The shoes came out of the box like a magic trick—two flashes of red sole and black patent leather that made the whole Beverly Hills boutique hold its breath.
Tiffany held the Christian Louboutins up against the soft white light of the store ceiling, the red bottoms glowing like a signal flare. Outside on Rodeo Drive, tourists snapped photos with palm trees and sports cars, but in here, under the chandelier and the soft hum of an air conditioner set a little too low, these shoes were the main attraction.
“Limited edition,” Tiffany announced, like she was talking about a rare diamond. “Straight from Paris. The commission on these is gonna be insane.”
Mia, the other sales associate, smiled as she folded tissue paper behind the counter. “They are beautiful,” she admitted.
“If anyone can sell these, it’s going to be me,” Tiffany said, flipping her perfectly flat-ironed hair off her shoulder. “No offense.”
Mia just laughed. She’d learned fast that working in this luxury boutique meant swallowing a lot of comments that weren’t worth responding to.
The bell above the glass door chimed.
A woman stepped in, holding a reusable grocery bag instead of a designer purse. Her sundress was clean but clearly not new, the floral print a little faded from too many spins in a cheap apartment washer. Her hair was pulled back in a practical bun, no expensive blowout in sight. On Rodeo Drive, where sneakers cost more than rent, she might as well have worn a sign that said “does not belong.”
“Excuse me,” the woman said, voice soft but steady. “Hi. Are those the new Christian Louboutins?”
Tiffany didn’t bother hiding the way her eyes skimmed the woman from head to toe, pausing on the scuffed flats and the grocery bag.
“It’s a fifteen-hundred-dollar pair of shoes,” she said. “Might be a little bit out of your budget. Plus we only have a size seven left.”
“Oh.” The woman blinked, surprise flickering across her face. “Well, that’s actually my size. Do you think I could try one on?”
“Look,” Tiffany said, lowering her voice a notch like she thought she was doing the woman a favor. “I’m not trying to be rude here, but I really don’t feel like wasting my time. We have a clearance rack in the back.”
Mia stepped in before the moment could sink its claws too deep. “It’s not a problem,” she said quickly. “You can absolutely try these on. I’ll go get some nylon socks for you.”
“Thank you,” the woman said, relief flashing in her eyes as she smiled at Mia.
Tiffany stared at her co-worker. “What are you doing?” she hissed as Mia headed for the drawer. “Why would you let her try those on? She obviously can’t afford them.”
“Appearances can be misleading,” Mia said. “You shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”
“I know who buys and who doesn’t,” Tiffany said. “She’s just going to try them on, take a picture for her Instagram, and leave like everybody else. You’re just wasting your time.”
But Mia had already slipped the nylons into the woman’s hands and gently guided her to a velvet bench. The boutique was quiet enough that every word carried.
The woman eased off her flats and slipped her foot into the Louboutins as if she were afraid they might vanish. When she stood up, the red soles flashed in the mirror. Her eyes widened.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “These are so beautiful.”
She took a few tentative steps, staring at herself from every angle, as if she were seeing a different version of herself entirely.
“Do you have any water?” she asked after a minute, smiling apologetically. “My mouth is kind of dry.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t—” Tiffany started, then saw a bead of sweat trickle down the stiletto’s heel in her mind. “Do you mind putting those back? I need to keep them clean for the next person who can actually afford to buy them.”
The woman’s shoulders tensed. “Of course,” she said. She sat back down and carefully slipped the shoes off, cradling them in both hands before setting them on the bench.
The bell chimed again.
“Hello,” a bright voice said. “Do you have the new limited edition Louboutins that just came out?”
“Hi there, ma’am,” Tiffany sang, turning on the full wattage of her smile. The newcomer wore a silk blouse and carried a Gucci bag big enough to hold a small dog, her nails glossy and freshly painted. Her sunglasses sat on top of her head like a crown. “Welcome. Yes, of course. But we only have a size seven left.”
“Perfect,” the woman said. “I’m a size seven.”
“Perfect,” Tiffany echoed. She scooped up the Louboutins, hugging them like a prize. “I love those,” the customer said. “Would you like to try them on?” Mia asked, still holding the nylon socks.
“That won’t be necessary,” the Gucci bag woman said. “I’ll buy them.”
