CHAPTER 2

LOT NUMBER SEVEN

The contract arrives at my apartment the next morning via courier. Not email. Not mail. A person in a suit hands it directly to me at my door like it's something that requires verification of receipt. I sign for it even though I haven't read it yet, and the moment my signature is on that clipboard, I'm thinking about how I've just confirmed that my life is no longer entirely my own.

The documents are thick. There's a confidentiality agreement that makes the previous one look like a napkin sketch. There's a compensation package that's tied to performance metrics and client satisfaction scores. There's a section about availability that seems designed to own all of my time, not just the business hours. There's a clause about discretion that essentially means I can't tell anyone about the events I plan or the clients I work with or any part of my day that falls under the umbrella of my new job. There's a three-page section about professional appearance and deportment that reads like someone's fantasy about what a perfect woman should be.

But what makes me stop is buried on page seven. It's a clause about residency. I'm expected to relocate to New York within two weeks. The company will provide housing. The housing is already selected. I'll be living in the same building as my new boss, actually, in a penthouse apartment one floor below his, which means my commute to work will be basically nothing and my ability to have a private life will be slightly less than nothing.

I call Rebecca and she answers like she's been waiting for this call, like she's already prepared for my panic.

"It's not as bad as it sounds," she says, which is exactly what you say when something is absolutely as bad as it sounds. "The housing provision is actually incredibly generous. That apartment costs more than most people make in a year. You'll have everything you need."

"I don't want to move to New York," I tell her. "My life is here. My apartment is here. My therapist is here."

"Your therapist can refer you to someone," Rebecca says, and I can hear her trying to be reasonable, trying to make this sound like a logical transition instead of an exile. "Nora, this is the opportunity we wanted. This is the contract that keeps the company intact. This is what we needed to survive the acquisition."

What she means is that this is what I needed to do to save her. What she means is that I traded my autonomy for my sister's financial security and that now I need to stop being dramatic about it and just accept the terms of the deal I made. She's right, which is the worst part. I made a choice on that stage, and I knew exactly what I was choosing.

I hang up the phone and I read the rest of the contract, and by the time I'm finished, I understand that Dominic Caldwell doesn't just want my professional expertise. He wants my presence. He wants my availability. He wants me to be the kind of person who can walk into a room and make impossible things happen, and he wants me to do it on his terms and on his timeline.

The moving company shows up four days before my official start date. They pack my life into boxes like my years of accumulation are just temporary storage. Most of my furniture doesn't make the cut because the penthouse is already furnished with things that match some aesthetic that I had no say in creating. My dishes go into storage. My books get boxed up. My bed, which I loved more than anything, gets left behind for the new tenant who's taking over my lease.

I fly to New York on a Friday morning and a car is waiting for me at the airport. The driver doesn't introduce himself. He just takes my luggage and drives me into the city like I'm cargo that's being transported. The building is exactly what I expected. It's the kind of building where the lobby alone costs more than entire houses. There are doormen who know my name before I introduce myself. There's a private elevator that goes directly to the penthouse levels.

The apartment is beautiful in a way that feels hostile. Everything is white and chrome and glass, like a magazine spread about minimalism and power. There's a kitchen I'll never cook in and a living room where I'll never quite relax and a bedroom that faces the wrong direction and I know this immediately. My instinct says that this space was designed by someone who doesn't understand how to live in it, and I'm going to hate it.

But what I'm really thinking about is that there's only one floor between me and Dominic Caldwell. One floor and probably one elevator and maybe some shared stairwell. I'm living directly below him like I'm in some kind of orbit that he controls, and the understanding settles into my bones like something that's going to stay there.

My phone buzzes with a text message from an unknown number. It's his assistant. Dominic wants to meet me tomorrow morning at the office to review the initial event proposals. He's selected three clients for me to work with, and the first event is in four weeks. The meeting is at eight AM and I should plan to spend the full day in strategic planning sessions. I should bring ideas. I should bring enthusiasm. I should bring myself fully prepared to exceed expectations.

The message doesn't say anything about the apartment or the relocation or any acknowledgment of the fact that I've just given up my life for this job. It's entirely professional and entirely cold, and somehow that's worse than if he'd been cruel about it.

I unpack my suitcase and I lie in the bed that came with this penthouse, and I'm thinking about the cold way his eyes looked at me on that stage. I'm thinking about how he paid over a million dollars for the privilege of owning my time. I'm thinking about the fact that I'm one floor away from a man who has decided to own me, and somewhere in the middle of all that thinking, I realize that I'm terrified.

Not of what he'll do. Terrified of what I might want him to do.