Page 3 of All Twerk, No Play

Mallory teased, “Guess I’ll introduce you to more than just work connections.”

My father’s towncar pulled up to the curb to return me to civilization in Manhattan. I removed Alexander’s spiral-bound business plan from my Hermes bag, planning to use the drive to improve his limited ideas. “Not interested. I’ve got an empire to build.”

"Dreams," Fleetwood Mac

Victoria

Onmyfifthbirthday,my parents surprised me with a trip to FAO Schwarz in Rockefeller Center to negotiate the purchase of my Barbie Dream House. I informed the manager, “I’ll take the upgraded floor model, with the elevator and two-story pool slide.”

He shook his head. “That display isn’t for sale.”

Glee filled my chest as he withered under my father’s cool gaze. Dad’s hand squeezed my shoulder, prompting me to repeat what he’d taught me: “Everything is for sale, for the right price.”

Growing up in a real estate dynasty taught me to plan for all contingencies, never waiving the inspection or leaving anything to chance.

So when my meticulously planned life fell apart and I ended up in a podunk city in Upstate New York—200 miles from the closest Neiman Marcus, for Christ’s sake—I decided to indulge in retail therapy by purchasing a 6400-square-foot commercial building … and maybe those Prada patent leather slingbacks I’d been eyeing to match.

When I arrived last week, Alexander was borrowing space in his dad’s office, housed in a humble bungalow. Even the word felt dirty. “Bung,” a mashup of bum and dung, and “low,” reminding me I’d fallen on my ass.

I needed to get out of there, stat.

After eleven showings of uninspiring strip malls facing parking lots, my hopes for adequate office space were dwindling. Our real estate agent Lawrence spent the morning looking down my dress instead of explaining the amenities, which was fine because I'd learned more about real estate by my tenth birthday than he ever would.

Although Alexander had witnessed men blatantly ogling me—including our law school professors and firm partners—he’d ignored it for years. But now, after a few weeks around his feminist sister, he was growling like a caveman.

Frankly, it was annoying. I could take care of my damned self.

When Alexander whined about lunch, I put an extra swing into my step to draw Lawrence’s attention and Alexander’s ire … stopping in my tracks at a Greek revival with FOR LEASE commercial signage out front.

I flicked my fingertips to Lawrence for the specs. While he fumbled, Alexander tried to veto the property for being too large. I didn’t budge, impatiently demanding access. After a day of Berber carpet and styrofoam ceilings, I needed to bask in something beautiful.

As soon as Lawrence unlocked the door, I felt what I’d been missing: that rare buzz along my skin when something I desired was in my reach. Although he tried to guide us upstairs right away to the vacant office space, I ignored his prompts, choosing to inspect the ground floor retail unit, admiring the white oak floors and giant street-facing windows.

It had been a women’s clothing boutique, but this building’s side street entrance didn’t get enough foot traffic to sustain the margins. The location would be better suited for a salon or spa, somewhere that drew repeat customers.

The middle floor was occupied by an insurance company, which my father always said was a solid tenant, second only to financial firms. My family’s properties relied on Wall Street investment banking tenants, but stockbrokers wouldn’t be caught dead this far upstate.

Lawrence encouraged me to lead the way up the final staircase—probably to check out my ass—to the vacant third floor.

The building’s top level. Where I belonged.

Not the 78th floor where I’d cut my teeth, but the closest to be found in this second-rate city.

The previous occupant, a nanotech firm, had outgrown the space. Cubicles filled the main area, surrounded by small private offices. No surprise the real estate company was struggling to rent this ugly space.

But my mom always taught me to see beyond reality into the potential.

I could walk through their boring foyer and envision a giant Blackstone & Clarke logo behind the reception desk. I looked past the gray cubicle farm to visualize our conference table. I imagined those five tiny private offices turned into two large executive suites, one for each founding partner—I’d take the larger one overlooking the street.

Alexander was correct: This space was twice what we needed for our small firm. Leasing a smaller space would be the smart—albeit conservative—financial move.

But the stately Greek revival reminded me of all the properties my mom purchased because they spoke to her soul, finding the perfect tenants to turn them into long-term assets. Blackstone & Clarke could be the flagship tenant until Alexander came to his senses. When we moved away, the upgraded space would rent for more than its current listing and I’d pocket the profits.

I may have walked away from my family’s business 13 years ago, but Sinclair blood still pumped in my veins.

And Sinclairs don’t rent.

Over the cubicle walls, Alexander’s scowl deepened. Just like this building, I’d discovered him as a lump of coal and polished him into a diamond. He looked good here, his charcoal suit complimenting my vision as the indirect light from the late afternoon sun made his raven strands shine almost blue.

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