The Fallen Salesgirl - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
You are reading The Fallen Salesgirl, Chapter 1: Chapter 1. Read more chapters of The Fallen Salesgirl.
"Head to Mr. Winston's place tonight to discuss the property deal... and dress to impress!"
The sales manager's last words before clocking out hung in the air like a command.
Since joining this real estate agency, I'd endured one humiliation after another.
A month ago, my best friend Vivian and I started as sales consultants at the firm.
The company-issued uniforms were a joke—black stockings paired with skirts so short they barely covered anything, and low-cut tank tops that left little to the imagination.
When we first tried them on, Vivian and I exchanged glances, our cheeks burning.
The pencil skirts were a nightmare—without leggings or pantyhose, bending down meant flashing our underwear.
And the tops? Paired with blazers that did nothing to hide our cleavage, they made even the simplest movements risky.
Vivian, always the city girl, adjusted faster. She laughed off my discomfort, saying, "Relax, this is normal now."
But by the end of my first day, I realized our outfits were practically conservative compared to some of the other agents.
A few skipped the leggings altogether, lowered their necklines, and oozed flirtation with every step.
The sales manager wasn't subtle—those who "played the game" earned more.
After a month, their commissions could hit $2,000.
Before this, I'd worked at an art center scraping by on $400 a month.
Within two weeks, Vivian and I noticed the pattern:
The top sellers didn't just talk to clients.
They whispered. They touched. They left with them.
We weren't stupid. We knew what was happening.
I asked Vivian one night, "Today, a client 'accidentally' brushed my hand. What if they push further?"
I was torn.
My family needed money—my parents were counting on me to help buy my brother a home.
Here, one sale could mean $300 to $2,000 in commission.
But how far was I willing to go?
Vivian had been adamant: "I'd never betray my boyfriend."
She didn't keep that promise.
Then he walked in.
Richard Winston.
Forties. Confident. The kind of man who expected—and got—whatever he wanted.
The sales manager personally escorted him in, whispering, "Treat him well. He's looking at commercial property."
A single unit: nearly $300,000.
Commission: over $1,000.
Vivian and I put on our best professional smiles, presenting the details.
But Mr. Winston wasn't listening.
His eyes were locked on Vivian.
She was petite, polished, effortlessly charming—everything I wasn't.
And unlike me, she didn't flinch when he inched closer.
By the time I stood to grab documents, his hand was already under her skirt.
The sales manager's last words before clocking out hung in the air like a command.
Since joining this real estate agency, I'd endured one humiliation after another.
A month ago, my best friend Vivian and I started as sales consultants at the firm.
The company-issued uniforms were a joke—black stockings paired with skirts so short they barely covered anything, and low-cut tank tops that left little to the imagination.
When we first tried them on, Vivian and I exchanged glances, our cheeks burning.
The pencil skirts were a nightmare—without leggings or pantyhose, bending down meant flashing our underwear.
And the tops? Paired with blazers that did nothing to hide our cleavage, they made even the simplest movements risky.
Vivian, always the city girl, adjusted faster. She laughed off my discomfort, saying, "Relax, this is normal now."
But by the end of my first day, I realized our outfits were practically conservative compared to some of the other agents.
A few skipped the leggings altogether, lowered their necklines, and oozed flirtation with every step.
The sales manager wasn't subtle—those who "played the game" earned more.
After a month, their commissions could hit $2,000.
Before this, I'd worked at an art center scraping by on $400 a month.
Within two weeks, Vivian and I noticed the pattern:
The top sellers didn't just talk to clients.
They whispered. They touched. They left with them.
We weren't stupid. We knew what was happening.
I asked Vivian one night, "Today, a client 'accidentally' brushed my hand. What if they push further?"
I was torn.
My family needed money—my parents were counting on me to help buy my brother a home.
Here, one sale could mean $300 to $2,000 in commission.
But how far was I willing to go?
Vivian had been adamant: "I'd never betray my boyfriend."
She didn't keep that promise.
Then he walked in.
Richard Winston.
Forties. Confident. The kind of man who expected—and got—whatever he wanted.
The sales manager personally escorted him in, whispering, "Treat him well. He's looking at commercial property."
A single unit: nearly $300,000.
Commission: over $1,000.
Vivian and I put on our best professional smiles, presenting the details.
But Mr. Winston wasn't listening.
His eyes were locked on Vivian.
She was petite, polished, effortlessly charming—everything I wasn't.
And unlike me, she didn't flinch when he inched closer.
By the time I stood to grab documents, his hand was already under her skirt.
End of The Fallen Salesgirl Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to The Fallen Salesgirl book page.