Chapter 2- Stepping Into The Den

BROOKLYN

The blaring alarm dragged me out of a dream I couldn’t remember, and for a few seconds, I just lay there staring at the cracked ceiling, trying to remember what day it was.

Monday. The worst one.

The sheets were tangled around my legs, and the air was cold against my skin. I’d forgotten to turn off the ceiling fan again. I groaned, rolled over, and checked my phone.

6:12 AM.

I had exactly forty-eight minutes to get Elliot up, dressed, fed, and out the door, all before sprinting across town to some anonymous “interview” that might be a total scam.

Still, I couldn’t forget the words in that email:

“Could change your life.”

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. The floor was cold under my feet, and I made a mental note to finally look for slippers next time I passed a thrift store.

“Elliot,” I called softly, pushing his door open.

He was already half-awake, sitting up with messy hair and that sleepy, squinty expression that always made me smile.

“Morning,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“Let’s get moving, champ. You’ve got school in—” I glanced at my phone. “—forty-two minutes.”

He groaned dramatically and flopped back down. “I hate mornings.”

“Me too,” I said, nudging his foot through the blanket. “But if we’re late, Mrs. Donovan will give me that look again.”

He groaned louder. “Not the look.”

“Yep. The disappointed mom stare.” I smirked. “And you know she doesn’t even have kids.”

That got him moving. While he brushed his teeth and got dressed, I whipped up some toast and scrambled eggs.

Quick, cheap, and hot. No orange juice, but I managed to find the last two clean mugs and filled them with the last drops of watered-down apple juice.

It would do.

After dropping him off at school and making sure he had his inhaler, I checked my phone again. The email had come with a follow-up — this time with a time and address.

9:30 AM. Blackwell Tower. 45th floor. Ask for Mr. Hayes.

I stood on the sidewalk, reading the address three times before the name really hit me.

Blackwell.

As in… the Blackwells?

My chest tightened. Everyone on social media had heard of the Blackwell family.

Whispers of old money, business empires, magazine spreads, and scandalous dinner parties filled the internet like a modern soap opera. I remembered seeing clips on my feed once.Luxury yachts, designer suits, cryptic headlines like "Blackwell heir spotted in Monaco with mystery woman."

But that was all I knew. Rumors. I*******m reels. The kind of wealth that didn’t even look real.

And now they wanted to meet me?

The name alone was intimidating enough.

“Blackwell Tower” sounded less like an office building and more like a villain’s lair in a dystopian novel. I suddenly felt way too underdressed in my thrifted blazer and scuffed boots.

I stared up at the building when I finally arrived.

It was massive with glass, steel, and stone, the kind of tower that seemed to scrape the sky.

Sleek black doors opened automatically as I stepped inside, and cool air swept over me like I was suddenly walking into a different universe.

One where people wore watches that cost more than my rent and spoke in words like portfolio and equity.

I swallowed hard and walked up to the front desk.

The receptionist didn’t even glance at me before tapping on her tablet.

“I’m here to see… Mr. Hayes?” I said, trying to sound confident.

Her eyes flicked up, scanning me like I was something stuck to her shoe. “Name?”

“Brooklyn Carson.”

She typed something, then nodded once. “Forty-fifth floor. Elevator’s to your right.”

That was it. No security check. No ID badge. Just a silent expectation that I knew where I was going and wouldn’t embarrass myself.

The elevator ride was fast, too fast. My ears popped as we climbed. I tried to adjust my jacket and smooth down my hair in the mirrored wall, but nothing could fix the way my nerves were tying themselves into tight little knots.

This is crazy, I kept thinking. Absolutely insane. What am I even doing here?

When the doors opened, I stepped out into a hallway that looked like it belonged in a tech CEO's fantasy,all chrome and glass and silent elegance.

A man was already standing there waiting for me.

Tall. Dark suit. Clean-cut.

Handsome in a sharp, polished way like he could sell you a $10,000 watch and make you feel grateful.

He looked up at me like he already knew everything there was to know.

“Miss Carson. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

My eyebrows lifted. “You… know my name?”

“I know a great deal more than that,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Please. Sit.”

I lowered myself into the leather chair across from him, suddenly aware of how cheap my clothes looked against the polished backdrop of this place.

“I’m Mr. Hayes,” he continued. “I work directly under the person you would be—if selected—contracted to assist.”

“Assist… with what, exactly?” I asked.

“That’s confidential. For now.”

My stomach dipped. “Okay. Look, I’m not trying to be rude, but I have a younger brother and a job and I don’t have time to get wrapped up in something sketchy.”

His expression didn’t change. “Understandable. This won’t take long.”

He opened a drawer, pulled out a crisp folder, and slid it across the desk to me. “This is a standard NDA. Signing it is the first step. After that, we can talk terms.”

I opened it hesitantly. “So I’m agreeing to something… before knowing what it is?”

“You’re agreeing not to speak of this meeting to anyone. Not your friend. Not your employer. Not even your brother. This opportunity is for individuals who can respect privacy and handle high-stakes discretion. If that doesn’t sound like you, you’re free to leave.”

I stared at the paper. The pay range was blank. So was the role description. Just a wall of dense legalese that ended with a signature line.

