Chapter 1
The Café Luna breakfast shift is a whirlwind of caffeine, college students, coupon-clutching retirees, and office workers indulging in sugary overkill. The air is thick with the smell of burnt coffee. I navigate the line with a tray, forcing a smile for tips.
“Order for Lucy!” I announce, avoiding a child’s grasp and delivering two lattes, a scone, and a cream-laden coffee at table seven. Lucy, focused on her tablet in a navy pantsuit, ignores me while her husband eyes me suggestively—a reminder that tips often correlate with appearance.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says with a sleazy undertone. He’s in his seventies with a Rolex hinting at wealth. I imagine using my straw as a weapon but instead pivot away, sticking to the routine: clear, deliver, refill.
A sharp tug on my wrist pulls me off course. “Hey,” says a new face—not a regular. His grip is firm and demanding. I break free and steady the tray. “We don’t serve walk-ins,” I state flatly.
He grins and scans me top to bottom. “You should. Bet you’d earn more.”
“I’ll send someone else,” I retort, deliberately walking away to avoid showing haste. My manager catches my eye; her half-shrug says it all—unless there’s blood or lawsuits, we handle it ourselves.
The next two hours blur together—cleaning tables, handling Wi-Fi complaints, memorizing complicated orders. As the rush dies down, sweat clings to me and syrup sticks to my hands. It’s 9:24 a.m.; twelve minutes before I need to be out the door for my next job.
In the cramped “employee lounge,” Daniel scrolls through job listings while music plays from his phone.
“Tough shift, Mads?” he asks without looking up.
“Same as always.” I swap my stained apron for fresh clothes in record time before glancing at the mirror: professional but weary.
Daniel notes the time. “Running again?”
“Always.”
He smirks. “That guy at table twelve bother you?”
“Which one? The one who thinks I come with his eggs or the matcha critic?”
He laughs. “People are awful.”
“Agreed.” I grab my bag and check my phone—no messages yet—and squeeze out of the room. My manager stops me at the exit.
“You good?” she asks quietly.
I nod—nothing to apologize for except systemic issues—and head out.
Taking stairs two at a time, I step into humid city streets bustling with dog walkers and stroller moms on high alert for potential threats (not an exaggeration). Six blocks later, breathless but only three minutes late, I reach Robertson Marketing—a small victory.
Inside, I switch gears: new job, same grind.
***
The lobby of Robertson Marketing smells like copier toner and lemon-scented cleaner, but at least it’s air-conditioned. I scan my badge at the security gate and nod to the receptionist, who’s absorbed in her phone. Past six identical cubicles and a TEAMWORK poster, I find my desk.
I settle into my seat and smooth my shirt. My cubicle is more trapezoid than square, tucked between the copier and the HR assistant. It has a locking drawer, a phone, and a surviving plant, so it feels like luxury.
The morning is all about catching up. I tackle the backlog of client files with a neutral Midwestern accent from years of customer service jobs. Prepping a pitch deck for the Faber account should be my priority, but the owner’s wife keeps calling about QR codes. Patience is key.
Emails next—flag urgent ones, ignore HR until they send a second reminder. I eat my lunch: squashed turkey sandwich from my bag. It tastes just as sad as it looks.
In the dim reflection of my monitor, I see frizzy hair and smudged mascara. I wipe my mouth and carry on. When the printer jams, I fix it with a pen. During an “urgent brainstorm” with the team lead, I nod and doodle in my notebook.
Most colleagues are close to my age—stuck in some stage of career limbo. The exception is Anne-Marie, who’s been here forever and knows all the company secrets. She peers over her cubicle wall.
“You look tired,” she says.
I smile. “It’s just the lighting. I look amazing outside.”
“Let me know if you need a reference,” she offers.
That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said today—maybe this month.
The rest of the day is paper cuts and pointless calls. By 4:57, I’ve packed my bag and slipped on worn-out flats that squeak when I walk fast. At 5:00, I log out and dash down the hall.
I nearly collide with an IT guy carrying monitors. “Slow down,” he says, then smiles when he recognizes me. “Got somewhere better to be?”
“Haven’t we all?” I reply with a grin.
In the elevator, I switch shoes again while descending to ground level. My knees pop as I crouch—I wonder how much longer before stress turns me to dust.
Outside, it’s hot but sunny. City Community College is six blocks away—a strategic jaywalk gets me there on time if I jog at the end. Weaving through street carts and nannies, I reach campus as class starts.
I slip into a seat in the back of a packed classroom just as class begins: “Applied Business Management: The Entrepreneurial Mindset.”
Too tired for notes but still open my laptop—the glow feels comforting. This class is why I endure work—it could lead to freedom in eight months if things go right.
