C1

​CHAPTER 1

​The sound of the alarm clock isn’t a suggestion; it’s a sentence. At 6:00 AM, its metallic buzz reminds me that my life hangs by a thread—or rather, by a phone call that I still find hard to believe I actually received. I get out of bed, feeling the Queens cold seeping through the cracks in the window. My apartment is small, noisy, and smells of that cheap coffee which is the only thing my budget allows after a three-month dry spell of unemployment.

​While I shower, I try to soothe the trembling in my hands. “You can do this, Camila. It’s just a receptionist job,” I repeat to myself. But I know it’s so much more than that. It’s the light at the end of a dark tunnel that began a year ago when my father died, leaving my mother, my twin sisters, and me a mountain of debt and a hollow space in my chest that I can't seem to fill. As the oldest sister, it’s my duty to be the pillar, even though I feel like my own foundations are crumbling.

​I put on my best pencil skirt—the one I save for special occasions—and a white blouse that I ironed with almost religious precision. I look at myself in the mirror; my honey-colored eyes look tired, but they are bright with anxiety. I pull my light brown hair into a neat ponytail, though a few rebellious, almost blonde strands refuse to stay put and escape.

​“This is for you, Papa,” I whisper before leaving the apartment.

​I walk down to the parking lot praying, but my prayers die the moment I turn the key in the ignition of my old car. The engine emits an agonizing groan and then goes dead silent. I try three more times, slamming the steering wheel in frustration.

​“Not now! Please, not today!”

​I check the time on my wristwatch: it’s 7:25 AM. If I don't leave right now, I’ll lose my chance at Apex Ink before I even step through the doors. I jump out of the car and sprint toward the nearest subway station, feeling my heels hit the pavement like a countdown timer. I am incredibly nervous. I rush down the station stairs—or as fast as my heels will allow—just in time to squeeze into the subway car before the doors slide shut, catching a thread of my coat. I have to yank it hard to break it free. The train is absolutely packed, bursting at the seams; it’s that hour when New York feels like an suffocating mass of bodies. I grab onto a metal pole, trying to catch my breath and ignore the sweat starting to dampen the back of my neck.

​That’s when I feel the environment shift. I don't know how to explain it, but it's a distinct sensation. It’s as if the atmosphere inside the car suddenly went still. The first thing I notice is that the men around me stop staring at their phones; low whispers fill the air. I turn my head because, yes, I am just that curious to know what is causing such a reaction.

​And then, I see her.

​She is standing right behind me, so close that I can feel the aura of power radiating from her. She is imposing, much taller than me; she must have nearly eight inches on my meager 5'3" frame. She is wearing dark jeans that hug endless legs and a black leather jacket that looks ridiculously expensive.

​I can admit when a girl is attractive, and her level is off the charts. Her face is what steals my breath away: she has a sculpted jawline, full lips, and jet-black hair so dark and glossy it looks like liquid silk. Her eyes... God, her eyes are an icy blue so clear they remind me of the glaciers you see in documentaries. They are gorgeous, but capable of killing you if you get too close. She doesn't look at anyone; she maintains an expression of absolute indifference, as if the rest of us were mere shadows in her world.

​My stomach does a flip. A sudden heat, completely foreign to me, begins to rise from my core up to my chest. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before; I’ve always considered myself a normal, heterosexual girl with simple tastes... But this woman is triggering a chemical reaction inside me that I cannot control. My pulse becomes erratic. I dare to admit that I actually feel butterflies.

​Suddenly, she shifts her gaze. Her blue eyes collide with mine. I don't look away, even though I should have—it’s not polite to stare at people the way I just did—and yet, I am utterly trapped in her scrutiny. She tracks me from head to toe, pausing for a fraction of a second on my mouth. I catch a spark of something dark in her pupils before I, dying of embarrassment, look away with my heart hammering against my ribs.

​“Calm down, Camila. She’s just a beautiful woman. That’s all,” I tell myself, realizing how completely illogical my body's reaction is.

​The train takes a curve at full speed and, suddenly, the brakes screech. It’s a sharp impact; my hand slips from the pole and the momentum throws me backward without mercy. I close my eyes, bracing for the impact against the floor or the metal.

​It doesn't happen. The expected crash never comes.

​I feel strong arms wrapping around me with staggering security. A firm hand anchors itself to my waist, pinning me against a solid, warm body. The impact between our torsos knocks the wind right out of me. My face ends up buried in the crook of her neck, and in that instant, the outside world ceases to exist.

​The scent of an exquisite perfume floods my senses; it’s a refined aroma, a blend of sandalwood, something woody, and a hint of night-blooming flowers. It’s the smell of money, of luxury, and of something far more dangerous.

​I slowly lift my eyes. Her black hair falls around us, creating a curtain of privacy in the middle of the crowded subway car. We are so close that I can see the flecks of silver in her blue irises. Her hand, still on my waist, squeezes slightly, and I swear I feel an electric current surge down my spine.

​“Be careful,” she tells me. It takes my brain a second to process her words. Her voice is a velvety whisper, deep and carrying a note of command that makes me vibrate inside. It isn't a suggestion; it’s an order.

​“I’m sorry... I... Thank you,” I manage to stammer, feeling small, vulnerable, and strangely exposed beneath her gaze.

​She doesn't let go of me immediately; she holds me for a second longer than necessary, scanning my face with an intensity that makes me feel she can read every single sinful thought crossing my mind right now. My fucking mind couldn't choose another moment to do this; it has to be exactly right now. Finally, her hands slide down my sides with a delicious slowness before letting me go.

​My body feels hot, and I swear none of this can be normal. Much less the way she is looking at me; I feel like I'm going to burst into flames.

​I keep my eyes down as I adjust my purse. The train announces the next stop. My brain is fried; I need to get out of here, I need fresh air to clear the smell of her perfume from my head. I am so nervous and embarrassed by what I just felt that the moment the doors slide open, I bolt out onto the platform.

​I don't look back; I don't want to see if she is watching me. I run toward the escalators as if my life depends on it. When I reach the street level and feel the morning breeze on my face, I stop to breathe. I lean against a wall, touching my waist where I can still feel the heat of her fingers. My heart rate is easily over 100 beats per minute.

​“What just happened to me?” I whisper to myself.

​I look around, and my heart drops into my stomach. The buildings are not the ones I remember. I look at the station sign: 34th Street.

​“No! No, no, no!” I groan, tears of frustration threatening to surface.

​In my desperation to escape that woman, I got off two stations too early. It’s 7:50 AM. Apex Ink is at a distance that not even an Olympic athlete could cover in ten minutes.

​I look down at my heels, grit my teeth, and start walking at a near jog, moving full speed down the sidewalk. I’m sweating, my feet ache, and I’m sure my hair is a disaster, but I won’t give up.

​As I weave past tourists and executives, I try to convince myself that, luckily, the woman from the train was just a chance encounter—an anecdote to tell, someone I will never see again.

​I curse myself once more internally for getting off at the wrong station.