“Oh, wow,” Tiffany said. “That’s wonderful. You’re going to look fantastic in these.”
“Okay, got the socks,” Mia said, returning to the bench where the first woman sat, bare feet tucked under her dress. “Thank you so much for waiting—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Tiffany cut in, reaching between them and plucking the shoes from the bench. “This woman is going to buy them, right, ma’am?”
“Oh yeah,” the Gucci customer said breezily. “I can’t wait to wear those. I’ll meet you at the register.”
Mia’s face flushed. “I’m so sorry,” she said to the woman she’d helped. “It’s okay,” the woman said, forcing a smile. “It’s not your fault.”
“We just got some new shoes in that you might like,” Mia added quickly. “They’re not Louboutins, but they’re really comfortable and they’re on sale. Would you like to see them?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Next time,” she whispered as Mia walked away with the woman, “take my advice. Don’t waste your time on people who can’t afford expensive things. Maybe then you’ll actually be able to sell a pair of shoes.”
“You’re sure there’s no water?” Mia called from the back, filling a paper cup at the staff cooler.
“Fine,” Tiffany sighed, grabbing a glass bottle she kept chilled for “VIP customers” and handing it to Mia. “Here. But this is coming out of your stash.”
Mia carried it over. “Here’s your water,” she said gently.
The woman smiled. “Thank you.”
At the counter, Tiffany was already ringing up the Gucci bag woman.
“These shoes are going to look so great with your outfit,” she gushed. “You’ve got the top, the Gucci bag, now you have the shoes to tie it all together. Everyone’s going to know how much money you have.”
“That’s the goal,” the customer laughed. “You can use this card.”
“Great,” Tiffany said, sliding the platinum card through the reader. “That’ll be $1,645 with tax, on the credit card.”
She waited for the familiar beep of approval. Instead, the screen flashed red.
“Hmm,” Tiffany said. “Says it’s declined. That’s odd. Let me try again. Sometimes these readers don’t work.”
“Is there a problem?” the woman asked, a thin line forming between her brows.
“It’s saying this card isn’t working,” Tiffany said. “Do you want to try another one?”
“No,” the woman said. “That’s the only one. Can you try it again? I really need to post these shoes on Instagram so that people think I have money.”
Mia paused, overhearing. She glanced at the perfectly staged Gucci bag.
“Um, it’s still not working,” Tiffany said after a third try. Her voice had lost some of its shine. “But no worries—you could just pay cash. There’s a bank right next door if you need to get some money.”
“Cash?” the woman said, eyes widening. “No, I don’t have that kind of money in my bank account. That’s why I wanted to use a credit card.”
“What do you mean?” Tiffany blurted. “You have a Gucci bag. You can clearly afford it.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” the woman whispered, leaning in. “But it’s actually empty. I just borrowed it from a friend.”
She hesitated. “Do you think I could still try them on, though? For, you know… the gram?”
The words hung in the air like something sour.
Mia turned away, focusing on helping her customer into a pair of soft leather flats that weren’t limited edition, but fit perfectly and made the woman smile.
Fifteen minutes later, the bell chimed again. Mia looked up and saw the woman from before step back into the shop, the grocery bag now full of vegetables and a loaf of bread.
“Oh hey, you’re back,” Tiffany called, still sitting behind the register with the Louboutins in their box. “How did it work out?”
“It didn’t,” Tiffany answered her own question, smirking. “Her card got declined. She took a picture and left. Bad for my commission, but great content for her followers, I guess.”
The grocery bag woman’s gaze flicked to the box on the counter. “I’ll buy them,” she said quietly.
Mia blinked. “Really?”
“That would be great,” Tiffany said, hand already reaching for the shoes. “Let me get those wrapped up for you.”
“Wait,” she added, pausing mid-step. “No offense, but if my customer’s card didn’t go through, there’s no way your credit card is going to go through. Let’s not waste each other’s time here.”
“Credit card?” the woman said. “Who said anything about a credit card?”
She reached into her grocery bag and pulled out a thick envelope of cash, crisp hundreds banded together.
“I’m paying cash,” she said.
Tiffany stared. “Where did you get all that money?”
The woman smiled, not unkindly. “I own my own company,” she said. “We just passed our first million in revenue last quarter. The reason I look like this is because I just came from the nail salon and then the farmer’s market.”
