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A marble freaking fridge. That’s a new one.
“Anyway, it’s nice, I guess,” she says with a small shrug of one pointy shoulder. “But I don’t think it can really showcase me as a person.” She twirls her fingers around. “I need an apartment that matches my level of sophistication, Maria.”
She lifts one eyebrow in my direction.
This is her not-so-silent warning toward me. Despite the fact that this penthouse literally checks off all the boxes from her list, she doesn’t feel it’s a viable option. Especially not one I should’ve wasted her time with.
Normally, I’d be determined to make her happy. To find exactly what she wants, no matter how impossible it might feel. But right now, as I stand here, watching Eleanor snub her nose at a highly coveted penthouse that will no doubt be sold by the end of the day, I can’t find the desire to care.
Maybe it’s lack of sleep.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’m finding it hard to focus on anything but wondering how Remy and Izzy are doing.
Or maybe it’s simply that I am tired of dealing with clients like Eleanor.
Frankly, I don’t know what it is, but I’m certain I want to be done with this showing. Done with this client. Done with this workday.
I want to go get Izzy and go back to my apartment, take off these godforsaken heels, order some takeout, and just…relax on the couch.
“Maria, I’m done here,” Eleanor says and pulls out her phone to text her driver, who’s probably double-parked somewhere nearby. “Call me if anything worthy of my time comes up on the market.”
Goodness, I really should be trying to make her happy. But again, I can’t find it in me to care today. I don’t think there’s a person alive who could make Eleanor Waverly happy. A billionaire on a private jet asking for her hand in marriage with a ten-million-dollar diamond ring and no prenup wouldn’t even urge a smile to her lips.
“Okay, Eleanor.” I offer a sugary-sweet smile and walk with her down the long hallway leading to the foyer that holds the entrance to the private elevator.
Yes, this penthouse has its own private elevator. Not to mention five bedrooms, six bathrooms, an actual sauna and hot tub room, and a rooftop terrace that photographers would drool over.
I’m about to let her leave, to throw in the towel and go back to the drawing board, when something hits me—something that feels a hell of a lot like a freight train of confidence.
“You know, Eleanor, I truly think this is the apartment for you. It’s got everything on your list of desires and then some, and it has incredible potential to grow exponentially in value. I wouldn’t dare assert a decision on you, but I do want to express how big of a mistake I think you’re making if you walk away.”
My breathing is labored and my eyes suddenly feel incredibly watery, but I stand my ground as she works her glacial gaze across my face.
With one final nod, she spins on her toe and steps directly into the elevator without another word.
The doors close on the Wicked Witch of New York, and I all but jump for joy.
Thank everything. I might have blown my relationship with Eleanor completely, but at least I spoke up for myself, and right now, that’s something I’m going to choose to be proud of.
Maybe I won’t be when I’m trying to find a way to pay for private preschool and everything that follows, but for now, I’m at peace.
Before starting the process of shutting off the lights and locking up, I pull my phone out of my pocket and start to fire off a text, but I’m downright shocked when a notification pops up on my screen before I can manage to type a single word.
Eleanor Waverly: Tell them I’ll give them list, but I want the Picasso that’s hanging in the library.
Is she kidding me? She wants the fucking apartment?
Holy, holy shit. I can’t believe standing up to her worked!
There’s a part of me that wants to tell her to go fuck herself just to feel the buzz, but the big commission check that gleams off in the distance wins out.
Me: I’ll reach out to the listing agent now.
I quickly shoot Carl Morrow, the penthouse’s listing agent, an offer via text, but once I hit send, I don’t wait impatiently for his response like I normally would. Instead, I open my chat with Remy.
Me: How is Izzy? Are you still surviving?
Simultaneously, my phone chimes with two messages, one from Carl and one from Remy. I open Remy’s first. Inside our chat, I only find a photo. It’s a picture of Izzy, sleeping peacefully, with a note taped to her chest. I’m a very happy hostage. (Not fussy at all because I’ve been a little angel all day.) PS: You will only get me back if you agree to eat dinner tonight with a handsome, studly, amazing man named Remy.
