Chapter 2: The smooth Trap

Joey walked in, still wearing her work smock and looking completely wiped. She leaned against the doorframe, letting out a heavy sigh that told me she already knew.

"She called, didn't she?"

"She’s married, Joey. To a Sterling."

Joey let out a long, low whistle. "Well. She always did have a thing for the fancy life. What’s she after this time?"

"She wants me to move to London. There’s an internship... it pays for my school and everything. She even said Arthur would ‘invest’ in the salon if I went." I looked up at her, my eyes starting to sting. "She’s literally using you to force me to go."

Joey walked over and sat next to me, throwing an arm around my shoulders. She smelled like hairspray and peppermint tea. "Bel, listen to me. You don't owe me a thing. Not a single cent. I didn't take you in because I wanted a paycheck later."

"But the salon—"

"The salon has been struggling since before you were born, kid. It’ll keep struggling with or without some billionaire’s pity money. But you? You’ve got a brain that could run circles around those people." She squeezed my arm hard. "If this is your ticket out of this neighborhood and into the life you deserve... you take it. You take every penny and you don't look back."

"I don't want to leave you," I said, finally losing it and starting to sob.

"I’m just a FaceTime call away. Go to England. Show those Sterlings what a Mayfield girl is made of." She gave me a small, tired grin. "And if any of them gives you trouble, tell them I’ve got a pair of thinning shears with their name on it."

That night, I didn't sleep a wink. I packed my entire life into one battered suitcase—my books, my graduation photo, and the few clothes I had that didn't smell like coffee beans.

When I landed, the squeak of my suitcase’s cracked wheel echoed across the pavement. It felt like a loud announcement that an imposter had arrived. The driver didn't even blink. He just grabbed the bag with a gloved hand, acting like he didn't notice the silver duct tape holding the corner together.

"This way, Miss Mayfield. Mr. Sterling is expecting you for dinner."

The drive was just a blur of rain and green hills until the estate finally appeared on the horizon. It wasn't a house; it was a limestone fortress. Looking at my reflection in the tinted window, I smoothed out the dark floral dress Joey had bought for my graduation. It was my nicest outfit, but standing in front of this massive manor, it felt like a cheap costume.

The front doors opened before I could even knock. A woman in a stiff black uniform looked me up and down like I was a bug.

"I am Mrs. Higgins. Your mother is getting ready. I’ll show you to your room. You have twenty minutes."

She didn't even say "welcome." She just turned and led me through hallways filled with art that probably cost more than my aunt’s entire life. The bedroom she left me in was bigger than our whole apartment in New York.

"Try not to be late," Mrs. Higgins warned. "The Master hates it when people are late."

The Master. The title alone made the hair on my arms stand up.

Twenty minutes later, I pushed open a pair of massive oak doors. The dining room was glowing under a giant crystal chandelier. Arthur Sterling was at the head of the table, laughing at something my mother was saying.

My mother looked like a totally different person. She’d ditched the "struggling mom" vibe and was draped in champagne silk with a diamond necklace. She looked like she’d been rich her whole life.

"Bel! You’re here!" She got up and kissed my cheek. She smelled like expensive rose oil. "Arthur, this is my Isabel."

Arthur stood up with a warm smile. "Welcome, Isabel. I hope the flight was okay?"

"It was... fine. Thank you, Mr. Sterling. For everything."

"None of that. Call me Arthur. Come, sit. We were just waiting for—"

The heavy doors creaked open behind me. Suddenly, the room felt freezing. The scent of sandalwood and cold rain filled the air.

"You're late," Arthur said, though he didn't sound mad.

"Meetings ran over."

That deep voice hit the back of my neck like a ton of bricks. I turned around slowly. There he was. The guy from the New York cafe. Without the dim diner lights, he looked breathtakingly dangerous. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, looking perfectly polished even with a loosened tie.

He froze. For a split second, I saw it click in his eyes—he recognized the girl who’d spilled the espresso tray. Then, his face turned into a mask of pure ice.

"William," Arthur said, totally missing the weird tension. "You remember I told you about Sarah’s daughter, Isabel? She starts her internship with you on Monday."

William didn't even blink. His eyes moved slowly over me. He looked at my face, then down at the floral dress I was wearing. It wasn't a nice look; it was like he was inspecting a roach that had crawled onto his expensive rug.

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, scary rumble as he passed me. "I remember. The girl with the tray."

He brushed his shoulder against mine—just hard enough to give me a jolt—and sat directly across from me. He stared right at me while he talked to his father.

"I didn't realize the Mayfield girl was part of the wedding package."

"William, be nice," my mother said with a nervous laugh. "Isabel is brilliant. She’s going to be a huge help at the company."

William leaned back, his fingers tapping a slow, annoying rhythm on the table. "Is she? Because usually, people in my office actually provide value, Sarah. They don't just sit there and waste my father’s money."

"That's enough," Arthur warned, his voice getting sharp.

Dinner was a nightmare. I stared at my plate, my throat feeling too tight to even swallow. William watched me the whole time. He noticed every time I bit my lip or clenched my jaw. He was waiting for me to break.

"So, Isabel," he said, cutting off my mother’s talking. "Tell me. What exactly do you think you’re going to learn in my department? Besides how to spend my dad's cash?"

The New York temper I’d been trying to hide finally snapped. I dropped my fork, and it hit the plate with a loud clack.

"I expect to work," I said, looking him straight in his whiskey-colored eyes. "I’ve been working since I was fourteen, Mr. Sterling. I don't want hand-outs. I’m here for the job, and I’m going to earn every cent."

A cruel little smirk touched his lips. "Mr. Sterling is my father. You can call me William." He leaned forward, whispering so the whole room could hear. "After all... we’re family now, right?"

He let the threat hang there for a second. Then his eyes flicked down to my dress one last time, his lip curling in disgust.

"And Isabel? Do me a favor. Don’t wear floral clothes in my office, or in this house. It’s cheap, and I won't have it."

I couldn't even breathe. I shoved my chair back, the wood screeching against the floor.

"I’m going to my room. I’m jet-lagged. Thanks for dinner, Arthur."

I didn't wait for them to say anything. I turned and ran out of the room, feeling his eyes burning into my back the entire way out.