Maya Caldwell blinked at the request, then recovered smoothly with a smile.
"Mr. Harmon, just so you know — Fairview Heights is all brick-and-concrete construction from the eighties. If this is for a primary residence, I actually have a '96 frame structure nearby at a comparable price point. Better bones, better finish."
Cole shook his head. "Fairview Heights is fine. That's what I'm looking for."
"Of course." Maya clicked her pen and made a note. "Any preference on size or floor level?"
"Not particularly. Whatever's available in Fairview Heights."
Before Maya could respond, Sandra materialized behind her from across the office. The space was only thirty square meters — there was no such thing as a private conversation in here.
"So you'll take everything that's available? All of it?"
Cole didn't answer Sandra. He looked at Maya Caldwell.
Maya caught on quickly and turned back to Cole with a professional smile.
"Mr. Harmon, this is my colleague Sandra."
Sandra studied Cole with the practiced eye of someone who had sized up a few thousand buyers and trusted her read completely.
He was young. He was dressed simply. He was asking specifically about the least desirable inventory in the area.
"Just graduated, am I right?" she said.
Cole looked at her.
"What does that have to do with buying a house?"
He had eight million dollars sitting in his account. He was not in the mood.
Sandra faltered for just a second at his tone, then pushed through it.
"Someone your age, dressed like that, asking specifically about Fairview Heights — you know what that looks like? It looks like a competitor fishing for our listings. We get that all the time."
Maya went slightly still. It wasn't an unreasonable concern — listing theft was a real problem in this business, and a competitor posing as a buyer to pull inventory information wasn't unheard of. She felt the hesitation settle in.
"I'm not a competitor," Cole said flatly. He had no patience for this and even less interest in performing innocence for Sandra.
He stood up.
"Miss Caldwell, if you're available, I'd like you to show me whatever you currently have listed in Fairview Heights."
"Maya, think carefully before you do that," Sandra said, her voice taking on the tone of someone delivering a warning they'd told themselves was for your own good.
Maya sat still for a moment, caught between the two of them.
Cole read the hesitation and let it go. He understood the position she was in. But he also wasn't going to stand here and talk Sandra out of a suspicion she had already decided to hold.
He had come here specifically to give Maya the commission. In his previous life she had been one of the few people in that stretch of time who had treated him like a person worth taking seriously. He'd wanted to return that, quietly, by sending some business her way.
But Bright Key Realty wasn't the only agency on this street.
He turned toward the door.
"Mr. Harmon — wait." Maya Caldwell was on her feet. "I have four listings in Fairview Heights. All my own — they won't affect anyone else's inventory. I'll take you to see them now."
Sandra opened her mouth.
"Sandra." Maya's voice was polite but firm. "These are my listings. I'll handle it." She grabbed the keys from the cabinet and fell into step beside Cole as they walked out.
Behind them, Sandra let out a sharp breath.
"Rookies never listen. I've watched this exact thing happen a dozen times. You'll work for free and lose the listing and then come back crying about it."
The door swung closed.
---
On the sidewalk, Cole glanced at Maya Caldwell.
"Why'd you trust me?"
She thought about it for a second, genuinely considering the question rather than reaching for an easy answer.
"Honestly? Mostly instinct. You don't have the energy of someone trying to pull something — you're annoyed, not nervous. And besides—" she tilted her head slightly toward the building behind them, "— if someone was going to send a plant to steal listings, they wouldn't ask specifically for Fairview Heights. Competitors go after the premium inventory. Nobody's trying to poach eighty-year-old brick-and-concrete."
Cole smiled. "That's a sharp read."
"It's the job."
She was right, and she knew she was right, and she didn't make a performance of it. He had forgotten how easy she was to talk to.
They walked together into Fairview Heights. Maya kept up a steady, efficient summary — forty buildings, six floors each, the four available units spread across different floors and layouts. She had all the numbers ready without checking her notes.
The third-floor unit she showed him first was ninety-six square meters — three bedrooms, reasonable layout, decent light for its age. She moved through the space pointing out the relevant details without inflating them, which Cole appreciated. She wasn't trying to sell him something. She was just showing him what was there.
He already knew he wanted all four.
---
Across the city, in a high-rise apartment in central Crestfield, Derek Harrington was on the lobby sofa with a cigarette burning down between his fingers, not smoking it so much as letting it exist.
After Margaret walked out of the Antique Market with the vase tucked under her arm, she had called her assistant, flagged a car, and headed directly for the airport. She was flying to Washington to meet with business mogul Edward Lawson — a contact her father had spent years cultivating. Derek had tried to invite himself along, framing it as support. She had said no without breaking stride.
He was still feeling that particular kind of anger that had nowhere clean to go.
The trip had cost him a million dollars, produced nothing useful, and somehow left Margaret's opinion of him colder than it had been when the morning started. Cole Harmon — a man who had arrived at the Antique Market on public transit in clothes that cost less than Derek's watch — had walked out with eight million dollars and Margaret's business card.
He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and stood up when he heard the door.
Vanessa came in with a warm smile, still arranging her jacket.
"You said it was urgent — what's going on?"
Derek didn't answer. He crossed the room, took her by the waist, and steered her toward the bedroom without a word.
Vanessa went stiff.
She looked at his face — jaw tight, eyes hard, something in his expression that didn't leave much room — and felt a spike of real fear.
"Derek, what are you—"
"Don't." His voice came out low and flat. "Don't say anything. Don't ruin this for me."
She went quiet and stayed that way.
---
Three minutes later, Derek was propped against the headboard with a fresh cigarette, staring at nothing in particular, his expression still dark.
Vanessa sat up carefully and pulled on a robe, reading the room before she spoke.
"What happened?"
Derek took a long drag and let the smoke out slowly.
"That deadbeat Cole Harmon found an antique vase in the market this morning and walked out with eight million dollars."
His voice rose as he said it, the anger flaring back up and finding its shape again.
"Eight million. That broke, worthless—"
He stopped. Took another drag. Didn't finish the sentence.
Vanessa sat quietly on the edge of the bed, and behind her carefully neutral expression something lit up that she didn't let reach her face.
An idea was forming.