The professor rambles about effort and ambition—I let my mind drift. My phone buzzes; probably Sarah with plans for the weekend, but I ignore it for now.
I like sitting in the back—fewer eyes watching, less pressure to perform. Settling into a chair that digs into me uncomfortably, I take out my battered notebook filled with notes—and sharpen my pencil.
The professor believes we could all be entrepreneurs if only we tried harder; his voice is amplified just enough to be intrusive under dimmed lights against fluorescent hum.
I scribble anything remotely useful while jotting reminders or lists in margins—trying to stay focused despite neck pain that makes me roll shoulders for relief.
He talks debt ratios and venture capital; most goes over familiar ground till he brings up small business financing case study nobody wants till silence bugs me enough to raise hand:
“Wouldn’t revolving credit be safer than term loans for startups?” My voice carries across room; three people jot it down as gospel materialized out loud…
The professor smiles broadly: “Excellent point, Ms.—?”
“Collins.”
He nods, notes something down, and deftly shifts to the next topic. I sense eyes on me—some envious, others annoyed. It doesn’t bother me; I’m not here to make friends.
After class, I pack up slowly while everyone else rushes out, eager to reach home or their next obligation. I recognize their weary faces, the dark circles: signs of people running on caffeine and a faint hope for better days.
Outside, the campus is washed in the cold glow of LED lights. I climb four flights to my apartment, each step a reminder that every day is fueled by sheer determination. My place is a “studio,” but it’s more like you can see everything from everywhere. The furniture is worn, the paint peels, but it’s mine, paid with sweat and skipped meals.
I drop my bag on the couch, kick off my shoes, and open my laptop. The spreadsheet stares back—expenses, rent, utilities, and my dwindling “Future” fund. A quick calculation tells me eight months remain before I can quit at least one job and pursue what I want. Eight months to freedom.
My phone buzzes. I hope it’s my mom but see Sarah’s name instead.
I answer on the third ring. “Sarah, it’s a school night.”
“Babe, opportunity doesn’t sleep.” Her voice is lively. “There’s a gala at the Met Museum next Friday. Tips are like paying your electric bill in one night. It’s black tie with VIPs—they need people who blend in.”
“You said no more catering.”
“Not catering—waitstaff in stealth mode. Perfect for you with your ‘mysterious sophistication.’”
I sigh, stretching out. “Sare, I’m exhausted. Worked a double today.”
“That’s why you need this gig. You’ll earn more than your week at that café hellhole. I told them you’re in. Please?”
Her insistence is earnest; she genuinely wants to help her friends escape bad situations—even if her solutions are chaotic.
“I have nothing to wear,” I stall.
“I’ve got dresses and heels in your size you can borrow or keep.”
I think about my finances: bills, tuition, my nearly empty “future” fund staring at me whenever I open my laptop. The numbers aren’t favorable.
“Fine,” I agree reluctantly. “But you’re covering my ride home if someone propositions me.”
Sarah whoops so loud I pull the phone away from my ear. “You’re amazing! Details coming your way.”
She hangs up before I can remind her that I’m always the one holding someone’s hair back after too much excitement.
I throw the phone aside and let my arm drop limp against the bedspread. My muscles ache from today’s grind. Outside sounds mingle—a subway rumble, distant sirens—a lullaby to someone else’s rough night beyond my window.
I should rally now, remind myself it’ll be worth it when overdraft fees don’t induce panic anymore. My parents talked about self-reliance being rewarding but never mentioned its loneliness.
I’m almost asleep when my phone vibrates against me.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: We need to meet tonight.
It feels like a scam until another message follows:
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Triple pay compared to Met job—no uniform required. I’ll knock twice.
Heart racing, I check the peephole but see only shadows and an EXIT sign glowing dimly at the hall’s end.
I’m typing “wrong number” when there’s a soft double knock at my door.
A chill runs through me. With one hand gripping my phone and the other finding a heavy glass award as defense if needed, scenarios race through my mind: debt collector, stalker—maybe even something credible.
I open the door slightly; standing there is an impeccably dressed man whose suit probably costs more than college tuition—a striking figure with intense blue eyes and a flawless jawline holding an envelope.
“Ms. Collins,” he says smoothly. “I have an offer.”
Keeping the door partially shut, suspicion colors my tone: “What kind?”
His eyes sweep the hallway before sliding an envelope through the gap: “A business deal—strictly professional.”
Inside is a check with more zeroes than I’ve seen before.
He leans in closer: “You’re going to help me ruin someone—in return you’ll never work another double shift again.”
Stunned by both his presence and what he offers—I know what sensible actions should follow: shutting him out and calling backup—but find myself hesitating instead of rejecting hope outright.
“Do we have a deal?” he asks with a slight smile.
“Start talking,” I say.
