Loaded
The last thing Harper Collins remembered was her boss stealing her model.
Not even a “good job.” Just an email—forwarded from her outbox, with his name typed above hers—sent to the client at 10:47 PM. She had watched the little whoosh animation on her screen and felt nothing. Not anger. Not surprise. Just the familiar hollow ache of being the person who did the work and the person who got the credit were never the same.
She had leaned back in her broken office chair, the one that listed to the left, and stared at the flickering fluorescent light above her desk. Six months of staring at that light. Six months of counting the cracks in the ceiling tiles, of listening to her coworkers brag about their Hamptons rentals while she ate cold pizza over the trash can because there were no clean plates left.
She had closed her eyes. Just for a second. Just to rest them before the next email arrived.
When she opened them, the ceiling was made of carved white plaster.
No flickering. No water stains. Just smooth, ornate roses and delicate moldings, painted in off-white with faint gold leaf catching the morning light. A crystal chandelier hung above her—the kind she had seen only in movies about people whose last names were on buildings.
She sat up so fast her head spun. Silk sheets tangled around her legs. Not the cheap satin from Amazon. Real silk. The kind that cost more than her first car. The bed was enormous—easily the size of her entire studio apartment in the East Village, the one with the faulty radiator and the neighbor who played the bongo drums at 2 AM.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows: Central Park. The whole thing. Green canopies, winding paths, the reservoir glittering like a sheet of tinfoil in the morning sun. The Manhattan skyline rose beyond it—Chrysler, Empire State, the new towers that scraped clouds. She had seen this view a hundred times in movies and magazine spreads. She had never once imagined waking up to it.
She slid out of bed. Her bare feet sank into wool carpet so thick it felt like walking on a cloud. The room smelled faintly of white tea and something woody—the kind of candle that cost a hundred dollars and was never actually lit, just placed there to announce that you could afford it.
Then she saw her hands.
She stopped breathing.
Longer fingers. Softer skin. Nails painted a pale, glossy pink—the exact shade she had always wanted but had never been able to justify spending thirty dollars on. Her cuticles were perfect. No hangnails. No patches of dry skin from too much hand sanitizer and cheap coffee cups.
She turned her palms over. The calluses were gone. The tiny scars from paper cuts and oven burns and that one time she tried to learn how to cook—all of it, erased.
She ran to the mirror.
The woman staring back at her had her dark brown eyes, her high cheekbones, her thin lips. But everything was sharper. More polished. Her skin was flawless—no acne scars, no dark circles, no broken capillaries from cheap wine and too little sleep. Her hair fell past her shoulders in soft waves that didn't need dry shampoo. She looked like the after picture in a makeover montage, except she hadn't done anything except fall asleep at her desk.
She laughed. Actually laughed out loud.
She didn't know where she was. She didn't know how she got here. But she knew one thing: this body, this face, this room—none of it was hers. And none of it belonged to anyone who had ever eaten cold pizza over a trash can.
She found the closet. It was the size of her old apartment.
Rows and rows of shoes. Louboutins with red soles, Manolos with their signature buckles, simple leather flats that probably cost more than her monthly rent. Arranged by color, then by heel height, then by material—like a boutique curated by someone with obsessive tendencies and unlimited funds.
The dresses came next. Silk, cashmere, wool crepe. Black, white, navy, deep burgundy. She pulled a black one off the hanger—simple cut, sleeveless, hitting just above the knee—and held it against her body. The fabric felt like water. It fit perfectly. Because it probably was made for her.
She wandered deeper into the closet. There was a section of suits—charcoal, navy, black—all with Italian labels she couldn't pronounce. A glass display case held watches she recognized from billboards. A small side table had a pair of diamond stud earrings and a black card with no name on it, just an embossed logo she didn't recognize.
She touched the card. Her fingers left no prints on the polished metal surface.
Her phone buzzed.
She found it on the nightstand, next to a crystal water decanter and a single white orchid in a ceramic pot. The phone was new—no cracked screen, no dented corners, no sticker from the mall repair kiosk.
One message. From a contact named Damian Cade:
「Tomorrow. 10 AM. City Hall. Don't be late.」
No “please.” No “hello.” Just a period, cold as a freezer door. She could practically hear the voice behind it—low, flat, expecting to be obeyed without question.
She opened her browser. Typed: Damian Cade.
The screen filled with results.
Forbes. Bloomberg. The Wall Street Journal. Photographs of a man in dark suits, standing in front of glass buildings or sitting in leather chairs with his hands folded. He was tall—she could tell even from the photos—with broad shoulders and a face that didn't seem to know how to smile. Dark brown hair, combed back. Eyes that looked gray-blue, even in the washed-out lighting of a news headshot.
37 years old. Net worth: $12 billion. Founder and CEO of Cade Fund, one of the most successful hedge funds in the world. Self-made. Orphaned young. Called “The Ice Man” by the financial press for his refusal to engage in small talk, his habit of ending meetings in under fifteen minutes, and the fact that no one had ever seen him laugh.
Unmarried.
She stared at the word unmarried for a beat too long.
Then she typed her own new name: Sage Vale.
A boutique investment bank website. Professional headshot—her face, but more polished. Sage Vale, Vice President, Mergers & Acquisitions. Ivy League MBA. Previously at a competitor firm for five years.
No mention of a small town in Nebraska. No mention of student loans. No mention of any of it.
She closed the browser and walked back to the floor-to-ceiling window. Manhattan spread out beneath her like a golden circuit board—yellow taxi cabs, white delivery trucks, the green of the park, the silver of the river. Somewhere down there, the subway was still running. People were still packing into crowded cars, still holding onto overhead straps, still scrolling through emails they didn't want to answer.
She wasn't one of them anymore.
The phone buzzed again.
「Wear black.」
She smiled. Not a nice smile. The kind of smile that said: I've finally made it.
She didn't know what was waiting for her.She didn't know anything except one thing: the champagne in the fridge was Dom Pérignon, and it was already cold.
She found it on the second shelf, next to a wheel of brie and a jar of black truffles. She pulled the cork. It came out with a soft pop, and golden bubbles spilled over the rim, running down the neck of the bottle and dripping onto the marble countertop.
She didn't bother with a glass. She raised the bottle to the skyline and took a long swallow. It tasted like toasted almonds and green apples and the kind of money that didn't ask questions.
“To new beginnings,” she said to the empty room.
The doorbell rang. The car was here.
She looked at her reflection one last time—Sage Vale's sharp cheekbones, Sage Vale's perfect hair, Sage Vale's black dress that cost more than her entire wardrobe from last year. She set down the half-empty bottle and walked out.
The elevator doors closed. The mirrored walls showed her from every angle. She was still smiling.
Then her phone buzzed again.
A text. From an unknown number.
「Don't trust him.」
She stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the reply button. Who was this? How did they have her number? What did they mean?
She typed: Who is this?
The message failed to send. She tried again. Failed. She called the number—a mechanical voice told her it was not in service.
She lowered the phone. The elevator kept descending. Floor 98. Floor 97. Floor 96.
She looked at the text again. Don't trust him.
Which him? The only him she knew so far was Damian Cade—twelve billion dollars, Ice Man, tomorrow at City Hall.
Maybe the texter was right. Maybe he was hiding something. Or maybe the texter just wanted her to make a mistake. To second-guess herself. To stumble before she even started.
Whatever. She was already in too deep to stop.
The elevator doors opened to the lobby. A black town car waited at the curb, engine idling. The driver held the rear door open.
She stepped inside. The leather seat was warm.
She didn't look back.
