Jamieson’s apartment was a chaotic masterpiece of neglect, a cramped shoebox of a space where every surface seemed to groan under the weight of her disarray. At her rickety kitchen table, she hunched over a pile of unpaid bills, her brow furrowed so deeply it might’ve left permanent lines. The red ink screamed at her—*late, overdue, final notice*—each word a jab to her already bruised pride. Eviction loomed like a storm cloud, and she could practically hear the landlord’s smug voice in her head, ready to toss her out on her ass.
Her phone buzzed, skittering across the table like it was just as frantic as she felt. She snatched it up, seeing Lila’s name flash across the screen. Her sister. Her savior. Her perpetual pain in the ass.
“Yo, financial disaster, how’s the bankruptcy going?” Lila’s voice chirped through the speaker, dripping with that familiar mix of mockery and affection.
Jamieson groaned, rubbing her temple. “Oh, fantastic. I’m just sitting here planning my glamorous new life under a bridge. You calling to gloat or what?”
Lila’s laugh was sharp, cutting through the gloom of the apartment like a knife. “Nah, I’m calling to save your sorry butt. I got you an interview. A real one. With a billionaire boss, no less. Zach freaking Carver. You’re welcome.”
Jamieson froze, her fingers tightening around the phone. “Wait, what? An interview? Lila, I’m not qualified to clean the guy’s toilets, let alone work for him. My last job was slinging coffee, and I got fired for telling a customer his latte looked like swamp water.”
“Pfft, qualifications are overrated,” Lila shot back. “You’ve got that stubborn charm, babe. You could talk a shark out of biting you. Besides, you’re desperate, and desperation is a hell of a motivator. Use it.”
Jamieson leaned back in her chair, the wood creaking ominously under her weight. “Charm? Lila, I’m a walking trainwreck. I can’t even spell ‘resume,’ let alone write one. This is a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Oh, come on, hot mess,” Lila teased, her voice taking on a playful edge. “You’re telling me you’d rather get evicted than take a shot at this? What’s the worst that can happen? You trip into his lap and he sues you for sexual harassment? That’s a story for the grandkids.”
Jamieson snorted despite herself, the mental image of her clumsy self sprawled across some billionaire’s desk almost enough to make her laugh. Almost. “Fine, you relentless harpy. I’ll do it. But if I crash and burn, I’m blaming you. And I’m crashing on your couch when I’m homeless.”
“Deal,” Lila said, smug as ever. “Now go dig up something that doesn’t scream ‘I live in a dumpster.’ You’ve got this, sis. Or at least, you’ve got enough grit to fake it.”
Hanging up, Jamieson tossed her phone onto the table with a sigh that could’ve deflated a balloon. She trudged to her closet, yanking open the door to reveal a mess of clothes that looked like they’d been through a war. “Selling my soul for rent money,” she muttered, pulling out a mismatched blazer and skirt that might’ve been professional if you squinted hard enough. “This is what rock bottom looks like.”
In her tiny bathroom, she stood before the cracked mirror, pacing in the tight space as she adjusted the blazer’s lapels. Her reflection stared back, a mix of defiance and dread in her dark eyes. “Alright, Jamieson, you’ve got this,” she told herself, her voice firm even as it trembled at the edges. “You’re a badass. A broke badass, but still. Don’t let some fancy-pants billionaire intimidate you. You’ve faced worse. Like that time you accidentally set fire to the microwave. If you survived that, you can survive this.”
She headed out, nearly tripping over a pile of laundry in the hallway. “Goddamn it,” she hissed, catching herself against the wall. “My life is a walking sitcom episode. All I need is a laugh track.”
---
The sleek, intimidating facade of Zach Carver’s corporate headquarters loomed over her like a judgmental giant as she stepped out of the cab. The building was all glass and steel, a gleaming monument to wealth and power that made her feel like a stray cat wandering into a lion’s den. She smoothed down her skirt, the fabric already wrinkling under her nervous fingers, and muttered, “Great. I’m about to walk into a place where even the janitors probably have MBAs.”
Inside the lobby, the air was crisp with the scent of money and ambition. Polished employees glided past her, their tailored suits and click-clacking heels a stark contrast to her thrift-store ensemble. She fidgeted by the reception desk, drawing curious glances that made her skin crawl. *Yeah, keep staring,* she thought, her inner monologue dripping with sarcasm. *I fit in here like a clown at a funeral. Maybe I should juggle for tips while I wait.*
Her phone buzzed again, a string of texts from Lila lighting up the screen. *Don’t trip over your own ego, dummy. Knock ‘em dead. Or at least don’t knock anything over. XOXO.* Jamieson smirked, the jab cutting through her nerves just enough to ground her. “Bitch,” she muttered under her breath, but there was a fondness in her tone.
“Miss Jamieson Reed?” The receptionist’s voice was clipped, her eyes scanning Jamieson with thinly veiled skepticism.
Jamieson straightened up, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. “That’s me. Don’t wear it out.”
The receptionist didn’t even blink, gesturing toward the elevator with a manicured hand. “Mr. Carver’s office is on the 42nd floor. Don’t keep him waiting.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jamieson quipped, though her stomach churned as she stepped into the elevator. Under her breath, she added, “Here’s hoping I don’t screw this up by, oh, I don’t know, setting the building on fire.”
The ride up felt endless, each ding of the floor numbers ratcheting her heart rate higher. Her mind raced with every possible way she could botch this interview—spilling coffee on his desk, accidentally insulting his haircut, tripping over her own feet and face-planting into his lap. “Get it together, woman,” she hissed to herself, gripping the railing. “You’re not here to flirt or flail. You’re here to not be homeless. Focus.”
The doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a pristine hallway that screamed *you don’t belong here.* A no-nonsense woman in a sharp pencil skirt—Zach’s assistant, presumably—waited for her, arms crossed and expression unreadable. Her gaze raked over Jamieson, a silent judgment that practically screamed, *You’re out of your league, sweetheart.*
“Miss Reed,” the assistant said, her tone as cold as the marble floor. “This way.”
Jamieson followed, her heels clicking awkwardly against the polished surface. “Thanks,” she said, forcing a grin. “Nice place. Do they give out gold-plated staplers on the first day, or do I have to earn that?”
The assistant didn’t even crack a smile, just arched a perfectly groomed brow. “Good luck,” she said as they reached Zach’s office door, though the words sounded more like a challenge than a well-wish.
Jamieson squared her shoulders, taking a deep breath that did little to steady her nerves. Her mind was a whirlwind of dread and determination, but she’d come too far to back out now. She knocked on the heavy door, the sound echoing in the silent hallway like a gunshot. Then, with a muttered “Here goes nothing,” she pushed it open and stepped inside, ready to face whatever this billionaire had in store.
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