Mia’s eyes widened. Beverly Hills was full of money, but it was rare to hear someone talk about building it instead of marrying it.
“Oh, and by the way,” the woman added, gesturing toward the display. “I’ll take a size 7 in all of these that you’ve shown me. If you don’t mind.”
Mia grinned. “That sounds great,” she said. “Follow me to the register.”
“I’ll be right there,” the woman said, turning to Tiffany. “Excuse me.”
Tiffany swallowed.
“Next time,” the woman said softly, “remember appearances can be misleading. You shouldn’t be so quick to judge. Maybe then you’ll actually sell some shoes.”
She joined Mia at the counter, handing over the cash. Six pairs of shoes later, Mia’s hands were shaking with excitement. Tiffany stood there, watching the transaction she’d almost talked herself out of.
Across town, on a sun-baked car lot in the San Fernando Valley, another set of assumptions was being made under the California sun.
“Oh man,” Derek said, whistling low as the transport truck unloaded the new Rolls-Royce. “That baby just showed up. That right there is the new Phantom. You know what the commission is on that?”
“Too much?” his co-worker Ray guessed, adjusting his tie.
“Ten grand,” Derek said. “Ten thousand dollars on one car. You know what I could do with ten grand?”
“Pay off some bills?” Ray offered.
“More importantly,” Derek said, ignoring the answer, “if I sell that car, they make me sales manager. Mark my words.”
The Rolls-Royce gleamed under the California sky, metallic paint throwing back the light. It looked like money sculpted into a car.
“Excuse me,” a quiet voice said. “Is this the new Rolls-Royce?”
Derek turned, sizing up the man. His jeans were worn, plain T-shirt slightly faded, sneakers clean but not new. No watch, no visible labels.
“That’s a $350,000 car, sir,” Derek said. “It’s really expensive. I don’t know if you can afford it.”
The man’s face didn’t change. “Is there any way I can see the inside?” he asked.
“Look, man,” Derek said. “I really don’t want to be rude today. I just don’t want to waste my time, okay?”
“You can see the inside, sir,” Ray interjected, stepping in smoothly. “Let me grab the keys for you.”
“That guy’s clearly gonna waste your time,” Derek muttered as Ray walked away. “Look at him.”
“Things aren’t always what they seem,” Ray said over his shoulder. “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
Ray opened the sleek door for the man, who ran his fingers over the leather with the reverence of someone touching a museum piece.
“Sir, can you please not touch the car?” Derek called out, suddenly anxious. “I want to make sure it’s clean for when somebody who can actually afford it comes in to buy it. You get it, right?”
The man withdrew his hand. “Of course,” he said.
A pair of polished brown shoes appeared at the edge of Derek’s vision. He looked up to see a man in a sharp suit, hair slicked back, watch gleaming on his wrist like a small sun.
“Excuse me,” the new man said. “Is that the new Rolls-Royce?”
“Yes,” Derek said, smile snapping on. “Yes, it is. Hello. I’m Derek. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Paul,” the suited man said. “Nice to meet you, too.”
“What do you think, Paul?” Derek said, already imagining the commission. “She’s perfect. Midnight blue, all the options. Exactly what you’ve been looking for.”
“I’ve already seen what I need to see,” Paul said, eyes skimming the polished hood. “I’ll take it. Let’s sign the paperwork.”
“My man,” Derek said. “That’s quick. I like that.”
He glanced back at the other man by the passenger door. “Oh, actually, you’re a little late,” Derek said. “This is my friend Paul and he just offered to buy the car. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” Paul said. “So does that mean it’s sold already?” the casually dressed man asked.
“Well, no, not yet,” Derek said. “But it’s about to be.”
“Let’s go sign the paperwork in my office,” Derek told Paul. “Corner office, glass door.”
He turned back toward Ray and the casual man. “Little piece of advice,” Derek said to Ray. “Don’t waste your time with poor-looking people. Maybe you’ll sell a car that way.”
“And you should never judge a book by its cover,” Ray said.
“Oh, you’re giving me advice?” Derek sneered. “That’s cute.”
In Derek’s office, the air conditioning hummed. “I just have to send this off and wait for approval from the bank,” Derek said, typing in numbers. “Then we’re good to go.”
“I can’t wait to get behind the wheel,” Paul said, adjusting his cufflinks.