“You said you know a lot about me,” I said slowly.

“Then you know I’m broke, desperate, and probably stupid for even coming here.”

Mr. Hayes actually smiled at that. “Desperation isn’t stupidity. Sometimes, it’s clarity.”

I blinked.

He folded his hands. “You’ve been vetted. You were contacted because you matched the client’s criteria. You’re of sound health, no criminal record, and have a personal situation that makes you… uniquely qualified.”

That last part made me sit straighter. “What does my situation have to do with anything?”

“I can’t say more without your signature.”

The silence stretched.

I thought of Elliot. Of overdue bills. Of the job board I’d scrolled this morning where “entry-level” meant “five years’ experience” and $18 an hour was considered generous.

I looked at the pen beside the folder.

And I signed.

Mr. Hayes took the folder back with a nod, like he hadn’t doubted for a second.

“Thank you. Now, here’s what I can tell you.”

He tapped his tablet.

“This is a one-year agreement, during which you will be legally bound to the client. The nature of that bond will be clarified at your final meeting, which I will arrange once the legal paperwork is completed.”

“Legally bound?” I repeated. “Like… marriage?”

He didn’t confirm. He didn’t deny.

“There will be an upfront payment, followed by monthly installments. A substantial sum, all tax-handled. You will have access to a private account. All living expenses covered. In exchange, you will adhere to a strict confidentiality clause and fulfill the terms of the arrangement.”

“What are the terms?”

“They will be discussed once you meet the client. But know this,it’s not a typical job. You will be under constant scrutiny. Any breach of agreement nullifies compensation and triggers penalties.”

Penalties?

“You make it sound like I’m joining the mob.”

Mr. Hayes’s words hung in the air like smoke.

“You’re joining something more powerful,” he said coolly.

I stared at him. “That’s not ominous at all.”

He didn’t blink. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “So… what happens now?”

He stood, moving to a cabinet where he retrieved another folder—thicker this time. When he placed it in front of me, I noticed the embossed seal in the corner: a sharp, minimalist B. That same symbol had been on the elevator button. And the outside of the building.

Suddenly, it hit me. My stomach tightened

“Wait,” I said slowly, my fingers hovering just above the folder. “Blackwell… will I be involved with them in some kind of way?”

His gaze flicked up to meet mine, unreadable. “Correct.”

I blinked hard. “I didn’t think—”

“You weren’t meant to think anything,” he said simply. “Not until now.”

I leaned back in my chair. The Blackwells were infamous.

And now I was… signing something that tied me to one of them?

“You’re saying this offer… it’s from a Blackwell?” I asked carefully.

Mr. Hayes’s lips curled slightly. “It is.”

I tried not to visibly panic. “Which one?”

“You’ll find out soon. A formal meeting is being arranged. Tentatively scheduled for this Friday morning.”

“So four days from now.”

“Yes. You’ll be expected to return here, alone and discreet. Transportation will be provided, and you will meet with the client directly to finalize the arrangement.”

“What if I don’t want to finalize it?”

“You are under no obligation to agree to the final terms,” he said smoothly. “But the offer is... significant. And given your circumstances, I think you’ll find it compelling.”

He wasn’t wrong. Which only made it worse.

I rose slowly, my legs feeling strangely disconnected from my body.

“Do I get a copy of what I signed?”

“No. But rest assured, everything is legal and carefully structured.”

Of course it was. Rich people didn’t need to break the law when they could just buy it.

Mr. Hayes extended his hand. I shook it, trying to read anything from his expression..kindness, warning, even amusement but came up empty.

“I’ll see you Friday, Miss Carson.”

I nodded mutely and walked out of the office, my heart pounding against my ribs.

The elevator ride down felt like falling.

By the time I stepped back onto the sidewalk, the city had lost its usual rhythm. Everything looked sharper, louder, too bright.

I wandered toward the subway, still gripping my phone like a lifeline. Should I call Riley? I couldn’t. I’d just signed away that right.

•|•

When I opened the apartment door, the smell of slightly burnt toast hit me.

“Brook! You’re back!” Elliot called from the kitchen table, cereal bowl half-empty in front of him. “I made toast! Kinda.”

I ruffled his hair and forced a tired smile. “Smells amazing, chef.”

He looked up at me, eyes shining with hope. “Did you get the job?”

I froze. “Sort of.”

“That means we’ll be okay, right?”

The question hit me like it always did—right in the chest.

I knelt beside him and met his gaze. “I’m working on it.”

•|•

Later that night, after dinner and homework and another inhaler check, I sat back down at the kitchen table with my ancient laptop and the same cup of now-cold coffee.

The email inbox was still open. No new messages.

I stared at the subject line from this morning: Interview Confirmed. Blackwell Tower.

It didn’t feel real. None of it did.

What kind of billionaire doesn’t show up to their own interview? What kind of assistant is that polished and mysterious? What kind of job pays enough to change your life, but makes you sign before telling you what it is?

I should’ve walked out the second I realised how weird it all was. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Because even if this offer came with strings and shadows, it came with money too—and for once, maybe that could mean light at the end of the tunnel.

I closed the laptop, rested my forehead on the table, and exhaled.

Please don’t let this be a mistake.