OOPS! I'M THE BOSS'S FIANCÉE.

I had exactly three dollars and fifty cents in my right pocket, and I needed four to pay the subway fare back to my dump of an apartment. I was sitting in the massive glass lobby of Montenegro Enterprises, digging through the bottom of my knockoff purse for a stray coin buried between lint and gum wrappers, when a flawless voice sliced through the corporate chatter.

"Miss Camila?"

My head snapped up, the purse strap smacking me right under the chin. A blonde woman, poured into a tailored suit that probably cost more than my vital organs on the black market, was walking straight toward me. Before I could string a single sentence together to explain that I was here for the night-shift janitorial vacancy, she slipped a heavy gold lanyard around my neck. The letters gleamed under the recessed lighting: VIP Access – Executive Suite.

"We’ve been eagerly expecting you. Showing up fifteen minutes late is a fascinating power move, I must admit," the blonde said, giving me a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Please, come with me. Human Resources has everything ready."

My brain short-circuited. I stared at the badge bouncing against my thrift-store blouse, which I’d ironed that morning by shoving it under my mattress because I don’t own an iron. Power move? I was late because my bus broke down ten blocks away and I had to sprint here dodging puddles of highly questionable origin.

"Excuse me, I think there’s been a misun—"

"The private elevator is right this way," she interrupted, grabbing my arm with shocking grip strength for someone who didn't eat carbs, and dragged me toward a set of polished steel double doors.

She shoved me into the elevator before my feet even processed the motion. The cube smelled like sandalwood and old money. There were no buttons, just a sleek touchscreen where the blonde swiped a black card. The machine shot upward so fast my ears popped instantly. Fifty floors in under twenty seconds. My stomach stayed on the ground floor, and not just because of the G-force, but because I hadn’t eaten solid food in eighteen hours.

"My name is Beatriz. I’ll be the liaison between your department and the board of directors," she explained, while the floor numbers blinked furiously on the digital display. "Mr. Montenegro is on a conference call with Tokyo, but he instructed me to get you settled in."

Mr. Montenegro? The absolute ruler of half the financial district? I swallowed hard. The taste of bile and panic scratched at my throat. I opened my mouth to scream that I was Camila Vargas, professional unemployed person, expert debt-dodger, and exactly three months behind on rent.

But the elevator doors dinged open with a soft chime.

The top floor didn’t look like an office. It looked like the lobby of a luxury hotel in Dubai. There was modern art hanging on dark wood-paneled walls, carpets so thick my scuffed shoes sank into them, and a breathtaking panoramic view of the skyline. Everything screamed absolute wealth, crushing power, and bottomless bank accounts.

Beatriz guided me to a massive set of frosted glass double doors, pushed them open, and gestured for me to step inside.

"Your office, Miss Camila."

My legs wobbled. The place was the size of my entire apartment, including the hallway and the building’s trash chute. There was a solid mahogany desk, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a chrome Italian espresso machine that looked like a spaceship. A black leather folder rested on the desk with a gold pen laid neatly on top.

"That is your onboarding contract," Beatriz noted, checking a Cartier watch on her wrist. "We just need your signature on the last page to set up your payroll and process the initial relocation deposit. I’ll leave you to read it in peace. Welcome aboard."

The door clicked shut behind her.

I was alone. The silence in that room was heavy, expensive, entirely cut off from the chaos of horns and sirens in the streets below. I walked toward the desk moving like a rusty robot. My fingers, cold and shaking, brushed the leather cover of the folder. I flipped it open.

The first few pages were packed with legal jargon my malnourished brain refused to process: NDAs, yield rates, corporate shares, executive benefits. I skimmed through the pages until I hit the financial compensation section.

I stopped. I blinked three times, rubbing my knuckles against my eyes.

The number printed on the glossy paper had a five, followed by a zero, a comma, and three more zeros. Fifty thousand. And right next to it, a magical, dangerous, entirely unreal word: Monthly.

My knees lost all structural integrity. I collapsed into the ergonomic leather chair, which caught me like a heavenly embrace. Fifty thousand dollars. A month. Plus a sign-on bonus of the exact same amount that, according to the fine print, would hit my account the second I signed on the dotted line.

I started hyperventilating. Oxygen wasn't reaching my lungs. I did the mental math at the speed of light. With just one month of this salary, I could pay my overdue rent, clear my aunt’s hospital debt, fix the gaping hole in my bathroom ceiling, and stuff my face with steak every single day until I burst. This was life-changing money. Pull-you-out-of-the-gutter money.

It’s a mistake, Camila. They’re going to throw you in jail, my common sense screamed from some neglected corner of my brain.

I gripped the edges of the desk. I needed to get up, sprint back to the elevator, confess to Beatriz that I was an accidental fraud, and flee to the streets to keep hunting for loose change. I gathered the strength to stand. I hoisted my fake bag over my shoulder. I took my first step toward the door.

And then, my stomach growled.

It was a vicious sound, a hollow, painful rumble that bent me in half. Hunger isn’t an abstract concept when you feel it chewing on your insides. Hunger turns you into an animal. I looked at the gold pen resting on the contract. Then I looked at my busted shoes.

"Five minutes," I muttered to the empty room, feeling the pulse hammering in my temples. "I’m just going to sit here for five more minutes. Just to see how it feels. Then I’ll tell them the truth."

I sat back down in the leather chair. That was, without a single doubt, the worst and most catastrophic decision I have made in my twenty-four years of existence.