“Oh yeah, man—suit, watch, car?” Derek said. “Everybody’s gonna know you’re a multi-millionaire. Exactly the look you’re going for, right?”
“That’s the idea,” Paul said, a little too eagerly.
Outside, Ray continued showing the Rolls to the first man, answering detailed questions about horsepower and engine displacement. “It’s a V12 engine, 6.75 liters, with 563 horsepower,” Ray explained.
“Wow,” the man said. “That’s impressive. You’re very knowledgeable.”
“I’ve done my homework,” Ray said. “Actually, there’s a sales manager position that just opened. I’m hoping they consider me for it.”
“I’m wondering,” the man said, “how come you’re wasting your time on a poor-looking person like me? You must think I can’t afford this car.”
“I’m all about helping people,” Ray said. “And besides, I’ve learned you should never judge a book by its cover.”
Back in the office, Derek frowned at his screen. “Huh,” he said. “That can’t be right.”
“Is something wrong?” Paul asked.
“It’s saying your credit wasn’t approved,” Derek said. “Don’t worry. Let me try again. Happens sometimes.”
“Come on, man,” Paul said. “I need that car. I need people to think that I’m rich.”
Derek hit submit again, harder this time. Same red text.
“It says your credit’s still not approved,” Derek said slowly. “But no worries. We could do cash. $350,000.”
“Three hundred and fifty thousand?” Paul laughed, panicked. “I don’t make that much in ten years.”
“What do you mean?” Derek said. “That’s a designer suit. I know you can afford this.”
“Don’t be fooled by the suit,” Paul said, sagging. “I’m actually broke. I just like people to think I’m doing better than I am.”
“Can I still test drive it though?” he asked, hopeful.
Derek stared at the screen, dreams collapsing line by line. “No,” he snapped.
He walked out, past Ray and the first man, face like a thundercloud.
“How’d it go?” Ray asked. “Did you make the sale?”
“No,” Derek said. “Guy didn’t have any money. Just another pretender in a fancy suit.”
“I’ll buy it,” the casually dressed man said.
Derek blinked. “Really?”
“That would be great,” Ray said cautiously. “We’ll get the paperwork started.”
“Wait,” Derek said, finding his footing in skepticism again. “No offense, but if my customer’s loan didn’t get approved, there’s no way yours will. I mean, look at the way you’re dressed.”
“Loan?” the man repeated. “Who said anything about a loan? I’m paying cash.”
He pulled out a checkbook and began writing. “Payable to Sunset Valley Motors—$350,000,” Ray read over his shoulder, eyes widening.
“I am genuinely confused,” Derek said. “Where did you get all that money?”
“I’m a multi-millionaire,” the man said simply. “I dress like this because I want people to help me for me, not for my money.”
He tore the check free and handed it to Ray. “By the way, I know the owner here,” he added. “I’m going to make sure he knows I think you’d make a fantastic manager.”
“Oh my gosh,” Ray said, stunned. “Thank you. This is going to change my life.”
“And I’m also going to make sure he knows about you,” the man said to Derek. “Here’s a piece of advice: next time, don’t judge a book by its cover. Maybe then you’ll sell a car.”
Derek watched as the man shook Ray’s hand, then walked to the Rolls like he’d been meant to drive it all along.
In a high-rise bar in downtown Dallas that evening, bottles of amber and gold lined the shelves like trophies.
“Up here we have our most expensive liquors,” Luke said, dusting the top shelf like he was polishing a crown. “Only the best of the best.”
“What’s that bottle?” Carla asked, squinting at the tall, sleek shape in the middle.
“That’s our most expensive tequila—Don Julio 1942,” Luke said. “Hundred dollars a shot.”
“Wow,” Carla said. “Last time I poured that, the rich guy who bought it left me a hundred-dollar tip. I could really use a tip like that. Could help me pay off some bills.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Luke said. “You have to be able to tell who has money and who doesn’t. And I don’t think you have that.”
He nodded toward the entrance. “Oh, great,” he added. “You know how I said I can spot poor people a mile away? Yeah. This is going to be such a waste of time. Watch.”
An older woman in a worn cardigan approached the bar, clutching her handbag a little too close. Her shoes were sensible, not stylish.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but may I please have a glass of water?”
