The Wolfpack's New Receptionist

The car pulled over in front of Thorne Strategic Heights, towering like a tomb over Miami. Usually, this building felt like a symbol of my birthright, but today it looked like my last resting place. I caught my reflection in the tinted window of the town car. My gown was stained and torn, my blonde hair looked like a bird’s nest, and my makeup had bled down my cheeks. I looked like a ghost."We are here, Miss Eloise," Edward said softly.For the first time in my life, I detected pity in his voice.Normally, the security guards bowed, but today, they looked at their shoes. As I walked toward the elevators, I realized the entire office was staring at me. Some were whispering behind their hands while others were holding up their phones, comparing the disaster in front of them to the image of me being tackled by a cop.I pressed the button for the 50th floor, which was the Penthouse Boardroom, and prayed the doors would close before I burst into tears.The doors slid open to the boardroom

The second week was a lesson in humiliation. It was a slow-motion car crash, far more painful than the one that had totaled my Bugatti. That crash had been fast, while this was a daily erosion of my pride.I had spent two days crafting a resume. It was a pathetic document that made me feel queasy. Under Experience, I wrote: Socialite, Gala Organizer (Volunteer), Personal Stylist. Every word felt like a lie, even though they were technically true. How do you explain to a recruiter that "organizing a gala" meant choosing between two shades of blue silk and "personal styling" meant spending other people's money? Under Education, I listed the prestigious boarding school I had attended, but I didn't bother to finish my degree in Business Management at the university in London. At the time, following a DJ to Ibiza had seemed more important than a piece of paper. Now that piece of paper was the only barrier keeping me from finding a job.My first interview was for a high-end real estate firm

The 5:30 AM alarm didn’t chime with a soft melody from my old penthouse system. It was a sudden, loud, annoying tone from my cracked smartphone that made me jump upright, nearly falling off the mattress. My head was throbbing, a result of the cheap, boxed wine I’d drunk in a moment of self-pity the night before. The air in the apartment was thick and humid. "Six o’clock," I croaked, my voice sounding like I’d swallowed sandpaper. "I have to be there by six." I scrambled into my new "uniform": a pair of stiff, dark denim jeans and a plain grey T-shirt. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. My skin, usually glowing from monthly facials worth thousands of dollars, looked pale and stressed. I looked like a stranger. I looked like Eloise Miller. The drive to Cane’s Garage & Recovery was a rush of early-morning fog and the smell of stale coffee f

The drive back to West Miami was a nightmare. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the city in a purple twilight. As I drove the Corolla through the traffic on 8th Street, I felt a sensation crawling up the back of my neck, the same feeling I had in the garage when Cane watched me from the shadows. I glanced in the rear-view mirror. A black sedan was three cars back. It had been there since I left the industrial district. I changed lanes; it changed lanes. I took a sudden right into a gas station; it slowed down, lingering at the intersection before disappearing around the corner. "Get a grip, Eloise," I whispered, my heart beating fast. "You’re just jumpy because of the 'bone-snapping' noises at work. No one is following you!" I reached my apartment and ran to the front door. The hallway smelled like floor wax, a scent I was starting to prefer over the fake floral sprays of my penthouse. I