Chapter Four

The Cross Entertainment building makes me feel poor.

Not just regular poor. Like dirt poor. Like I-shouldn't-even-be-breathing-the-same-air poor.

Sixty floors of steel and glass in the middle of Manhattan. There's a fountain in the lobby. An actual fountain with koi fish swimming in it.

Who puts fish in an office building?

I stand outside for twenty minutes before I force myself to go in.

Maya's blazer is too tight. The pants are too long. I look like a kid playing dress up.

This is a mistake.

But my bank account says negative forty-three dollars and my mom called yesterday asking if I could help with her electric bill and I can't keep saying no.

So I walk inside.

The receptionist looks like she stepped out of a fashion magazine. Perfect everything. She barely glances at me.

"Can I help you?"

"I have a meeting. Claire Monroe. Two o'clock."

She types something with nails so long I don't understand how she types anything.

"Fifty-eighth floor."

That's it. No smile. No directions. Just back to her screen.

I get in the elevator and my stomach drops because it's made of glass and I can see everything falling away beneath me.

I close my eyes. Count to sixty.

When the doors open a woman is waiting. Tall. Black suit. Face like stone.

"Sloane Thompson?"

"Yes."

"This way."

We walk down a hallway covered in gold records. Names I recognize. Artists I've listened to my whole life.

They all work for Lennon Cross.

We stop at a conference room.

"Wait here."

She leaves before I can ask any questions.

I sit in a chair that probably costs more than everything I own. Stare out at the view of Central Park.

What am I doing here?

Twenty minutes pass.

My phone buzzes. Brandon again.

**Brandon: I know you saw my messages. Stop being childish.**

I delete it.

The door finally opens.

A woman walks in. Fifty maybe. Red lipstick. The kind of energy that makes you sit up straight without meaning to.

"Sloane Thompson."

"Yes."

"Claire Monroe." She sits across from me. Doesn't shake my hand. "Let's be clear from the start. I don't have time to waste and neither do you."

"Okay."

"Lennon Cross wants to hire you as his personal photographer for his world tour. Six months. You'll document everything. Concerts. Press. Travel. All of it."

My brain stops working for a second.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me."

"Why would Lennon Cross want to hire me? I shoot weddings."

"He's been following your work for six weeks. He likes what he sees." She slides a folder across the table. "That's the contract. Read page three."

I open it. The words blur together. Too much legal language.

Then I see the number.

Five hundred thousand dollars.

I read it three times.

"This is a joke."

"It's not."

"This says half a million dollars for six months of work."

"Correct."

"That's insane."

"That's what he's offering." Claire leans back. Studies me. "But let me be very clear about what you're signing up for. This isn't a normal job. You'll be available twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. No breaks. No vacations. If Lennon needs you at four in the morning, you show up."

"Okay."

"You'll sign an NDA. Everything you see, everything you hear, stays private. No posts. No interviews. No telling your friends. Nothing."

"I understand."

"And if you quit or get fired before the six months are up, you pay back every single dollar. Even if you've already spent it."

I look up. "What if he fires me for no reason?"

"Then you still pay it back. It's in the contract. Page seven."

I flip to page seven. She's right.

"That's not fair."

"Fair doesn't exist in this industry. Those are the terms. Take them or leave them."

I should leave. Should walk out right now.

But I think about my apartment I can't afford. My mom's medical bills. Brandon's face when he called me mediocre.

"What do I have to do?"

"First, you have to pass the test."

"What test?"

Claire stands up. "Come with me."

We take another elevator down. Basement level.

The doors open to what looks like a photography studio. Lights. Backdrops. Equipment everywhere.

There's a girl sitting in a chair. Maybe nineteen. Bored expression. Scrolling her phone.

"You have thirty minutes," Claire says. "Shoot her. Make me believe you're worth half a million dollars."

"What kind of shots do you want?"

"That's not my job to tell you. Figure it out."

Then she walks to the corner and sits down. Watching.

The girl looks up from her phone. "Are we starting or what?"

I look at the equipment. Top of the line. Expensive. The kind I've dreamed about using.

My hands are shaking.

Come on, Sloane. You can do this.

I pick up a camera. Adjust the settings. Look at the girl.

She's pretty. Young. But there's something off about her energy. Like she doesn't want to be here.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Does it matter?"

"I'm going to be photographing you. So yeah."

She sighs. "Mia."

"Okay Mia. Can you stand up for me?"