“Actually,” Luke said, leaning on the bar, “if you want water, you’re going to have to drink from the fountain outside. This bar is for paying customers only.”
Carla’s head snapped around. “Look,” the woman said. “I hate to be a bother, but I’m really thirsty. Do you think you can make an exception?”
“I’m sorry,” Luke said, “but the answer is yes.”
Carla stepped in. “It’s not a problem at all, ma’am,” she said. “I’ll get you some water.”
“Oh hey,” Luke hissed as she grabbed a glass. “I thought you said you wanted to make tips. She’s clearly going to grab the water and go.”
“I’ve always believed in helping people,” Carla said. “Besides, you should never judge a book by its cover.”
“Wow,” Luke said. “Okay. See, this is exactly why you’ll never make a lot of money in tips.”
A man in a tailored navy suit took a seat at the far end of the bar. The watch on his wrist caught the dim light.
“Well hello there,” Luke said, gliding over. “What can I get started for you?”
“What’s the best tequila you’ve got?” the man asked.
“Oh, that’s going to be the Don Julio 1942,” Luke said. “Best of the best. Hundred dollars a shot. Judging by your appearance, you can afford it.”
“Great,” the man said. “I’ll take one. Neat. No lime.”
“You clearly have great taste,” Luke said. “I’ll get that started right away.”
Carla set a tall glass of water in front of the older woman. “Here you go,” she said. “One glass of water.”
“Thank you so much,” the woman said, sipping gratefully. “I was so thirsty. How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Carla said. “The water’s free of charge.”
“Really?” the woman said. “Bless your heart. I really appreciate it. Listen, I’m meeting some friends, so I’ll be right back.”
“No worries at all,” Carla said.
“And there you go,” Luke said to the man in the suit, setting down the tequila with a flourish. “1942. Neat, no lime. And there’s your check. No rush.”
“That’s a really nice suit, by the way,” Carla called over as she wiped down a section of the bar.
“Thank you,” the man said.
“The lady you were helping,” Luke said after he’d left. “She said she’ll be right back?”
“She did,” Carla said.
“One thing you’ll learn,” Luke said, “is that people like that never spend any money and never leave a good tip. That’s why you should never help poor-looking people.”
The man in the suit stood up. “All right, I’m out,” he said. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Thank you,” Luke said. “Have a good night, sir.”
Luke opened the check presenter. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “That guy didn’t leave me any tip. What a cheapskate.”
“Guys!” a cheerful voice said suddenly. The older woman had returned, flanked by two friends in business casual wear. “This is the amazing bartender I was telling you about,” she said to Carla, not Luke. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Carla said, surprised.
“We’re actually here celebrating,” one of the friends said. “What is the finest tequila you have?”
“It’s actually Don Julio 1942,” Carla said. “It’s—”
“That sounds great,” the woman said.
“Wait,” Luke cut in, eyebrows jumping. “Not to burst anyone’s bubble, but that is a hundred dollars per shot. No offense, but I don’t know if you can afford that.”
“Well,” the woman said calmly, “actually, I just sold my company for a few million dollars.”
Luke’s mouth fell open.
“We’ll take the whole bottle,” she added. “And whatever it costs, you double it and the extra is your tip.”
“Oh my God,” Carla said. “Really? Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this is going to help me.”
“We have some more friends coming, actually,” the woman said. “Why don’t you check and see if you have any more bottles in the back?”
“Of course,” Carla said. “Right away, ma’am.”
“Hey,” the woman added as Luke stood there stunned. “Piece of advice. If you ever want to make any real money in tips, you should never judge a book by its cover.”
The next afternoon in New York, a different kind of cover—phone cover—lit up with notifications.
“Oh my God, Allison Day?” a girl in an oversized hoodie said, almost dropping her iced coffee in SoHo. “I follow you on TikTok. Can I get a pic?”
“Yeah, sure,” Allison said, used to the request but still a little amused by it.
The girl’s friend fumbled with her phone. “Thank you so much,” she squealed after.
Allison ducked into a high-end dress store just off Fifth Avenue, the sort of place where the air smelled like expensive perfume and the dresses had more sequins than most people’s entire closets.
“Wow,” Allison murmured, fingers skimming over a gown that sparkled under the track lights. “This is stunning.”
