over and grins. "You're really selling it to me."

I laugh. "That's kind of the point."

We spend a few more minutes discussing the property, and I realize it's easy to talk to him. There is never a lull in conversation or a moment where I work too hard to keep the conversation flowing. Despite his trust-fund brat background, he is the most down-to-earth person I've met.

"Okay, give me the truth," he says, "how much would this set me back?"

I hesitate. "50 million."

"A lot of money to part with." He rubs his jaw. "I'll have to sit on it a little while."

"Not too long," I say. "A property like this will be snapped up by tomorrow. And who can put a price on happiness?"

He looks over, studying me in that bashful way he'd done when we first met. "You have a way with words, you know that?"

"Hey, I'm just being honest."

He laughs again, a deep, warm sound that fills the bedroom. He runs a hand through his hair as he mulls my proposition over, clearly debating something. "At the risk of being that creepy guy who asks you out at work: I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee sometime."

I stare at him like a deer caught in headlights. It's like the ultimate test, as though God has placed this handsome specimen in front of me to force me to confront my feelings. And while the logical side of me knows that someone like Wyatt is a catch, I realize there's no thrum of excitement, no heart-racing or spine-tingling or nerves-inducing flutters. For better or worse, no one will ever excite me like Milo, which means I either risk this job to make our relationship work or I resign myself to the fact that I'll never feel this way about anyone again.

"There it is again," he says, highlighting his brow, and to his credit, he's still smiling, "your telltale sign. Is that a no?"

My eyes soften. "I'm just not really open to getting to know anyone right now."

"I understand," he says. "You know where to find me if you ever change your mind. I'll have a think about the property and get back to you tomorrow."

"Yeah," I say, "sounds good," and I watch him walk away. There's no regret either, no what if I'd said yes and became his wealthy wife. The only thought in my mind is that whoever he ends up with will be one lucky woman.

Back in the living room, I scan the place for the couple I'd spoken to and find they've disappeared. It's nearing seven, and there are only two people left on this floor, both of which dart in the opposite direction as soon as I approach.

I hover around for the next few minutes, fear setting in when it dawns on me that the night is nearly over, and I've yet to secure a deal. I'd put all my eggs on the youngish couple, certain they were serious, and now they're nowhere to be seen. The final two clients make their way to the elevator, giving me a half-hearted wave before the doors close shut. I sigh.

The last client to arrive is a middle-aged man in an expensive Armani suit. He's handsome for his age, with tanned skin, slick black hair peppered with gray, and a physique that suggests he likes to work out. No doubt a business owner or an investor, someone who likes to add properties like this to build their portfolio. In other words, an easy target. I make a beeline for him, refusing to feel defeated, and paint on my brightest smile.

"I'm the last one here?" he asks, looking around.

"Saving the best 'till last," I say.

We both laugh, off to a good start. I take him around the rooms, pointing out the same old features and making the same old speeches. Instead of talking about breakfast or views, I hone in on something I know that he's into. "It would be easy to convert one of these rooms into a home gym," I say, showing him the room. "There's enough space and natural light to add some equipment. Plus, who wouldn't want to work out to a view of Manhattan?"

"A woman after my own heart," he says. "I take it you're into the gym too?"

One of my skills is lying through my teeth. "I sure am."

"I doubt I would get to use it much, though," he says. "This would be more of an investment for me."

I secretly pride myself on being right. "It's the perfect property to rent out," I say, "or to host fundraisers. Whatever you need it for."

His eyes look me over. He smiles. "You know, I've been working with Laurelle's girls for a while, and I've never seen you before. Are you new?"

He says Laurelle's girls in a way that gets my back up. Clearly, Laurelle is playing the sexism card and giving Lucas women clients while her girls are given the men. "Not to real estate," I say, "but I've only recently been assigned to some of Laurelle's most valuable clients." I try to keep my smile up, but the sudden look in his eyes like I'm another piece of meat makes it difficult.

"Well, I'll be sure to put in a good word to Laurelle," he says, stepping closer. "Listen, why don't we continue this conversation over a drink? I know a good bar not far from here. Something a little more private."

There it is, the role of my job being pulled into question once again, only this time, I'm too tired to play nice. Too jaded to convince myself he's being anything other than friendly. I didn't take this job to suck up to men. I took this job because I love selling houses. I want to help people find their homes; I refuse to let him take that from me.

"I don't feel comfortable doing that," I say, "but I'm happy to discuss any questions you might have here." To my surprise, my voice comes out even, strong. Not once do I falter.

To say he looks confused is an understatement. Clearly, he's not used to being turned down, and he takes a few seconds to respond. Rubbing his jaw, he says, "It's just a drink - the other girls do it."

"Unfortunately, I don't. Did you have any questions about the property?"

The corner of his eye twitches. He's growing impatient. "Considering you've been recently promoted, you're not making a very good impression. I think Laurelle would be disappointed to hear about this."

Blackmail. Unbelievable. "Then she'll be disappointed," I say, "but I'm still not going for a drink with you."

The sound of clacking heels makes us turn. Charter stands behind us, looking between the two of us with an expression I can't read, but I'm certain by tomorrow, Laurelle will have heard about this. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," I say, turning to the client, "this gentleman was just leaving."

He looks at me with narrowed eyes, straightens his tie, and pushes past us into the elevator. I suck in a breath, letting the lack of air burn my lungs as I wait for Charter to speak.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks.

"Fine," but my voice sounds different and unlike my own, "I think I just need a minute before we head back."

She nods as I walk onto the balcony and over to the railing. Taking in the view of Manhattan, I steady my breathing, trying not to dwell on the fact that this time tomorrow, I probably won't have a job. But in the back of my mind, a gentle whisper lost in the breeze says, Would that be so bad?

Despite the view, the joy of selling properties is lost up here. My passion came from watching people fall in love with their homes or the way their faces lit up when they pictured the memories the walls of their houses would hold. That's what got me into this, and that's what I need to find my way back to.

When I've calmed down, I follow Charter into the elevator. I expect her to look disappointed or annoyed, but she doesn't. Instead, as the doors close, I catch a glimpse of her eyes in the reflection and see something that surprises me.

Respect.

A/N

Who wants more?! ❤️