Chapter 004

The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped out into the afternoon air with the biggest grin I’d had in months. The sun hit my face, warm and sharp, and for once, it didn’t feel like the city was working against me.

I had a job.

Not just any job —an in.

People in expensive shoes brushed past me, talking into phones, rushing somewhere important. For the first time, I didn’t feel like an outsider watching them. I was part of it now, at least a little.

I fished my phone out of my bag and scrolled through my contacts until I found Joan’s name.

She picked up on the second ring. “Mara? Please tell me you’re calling to say you’re not going to the club tonight, because I could use an extra time to myself.”

I laughed. “Actually, I got something better.”

“Better? What do you mean better?”

“I just left an interview at Allegra Events. They’re hiring me as an assistant for a private party this weekend.”

There was a pause. Then, a sharp gasp. “You’re kidding!”

“I’m not! They said it’s some big deal high-profile people, formal dress code, the whole thing.”

Joan’s squeal nearly blew my eardrum. “Oh my God, girl, this is huge! You’re finally moving up from the club.”

“I know,” I said, laughing breathlessly. “I just— I need your help. The dress code’s formal black. You still have that dress you wore for your cousin’s engagement? The one with the slit?”

“The one you said made me look like I belonged in a perfume ad?”

“That’s the one.”

She giggled. “You can have it, but only if you promise to let me do your makeup. You can’t go in there looking like you’ve been running double shifts at the bar.”

“I’ll take anything you give me,” I said, walking toward the bus stop. “Just… make me look like I belong there.”

“You already do,” she said softly. “You just need the right dress to prove it.”

I smiled, the kind that sat deep in my chest. Maybe she was right.

As the bus pulled up, I caught my reflection in the glass, hair still neat, lipstick faded, eyes bright. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t see tired. I saw possibility.

Holy shit! I’m actually doing this!

The rest of the week buzzed by and the more the weekend got closer the more anxious I got.

Joan’s apartment smelled faintly of coconut oil and body spray — a familiar mix that instantly made me feel lighter. Clothes were draped over the couch, makeup palettes scattered across the small coffee table like an artist’s war zone.

“Sit,” Joan ordered, already holding up her foundation brush like a weapon. “You’re late, and your face needs a miracle.”

I laughed, dropping my tote on the floor and sitting in the chair by her vanity mirror. “Traffic,” I said quickly, even though we both knew I’d been pacing my own apartment for an hour, too nervous to come over.

She raised a brow, smirking. “You mean overthinking again.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But I can’t mess this up, Joan. If I play this right, this could be the start of something.”

Joan dipped the brush into the foundation and began blending it across my cheeks. “Start of what?”

I hesitated, watching my reflection blur slightly under her touch. “Of a different life.”

Joan snorted softly. “You mean a rich life.”

“Why not?” I said, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “You’ve seen how these people live — the clothes, the cars, the ease. I’m tired of scraping by. Tired of choosing between rent and medicine. If I can learn how they move, what they do… I can find a way in.”

She stopped mid-brush, studying me. “You’re not talking about the event job anymore, are you?”

I shrugged, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Let’s just say this event is my classroom.”

Joan sighed, setting the brush down. “Mara, you’re smart, but those kinds of people don’t play fair. They’ll smile at you and eat you alive before dessert.”

“I’m not going in blind,” I said quietly. “I’m going in prepared.”

She looked at me for a long moment, then shook her head, a smile breaking through her concern. “You always did have a stubborn streak. Fine. Just promise me you won’t forget who you are when you start playing rich girl.”

“Promise,” I said, grinning.

Joan rolled her eyes but returned to work, brushing powder across my cheekbones. “Alright, Miss Ambition. Time to make you look expensive.”

We both laughed, and for a few minutes, the tension faded. Music hummed softly from her phone as she curled my hair and dusted shimmer over my eyelids.

When she finally zipped me into the black dress, I barely recognized the woman in the mirror. The slit showed just enough leg to be dangerous, the neckline modest but sharp. My hair fell in smooth waves over my shoulders.

“Damn,” Joan whispered, stepping back. “If you walk into that place with this face, somebody’s going to forget their wife tonight.”

I laughed, cheeks warm. “That’s not the plan.”

“Sure it’s not,” she teased. Then her voice softened. “Go get what you’re chasing, Mara. But don’t lose yourself trying to catch it.”

I nodded, slipping on the heels she’d lent me. “I won’t. I just need one night. One chance.”

Joan watched as I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. “You already have it,” she called out. “Now make it count. Maybe after tonight you can start paying me for looking after your mother”

“I love you!” I screamed back, while running out to meet my cab.

The city lights looked different from this part of town, brighter, cleaner, like they belonged to a world that had never known dust or unpaid bills.

I stepped out of the cab and just stood there for a second, clutching my small bag, staring up at the glass-covered building glittering under spotlights. Cars, real luxury ones glided past, their engines purring, doors opening for women wrapped in silk and men dressed like power itself.

The air smelled like perfume, money, and ambition.

A valet brushed past me, offering a practiced smile before hurrying to open another door. I moved aside quickly, careful not to draw attention. I didn’t belong here, yet.

Still, my lips curved into a small smile. To win a game, you have to study the players.

I was here to study.

A couple walked past me, their laughter soft and effortless. The woman’s diamond earrings caught the light like tiny stars, and for a second, I caught myself staring. That was the life I wanted. Not for the jewelry or the gowns, but for what they represented—ease, security, freedom.

If tonight went well, maybe this wouldn’t be a one-time performance. I couldn’t afford for it to be.

I needed a reason to come back, a name, a connection, something that would open a door and keep it open. Because once this night ended, I’d go back to my tiny apartment, my mother’s cough echoing through the thin walls, and the same aching truth: nothing changes unless I make it change.

This was the change I choose.

I exhaled, straightening my borrowed blazer as a woman’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

“IDs, everyone. Quickly, please.”

Clara.

She walked toward us, clipboard in hand, every inch of her screaming control and confidence. Her sleek bun didn’t move, not even as the evening breeze caught her jacket.

One by one, she handed out badges to the event assistants lined up beside me, her tone clipped but approving. “Good. You all look polished, finally. You’ll be working the floor, the bar, and the check-in desk. Keep your smiles sharp and your words minimal. Tonight’s guest list is… sensitive.”

Her eyes lingered on me a second longer than I liked. “New girl?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, careful but steady.

She nodded. “Good posture. Try to keep it. Guests can be very intimidating, try not to get overwhelmed.”

I forced a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Alright. Let’s move. We’re ten minutes behind schedule—”

The sound of screeching tires cut her short.

Everyone turned as a sleek, black car rolled up the drive—glossy as ink under the lights. Then came the rush: flashes, shouts, the whir of cameras. Paparazzi swarmed from every direction, their voices overlapping.

“It’s him! Adrian Holt! Adrian, over here!”

I blinked, shielding my eyes as the chaos unfolded. Reporters pressed forward, shouting his name like it was magic.

Then the car door opened.

He stepped out slowly, straightening his jacket, his expression unreadable under the assault of camera lights. Tall. Sharp. Impossibly composed, like he’d been carved for this exact moment.

The air shifted. Even Clara froze.

“Who is that?” I asked under my breath.

Clara’s eyes flicked toward me briefly, her lips curving with something between amusement and awe. “That,” she said, “is Adrian Holt. The man who paid for half this event. Try not to stare.”

Too late.

I was already staring.