She checked the tag. The number made her eyebrows twitch, but she’d done branded deals. She could afford it if she wanted.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’d like to try this on, please.”
Behind the counter, a salesperson named Madison sized her up. Allison wore ripped jeans, a simple cropped tee, and sneakers. No obvious logos. No security guard trailing her like the VIP she technically was.
“Is your mom with you?” Madison asked, sugar-sweet. “Or someone who can pay for it?”
“It’s just me,” Allison said, thrown. “Why?”
“This shop is a high-end dress store,” Madison said, voice lowering like she was sharing a secret. “Famous people shop here. And that’s a twelve-hundred-dollar dress. Might be a little out of your price range.”
“That’s not a problem,” Allison said. “I still want to try it on.”
“Look,” Madison said, tapping her manicured nail on the counter. “I really don’t feel like wasting my time. You should try Forever 21 or some other cheap store.”
The bell chimed.
“Hi,” another woman said, gliding in with a platinum card already in hand. “I don’t have much time. I’m looking for a special dress in a size small that really stands out.”
“Ah,” Madison said, eyes lighting up. “Well, how about this one?”
She plucked the same dress from Allison’s arms. “It’s part of our luxury collection, but judging by your appearance, I’m sure you can afford it.”
“Wow,” the woman said, clutching her designer bag. “Yes, that’s perfect, actually. I’ll take it.”
“Great,” Madison said. “I’ll meet you at the register.”
She turned back to Allison like she was an inconvenient echo. “Three blocks to the left,” she said. “Forever 21. I’m sure they’ll have something in your price range.”
Allison opened her mouth, then closed it. She wasn’t in the mood to explain follower counts and brand deals to a stranger who’d already decided who she was.
Outside, a group of teens squealed. “I told you she’d be here,” one said. “Wow, I can’t believe it’s actually you. Can we get a picture?”
“Yeah, of course,” Allison said, forcing a smile.
Inside, Madison wrapped the dress in tissue paper. “You’re going to be the center of attention when you wear this,” she told the woman. “People are going to think you’re a celebrity.”
“Yes,” the woman said. “That’s exactly the look I’m going for.”
“All right, your total is going to be $1,320 with tax,” Madison said. “You can put it on my card,” the woman chirped.
Madison swiped the card, fully expecting approval.
Nothing.
She tried again. Still nothing.
“Is it working?” the woman asked. “Because I really need this dress.”
“It’s… not going through,” Madison said slowly. “Do you have another card you want to try?”
“No,” the woman said. “That’s my only one.”
“Do you mind paying cash?” Madison asked, smile now strained. “There’s an ATM right next door.”
“I don’t have that kind of money,” the woman said. “That’s why I wanted to use credit.”
Outside, another shriek went up. “I can’t believe Allison Day is here,” someone said. “She has like twenty-five million followers on TikTok. She’s a multi-millionaire.”
Madison’s head snapped up. “Allison who?” she muttered.
The crowd parted as Allison tried to slip away. “Allison, can I get a pic too?” a girl called. “Who wants to go first?” Allison laughed.
“What is going on?” Madison asked her co-worker. “Why are they taking pictures with her?”
“You don’t know who that is?” the co-worker said. “That’s Allison Day. She’s huge on social media.”
Madison felt her stomach drop.
She rushed to the door. “Excuse me,” she called. “Allison? Did you still want to try the dress on?”
Allison turned, half a dozen phones still pointed at her. “Actually,” she said, voice calm, “I’m good. I’ll just go to Forever 21. Since it’s the only place I can afford.”
She smiled sweetly and walked away, leaving Madison standing in the doorway, dress in hand, assumptions in pieces.
On the other side of the country in Atlanta, Georgia, a real estate agent named Leslie stared up at a gleaming condo tower where a twenty-story glass wall caught the afternoon light like ice.
“This is the hottest listing on the market today,” she said, straightening her blazer in the reflection. “Commission is sixty grand.”
“Wow,” said Nate, the newer agent beside her. “I could pay off my student loans with that.”
“A rookie like you could never sell a place like this,” Leslie said. “If someone’s going to sell it, it’s going to be me.”
They walked into the lobby, where hors d’oeuvres and bottled sparkling water had been laid out for the open house. A sign read: PENTHOUSE OPEN HOUSE – $2,000,000.
