"I'm not selling my life for sympathy," I snap, sliding the offer folder across the glass table. The agent blinks, then smiles the way people do when they think a smile can fix a mistake. "Avery, it's just— sellers like a quick close. If you're fresh out of a marriage, you might want a softer number." "You mean you want me to take less because my marriage ended?" I keep my voice level. "No. I offered a fair price based on the market and the unit's condition. That's what I'll pay." "Look, we're trying to help you. Sometimes bending a little gets both sides a deal," she says. Her tone tries to be helpful. It sounds condescending. "I didn't come here asking for charity," I say. "I came here to buy an apartment." A man in the corner who'd been flipping through a university brochure looks up. He has close-cropped hair and a cardigan, the sort of practical neatness you get from someone who organizes their shelves by season. He doesn't intrude. He doesn't smile. He just watches. The agent puts her palms together like a bargain needs a prayer. "We're offering you a small reduction. You look like you have a lot on your plate. We can move the paperwork fast." "I can get the paperwork moved fast without a discount," I say. "My son needs a stable place. My mother needs me stable. That isn