She does. Barely. Still looking at her phone.

I start shooting. Basic shots. Nothing special.

They're terrible and I know it.

Claire knows it too. I can feel her watching.

"Mia, can you put the phone down?"

"No."

"No?"

"Claire said be myself. This is me being myself."

Great.

I keep shooting. Trying different angles. Different lights.

Everything looks flat. Boring.

Fifteen minutes pass.

I'm running out of time and I have nothing good.

Think, Sloane.

I look at Mia again. Really look.

She's scrolling I*******m. Frowning at something on her screen.

That's when I see it. The real expression. Not the bored mask. Actual emotion.

I start shooting.

"What are you looking at?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing."

"My ex posted something. It's stupid."

"What did he post?"

"Him with his new girlfriend. They look happy." She scrolls more. "She's prettier than me."

I keep shooting. Her face is changing. Sad. Angry. Vulnerable.

This is it.

"I bet she's not prettier than you," I say.

"You don't know that."

"I know you're sitting here comparing yourself to someone in a filtered photo. That's what he wants. He wants you to feel like you're not enough."

Mia looks up. Actually looks at me.

"How do you know?"

"Because my ex did the same thing to me. Posted all over I*******m about how much better his new girlfriend is. How I was mediocre. How he upgraded."

"That's fucked up."

"Yeah. It is."

She's not looking at her phone anymore. She's looking at me.

I'm still shooting.

"Did you believe him?" she asks.

"For a while. Then I realized he was just trying to make himself feel powerful. Making me feel small made him feel big."

Mia nods slowly. "Yeah. That sounds right."

I take a few more shots. Then I lower the camera.

"Time's up," Claire says.

She walks over. Holds out her hand for the camera.

I give it to her.

She scrolls through the photos. Face blank. I can't tell what she's thinking.

She stops on one. The one where Mia was looking at me. Eyes wet. Expression raw.

Claire looks at me. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Make people forget they're being photographed."

"I don't know. I just talk to them."

"Most photographers don't bother." She hands the camera back. "You pass."

"I do?"

"Barely. But yes." She turns to Mia. "You can go."

Mia stands up. Looks at me. "Good luck with your ex. He sounds like an asshole."

"Yours too."

She almost smiles. Then she's gone.

Claire and I go back to the conference room.

"So what happens now?" I ask.

"Now you sign the contract. And then you meet Lennon."

"When?"

"Monday. First day of work. He's in LA right now. Doesn't come back until Sunday."

"He's not even in New York?"

"No. He doesn't waste time on people who might not work out." She slides a pen across the table. "Sign page twelve. Initial every other page."

I pick up the pen.

This is insane.

I'm signing a contract for half a million dollars to work for someone I've never even met.

Someone who from everything I've heard is cruel and controlling and destroys people for fun.

I should walk away.

Instead I sign.

Claire takes the contract. Scans it. Sends it somewhere.

"You'll receive the first payment tomorrow. Fifty thousand dollars. Use it however you want. But remember, if you don't make it six months, you owe it all back."

Fifty thousand dollars. Tomorrow.

I can pay rent. Pay my mom's bills. Actually buy groceries instead of eating ramen.

"Thank you," I say.

"Don't thank me yet. You haven't met Lennon." She stands. "Be at the LA office Monday morning. Six AM. The address will be in your email. Don't be late."

"I won't."

"And Sloane?" She looks at me. Actually looks. "Whatever you think you know about Lennon Cross from the internet? Forget it. The real version is worse."

Then she walks out.

I sit there for a minute. Trying to process what just happened.

I just signed my life away for six months.

To a man I've never met.

Who apparently is worse than anything I can imagine.

My phone buzzes.

Email from Claire.

**First payment will hit your account at 9 AM tomorrow. Travel details attached. See you Monday.**

I open the attachment.

Flight to LA. Sunday night. First class.

Hotel confirmation. Four Seasons.

A schedule for Monday that starts at 6 AM and doesn't end until midnight.

What did I just agree to?

Another email comes through.

No sender name. No subject line.

I almost don't open it.

But something makes me click.

**You just made the biggest mistake of your life. But don't worry. Everyone does. See you soon, Sloane.**

My stomach drops.

I look around the empty conference room.

Who sent that?

I try to reply. The email bounces back. Address doesn't exist.

I forward it to Claire.

No response.

I sit there staring at my phone.

The words repeat in my head.

**See you soon.**

Who the hell is watching me?