A man in jeans and a hoodie stepped up to the elevator, looking around with wide eyes. “Hi,” he said. “Wow. This place is gorgeous. Can I get one of you to show me around?”
“I’m sorry,” Leslie said, smile tight. “But this is a two-million-dollar condo. I don’t think you can afford it.”
“Well, if it’s okay,” the man said, “I’d like to see it.”
“And I see you have sandwiches upstairs,” he added, spotting the catered spread in the photos.
“Oh, those are for serious buyers only,” Leslie said. “Look, I don’t want to waste my time today. Maybe there’s another neighborhood that will have something in your budget.”
“It’s no problem,” Nate said quickly. “Please, help yourself. And I’ll show you around.”
“Thank you so much,” the man said, taking a sandwich like he hadn’t eaten all day.
“What are you doing?” Leslie hissed as they stepped into the elevator. “Helping a potential buyer,” Nate said.
“He clearly can’t afford this place,” Leslie said. “I know his type. He’s just here for the free food.”
“I believe in helping people,” Nate said. “Besides, you should never judge someone based on their appearance.”
When the elevator doors opened, a woman in a designer dress strode in, heels clicking on the marble. “Hello,” she said. “I love your bag,” Leslie said. “This place is phenomenal, right?”
“It really is,” the woman said.
“And judging by your appearance,” Leslie added, “you can definitely afford this place. Come on, let me give you a tour.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the woman said. “I’ve seen all the pictures online. I’m ready to put in an offer.”
“Really?” Leslie said, eyes lighting up. “Okay then. I’ll just meet you upstairs and we’ll get the paperwork started. Can I get you a sandwich or anything?”
“That’d be great,” the woman said, flashing her perfect teeth.
“Ready?” Nate asked the man in the hoodie. “Let me show you around.”
“Actually,” Nate started to say when they stepped back into the main room, “that won’t be necessary,” Leslie cut in. “My new client over there is about to put in an offer.”
“Next time,” she added in a low voice, “take my advice and don’t waste your time with poor-looking people. Maybe then you’ll actually sell a house.”
Nate ignored her. “I’m so sorry,” he said to the man. “It looks like there may already be a buyer for this place. But I’m still happy to show it to you if you’d like.”
“That would be lovely,” the man said.
Later, Leslie sat at the kitchen island, laptop open. “I just submitted your loan application to the bank,” she told the designer-dressed woman. “Someone of your status should have no problem getting approved.”
Across the room, Nate gestured toward the granite countertops. “This kitchen has just been remodeled,” he told the man. “All hardwood floors, granite countertops, top-of-the-line appliances.”
“Wow,” the man said. “You really know your stuff.”
“Thanks,” Nate said. “I try. I have some student loans I need to pay off, so I was really hoping to sell this place.”
“Can I ask you something?” the man said. “Why are you still helping me? You must think I can’t afford this house.”
“I really like helping people,” Nate said. “And besides, I’ve learned you should never judge someone based on their appearance.”
He meant it.
“That’s odd,” Leslie said, frowning at her laptop. “Is there a problem?” the woman asked.
“It’s saying your loan is denied,” Leslie said.
“What?” the woman snapped. “Come on. There’s got to be something you can do.”
“Let me try increasing the down payment,” Leslie said quickly. “You okay with twenty percent? That’s four hundred thousand.”
“Are you crazy?” the woman said. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
“What do you mean?” Leslie blurted. “You’re carrying a Louis Vuitton bag. Clearly you have money.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” the woman said, lowering her voice. “But that Louis V is fake.”
She sighed. “Before I go, do you mind if I grab some more sandwiches?”
Leslie watched her load a napkin with little rolls and slipped away.
“How’d it go?” Nate asked quietly.
“Her loan ended up getting denied,” Leslie said. “Whatever. There go my sixty grand.”
“I’ll buy it,” a voice said.
They both turned. The man in the hoodie stood there, hands in his pockets.
“Oh my God,” Leslie said. “Really? That would be amazing. I’ll get the paperwork going right away.”
“Wait,” she added, reflexively skeptical. “No offense, but if my customer’s loan didn’t get approved, there’s no way yours will.”
“Loan?” he said. “Who said anything about a loan? I’ll write a check for the whole amount.”
“How do you have so much money?” Leslie asked.
