Chapter 003

To win the game, you have to study the players……. if there’s ones thing being broke has taught me is how to win no matter what.

The apartment hummed like a tired refrigerator when I came in, the same familiar, low-grade noise that meant the world kept turning even if mine felt stuck. I dropped my bag by the door, walked straight to the table, and opened my laptop like it was some kind of altar.

Joan was asleep in the half dead coach, her snores were the only sound that indicated she was alive.

The screen lit up my face in blue. I glanced at the clock: past two in the morning. My next shift was in four hours and I desperately needed to sleep but that can wait.

I sat cross-legged on the chair , my laptop open in front of me, half-eaten noodles on the table I could grab on my way home. The club had drained the life out of me, but the moment Sasha mentioned that party, something had clicked in my

Results spilled across the page: a dry press release from a tech magazine, an overheated gossip blog, a restaurant review, one blurry I*******m story that might have been from last year. Nothing that said, Come one, come all. Everything was small, coded, private.

I clicked through anyway. A society column named The Lattice had a short post about Holt’s philanthropy donations here, investments there but not the party. Someone in the comments speculated it might be a black-and-gold gala at his penthouse. Someone else said it would be by invitation only, “if you’re not on the list, don’t even try.” The words felt like a slap and a dare at once.

Then I tried event planners for Adrian Holt, and there it was—Allegra Events. A top-tier planning company that handled only private clients. I clicked through their site, scanned every line, and found the name I was looking for: Clara Monroe — Senior Coordinator.

Her email was listed under Staffing & Assistance.

Bingo.

I opened a new message and started typing like I’d been born to do this:

Hello Clara,

I’m reaching out regarding your upcoming event for a high-profile client. I’ve worked in hospitality and guest coordination for over three years and would love to offer my assistance if there’s still an opening.

Best,

Mara Collins

Short, simple, professional. I read it twice before hitting send.

Then I opened I*******m and searched Allegra Events. The feed was a stream of gold: rooftop dinners, champagne towers, people who’d never worked a double shift in their life. I scrolled until I found a recent photo of Clara—red blazer, confident smile, glass of wine. Her caption read, “Final preparations for next week’s big event. Proud of my team.”

Next week.

It had to be the party.

I zoomed in on the photo, studying the room reflected in the glass behind her. Marble floors. Gold detailing. Somewhere expensive.

My phone buzzed. A message from the clinic reminding me of the late payment on my mother’s medications.

I typed back a quick response asking for more time and went back to the screen.

If Clara didn’t reply, I’d find another way. Assistant positions, catering staff, guest registration anything that got me in the door. I searched again, this time for event assistant temporary openings. Dozens of listings appeared, most for the same weekend. A few even mentioned “private clients in partnership with Allegra.”

I sent in three applications before the Wi-Fi started lagging.

When I finally leaned back, my eyes burned from the light, but I didn’t care. I had names, emails, company contacts, and dates. That was enough to start.

I shut the laptop, tossed the noodle cup into the bin, and looked around the small apartment.

I had a plan.

Get in.

Learn.

Get out.

Become one of them.

Then find myself a rich man.

I wasn’t like the models or tv stars but I knew I was beautiful, with a little make and new dress and new identity I can pass for one of them.

All I had to do right now was to find someone naive and kind enough to be friends with me, preferably a young girl that is probably lonely and then, I can finally be out of this hell I call life.

The next morning came too soon. My alarm buzzed like it hated me personally. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, dragged myself out of bed, and went straight for the coffee pot.

Mom was still asleep. I checked her breathing, adjusted her blanket, and set her pills on the nightstand before heading to the bathroom. The mirror didn’t do me any favors—dark circles, dull skin, and a mess of hair that looked permanently tired.

“Rich people wouldn’t survive a week of this,” I muttered, tying my hair up.

By noon, I had refreshed my inbox more times than I wanted to admit. Nothing. Not from Allegra, not from the catering agencies. Just spam and a newsletter I never remembered signing up for.

I was halfway through folding laundry when my phone pinged.

From: Clara Monroe

Subject: Event Assistant Opportunity

My heart actually skipped.

Hello Mara,

Thank you for reaching out. We are finalizing staff for an upcoming private event this weekend and may have an opening for a temporary assistant. Please confirm if you’re available for a brief in-person interview this afternoon at 3 PM at our downtown office.

Best,

Clara Monroe

Allegra Events

I read it twice. Then three times.

Available? I would cancel my entire life if I had to.

I typed back immediately:

Yes, I’ll be there. Thank you for the opportunity.

Then the panic hit. What was I going to wear? I couldn’t exactly show up in my coffee shop uniform.

I tore through my small closet until I found a plain white blouse and a pencil skirt that still fit, even if the zipper needed a little prayer. I ironed them flat, dabbed on light makeup, and tied my hair into a neat low bun. Clean. Simple. Professional.

At 2:15, I was already on the bus, clutching my worn handbag like it held my future.

The Allegra Events office was nothing like I’d imagined — tall glass walls, gold lettering, and a receptionist who looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine. I gave my name, signed the visitor sheet, and waited on one of those sleek chairs that made you too aware of how you sat.

“Mara Collins?”

I stood so fast I almost tripped. A woman in her thirties with sharp eyes and a smoother tone smiled politely. Clara Monroe, in the flesh.

“Come in,” she said, leading me down a quiet hallway. “You said you’ve done hospitality work?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered, keeping my voice even. “At clubs, hotels, private service. I’m used to working long hours and under pressure.”

She nodded, flipping through a clipboard. “Good. We need assistants who can adapt. This event is high-profile, discretion is important.”

“I understand.”

Her eyes lifted from the paper and studied me for a moment. “You look familiar. Have you done any events with Luxe Catering?”

I smiled like it was true. “Once, last year. Small corporate dinner.”

“Perfect,” she said, making a note. “We’re short on floor assistants, so if you’re available this weekend, consider yourself booked. Dress is formal black, minimal jewelry, and please be early. You’ll be working under my direct supervision.”

It took everything in me not to let the smile break through too fast. “Yes, absolutely.”

She handed me a badge, temporary ID, and a printed NDA. “Welcome to Allegra, Mara.”