Chapter 1 | Nash the Cowboy

I remember the soft glow of designer light fixtures overhead and the subtle scent of luxury candles mixed with fresh paint. Everything was curated to perfection—from the mid-century modern furniture in the lobby to the scripted small talk we were trained to deliver.

I could sell the dream in my sleep. But I was running on fumes—smiling through gritted teeth, managing one polished showing after the next, while silently counting down the hours until I could breathe again.

I was overdue for a promotion. I knew it. After opening several successful properties for Highmark, one of the largest and most well-known property management companies in the country, I’d earned my spot. But the recognition never came. And I was tired of pretending it didn’t matter.

Highmark was the kind of company that loved performance metrics more than people. Everything had a system, a script, a process—and I was good at navigating them. But when it came time for promotions, it wasn’t performance that mattered. It was politics.

Then he walked in. There was something about how he moved—like he owned the place but didn’t care if anyone noticed. Not slick like the developers or brokers I was used to. More—unrefined, but not without intention.

He wore humility like a tailored jacket—just enough to seem approachable, but you could tell it wasn’t the whole truth. He carried himself like someone trying hard not to show how much he wanted to be taken seriously. And it worked. I couldn’t tell if he had a plan or a secret.

Either way, I wanted in.

He toured the community, clearly impressed—and I was already planning my closer, ready to lock in the lease. But instead of the usual questions, he hit me with something different.

“Are you happy working here?”

The question hit like a record scratch. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone asked me if I was happy—least of all a potential client. I gave the kind of smile you practice in mirrors and staff meetings.

“Sure,” I said.

But Nash wasn’t buying it. He just smirked and leaned a little closer.

“Come work for me at Baxter & Co.,” he said. “I’ll make you a manager tomorrow.”

Just like that. No process. No hesitation. It was a bold offer from a man I barely knew. But something in me had already decided.

What once felt like frustration and hell would soon become a place I could only dream of getting back to.

It wasn’t just the promise of a title. It was the possibility of finally being seen. Appreciated. Maybe even valued. I didn’t know yet that visibility in this industry could be just another kind of risk.

I interviewed. I got the job. And just like that, Nash Walker became my mentor. At first, it felt like support. Encouragement. He’d send texts after meetings or walkthroughs, “You were the best in the room today,” or “Don’t let them dull your edge.” And I believed him. I thought he saw something in me that no one else did.

He wasn’t a bad guy, just messy. A little too eager to impress; a little too eager to drink. A functioning alcoholic in an industry full of high-functioning facades.

When he invited me to the Baxter & Co. annual Christmas gala, it seemed innocent enough. He offered me a ride, and I accepted. I made it clear—more than once—that our friendship was strictly platonic. I wasn't looking for scandals, especially not with someone as unpredictable as Nash. But when we arrived, he acted like I was his date. Introduced me that way. Touched my back a little too familiarly. It was subtle, but pointed.

And I was trapped.

That night, Nash was drunk. Loud, inappropriate, sloppy in a way that clung to me by proximity. I didn’t do anything wrong—but I became guilty by association. I could feel the shift in how people looked at me. I wasn’t his date. I was part of him now. And that wasn’t a good thing.

The next week at the office, the tone had changed. I wasn’t just the woman who had promise—I was the woman who showed up with Nash. And people assumed they knew what that meant.

Eventually, his guidance became a double-edged sword. He played a key role in my demotion. It was humiliating—but I picked myself up, worked hard, and clawed my way back.

I fixed broken systems no one else wanted to touch. Outdated software, poorly trained teams, vendors who’d stopped taking our calls—anything that was a mess, I took it on. I became the cleaner, the fixer, the one they knew would find a way. I said yes to everything, even when I wanted to scream. Early mornings. Late nights. Weekends. I volunteered for tasks people twice my senior would avoid, just to make myself indispensable.

It wasn’t just about the title anymore—it was about proof. Proof that I couldn’t be erased that easily. What happened with Nash didn’t define me. That their whispers, their polite exclusions, their strategic silences? They were wrong. They’d made a mistake. And I was going to make them watch me prove it. And I did. Through persistence and performance, I earned a senior property manager position at the very same company that had once written me off.

It felt like redemption.

It was redemption.

Then one day, the phone rang.

It was Nash. Fired long ago during the storm of my own downfall, he now had something new cooking and wanted me to check out his latest project.

I agreed. I had good news to share, too.

I drove over with my only family at the time—my two pups, Millie the Shih Tzu and Zeke the Maltese. I didn’t know exactly what I was walking into, but I trusted Nash enough to follow the breadcrumb trail.

The property needed work—a lot of it—but I could see it immediately: it was different. Unpolished. Unfinished. But it had something.

The property smelled like fresh paint, dry concrete, and ambition. It was a mess, but it had bones. Character. The kind of charm you can’t fake or force—it either has it or it doesn’t. I could see what it could become. What I could make it.

We didn’t have an office like normal professionals. I had the parlor. That’s where I worked, negotiated, managed chaos—and eventually, where I hid from angry residents. But we’ll get to that.

Nash showed me around, then led me to an apartment they were calling the “construction office.” It was messy. Papers everywhere, equipment pushed to the sides, extension cords snaking across the floor—but it smelled good. Like cologne and new leather. There was an air of disorder but also an energy humming just beneath the surface.

As soon as I stepped in, several men in the room started asking me questions—industry questions. Deep ones. About pricing, positioning, and staffing. And while I answered out of instinct, I felt it... this wasn’t small talk. This was a test. An interview disguised as casual conversation.

And then Preston Wolfe spoke. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. As soon as he started talking, everyone stopped. They listened. Hung on his every word, including me.

He was dressed well-tailored, confident, unfazed. The others in the room (men whose roles I still couldn’t name to this day) kept firing questions like they needed a leader.

But it was clear: they already had one.

A man with piercing blue eyes and a smile that immediately pulled me into his orbit. If Steve McQueen had a twin, it was this man. Suave, magnetic, and dangerous. I was flustered. Was he flirting? Was this a job interview—or something else?

He didn’t speak to me at first—just looked at me with eyes that didn’t blink nearly enough. There was something unsettling about how calm he was, like he didn’t just expect control—he was control. I’d worked for powerful men before. But none like him.

Had Nash introduced me to my next boss? My next lover? Or the devil himself?

As it turns out… all three were true.

Conclusion:

Looking back, joining Highmark felt like a lifeline. I was overlooked, underestimated, and more than ready for a change. Nash Walker knew exactly how to find someone like me—ambitious, worn down, and hungry for something new. He offered opportunity, recognition, and a seat at the table I thought I’d earned years earlier.

It felt like the beginning of something exciting. And in many ways, it was.

Next in “Blue Eyes, Big Trouble". a man who had it all: charm, money, power, and a gaze that made you forget the ground beneath you. What started as flattery quickly turned into fascination.

The board was set. I just didn’t realize I was already a piece in someone else’s game.

Disclaimer:

This memoir is based on true events and personal experiences. To protect the privacy of the individuals and organizations involved, all names, locations, and identifying details have been changed. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual companies is purely intentional but respectfully anonymized.