“I’m a real estate investor,” he said. “I own a lot of homes. I dress like this because I want people to help me for me, not for my money. By the way, I could really use a good agent to help me with some other listings. I’m sure you’ll get your student loans paid off in no time,” he added to Nate.
“Oh my God,” Nate said. “Thank you so much. That’s going to change my life.”
“Hey,” the man said to Leslie as he pulled out his checkbook. “Next time, take my advice. Never judge someone based on their appearance. Maybe then you’ll actually sell a home.”
Months later, at a charity gala in Los Angeles raising funds for an animal rescue, all of their paths crossed without any of them knowing the full web of connection.
In the ballroom of a downtown hotel, under chandeliers and strings of white lights, a silent auction table displayed items donated from local businesses and entrepreneurs. A sign read: SCOUT’S HOPE ANIMAL RESCUE – FUNDRAISING GALA.
Near one end of the room, Tiffany shifted on her heels, now working as a “brand ambassador” for a mid-level shoe company. She watched, a little sour, as Mia laughed at a table with a woman in a simple silk dress and modest jewelry—the same woman who had once walked into the boutique with a grocery bag.
“So that’s her?” Tiffany whispered to a co-worker. “The woman who bought out half the Louboutins?”
“That’s her,” Mia said, joining them. “Her name’s Rosa. She started a skincare company from her kitchen. They just opened a lab in Culver City.”
Rosa was on stage a few minutes later, accepting an award for corporate sponsors. “When I first had the idea for my company,” she said, “I had ten dollars and a bag of groceries. People saw that bag and decided who I was. Tonight, I’m grateful that the dogs we’re helping won’t be judged by the condition of the humans who love them.”
At another table, Ray adjusted his tie. The man who’d bought the Rolls-Royce sat beside him, laughing at something a woman in a cardigan said—a woman Carla recognized as the kind stranger from the bar.
“You’re the bartender,” the woman said to Carla. “The one who gave me water when I needed it.”
“Yes,” Carla said. “And you… you’re the woman who bought the Don Julio.”
“I’m the woman who owns the company that bottles the soda they’re serving tonight,” the woman said, smiling. “And this is my son. He’s the one with the car.”
Nearby, Allison posed for photos with a line of young fans, the same easy smile on her face. Madison, the sales clerk from New York, was there too, working for a designer who’d donated dresses to the auction.
“That’s Allison Day,” Madison whispered to her boss. “Do you think she’d post about our line if we gave her something?”
Her boss arched an eyebrow. “You mean the girl whose money you didn’t ‘have time’ for?” she said quietly. “Talk to her if you want. But maybe this time, start with respect.”
Nate stood near the back, scanning the crowd for his client—the man in the hoodie, who tonight wore exactly the same hoodie. They were closing on two more properties next week. Leslie, working the room with a practiced smile, kept glancing at him, the memory of sixty thousand lost commission still bitter in her throat.
And in a quieter corner of the room, a man with tired eyes and a threadbare suit jacket sat holding a service dog’s leash.
“You see that guy?” a woman at the next table whispered. “He shouldn’t be taking care of a dog. He can’t even take care of himself.”
“You don’t know that,” her friend said.
The man scratched the dog’s ears. “When I lost my house,” he said softly to the volunteer beside him, “I thought I’d lose him too. But Scout’s Hope helped me keep him. They said I deserved to keep my family, even if we were sleeping in my car.”
“We got a report of animal neglect at your old address,” the volunteer said. “That’s why Animal Control came. But when they saw how much you loved him, they called us instead. That’s why we’re here tonight. To make sure people like you—and dogs like Scout—don’t fall through the cracks.”
Rosa passed by and stopped, recognizing the look on his face. “Here,” she said, setting a small envelope in front of him. “It’s a gift card. For groceries. From all the people who know what it’s like to be judged by a bag in their hand.”
He stared at it, eyes filling.
Around them, the stories were different, but the lesson was the same, written in red soles and car loans, in tequila shots and TikTok views, in condo keys and dog leashes.
In a country where wealth could be borrowed for an afternoon in the form of a fake bag or a leased suit, and poverty could be mistaken for laziness in a single glance, it turned out the oldest cliché in the book was still the truest.
You never really knew someone’s story from the way they walked into a room.
And you never, ever, should judge a book by its cover.
