Energy. Luxury. Power.

Those are the vibes my red dress is giving off, and I am so here for it. I twirl in the mirror, the high-slit, satin ruffles spinning around my legs. Gold stilettos and a black mink shawl solidify just how expensive the look is. I've never felt this chic in my entire life.

The door of my bedroom opens behind me, and my friend, Saige, enters the room in a short black dress. She bends down for a second to adjust her silver heel then pauses.

"Oh my gosh, Cleo! You look amazing!"

"I told you I had the perfect outfit for the evening."

"I should've taken you up on your offer to borrow a dress." Saige flops onto my bed, brushing the tassels on the pillow decorating the blue-and-gold comforter.

"It's fine. You're stunning in your dress, too."

Truth be told, it's one of two dresses she's worn to every special event we've gone to together for the past two years. Homecoming, graduation, girl's night on the town, you name it.

A few short weeks ago, I had an "everything" dress just like those. Wow, has my luck changed, and I hope hers can, too.

"Man, does your boss need to hire anyone else?" Saige asks.

"I don't think so." Guilt pangs through me as I fasten a gold necklace around my throat. She's being a really good sport about this, and I'm happy to share as much of the opulence with her as possible, but it isn't the same as having the luxury specially bestowed upon you.

"And to think all of this is free." Saige shakes her head. "It's almost too good to be true."

I chuckle. "And yet it isn't. Hey, why don't you help me pick out a purse." Saige bounds over. My new closet is so huge that it's divided into three sections that fill an entire wall of my giant room. On the left side, there's a floor-to-ceiling section that only contains purses.

After a moment, Saige grabs a shimmering black clutch. "This will match your coat, while the gold clasp in the center ties in with your gold accessories." She lets out a laugh. "Gosh, I never thought I'd live to see the day when you had a legit fur coat."

"It may be you someday," I say in a sing-song voice, lifting the bag. "And good choice." I stalk to my bed. The heels add an extra three inches to my height, and combined with the dress, I've never felt so confident. It's crazy how much of a difference a wardrobe change can make.

"What are you going to do with your old clothes?" Saige asks, trailing after me.

"They'll probably fit in the closet in the spare bedroom."

"Good grief. Who ever heard of an apartment with a spare room?"

I glance over my shoulder, grinning. "More common than you'd think."

"Not for our price bracket."

I grab my phone from my bed, turning it on. The screen lights up with the time, six-twenty. I slide it into my clutch along with my driver's license, two earpieces, a couple spare dollars, and two opera tickets. "We'd better get going. The show starts in almost an hour."

We exit my bedroom to the living room, where two couches and a coffee table sit in front of the terrace. I step toward it, breathing in a whiff of clear, chilly air before I pull the French doors closed. I'm about fifteen stories high in the air, so the normally balmy air has the slightest nip to it, just enough to make me feel refreshed. The fact that I don't have to be sweating or paying top dollar for AC truly puts the "luxury" in this apartment.

A marble bar corners off the sparkling stone kitchen. With gray cabinets, white countertops, and a silvery fridge, eating here automatically makes our take-out gourmet. I snag the remains of the shrimp cocktail platter I found waiting in the fridge for me this afternoon when I moved in, compliments of my boss, Ms. Tabitha Endlewood. We'll need a snack on the way to the Solar Crown Theater, where we'll be attending a modern, French Opera entitled "Les Petites Ensembles." As it happens, Saige and I decided that getting the perfect look for tonight was more important than eating at a fancy restaurant, even though Ms. Endlewood offered to pay for it.

Only a few other people pass us on the way down from my apartment, all dressed in evening attire. I square my shoulders, my mink falling equally across them. I try to exude the confidence of my heels clicking on the waxed floor. No matter how hard I try, I can't shake the feeling that I don't belong. I'm living another person's life, the life of Ms. Endlewood, the kindly benefactor who has turned my life around with two words.

You're hired.

I can not wait to meet her tonight.

The job hunt this past year has been hard. I decided to take a gap year before college, not only because I have no idea what I'm doing with my life, but also because I'd rather not have crippling, must-declare-bankruptcy student debt. Unfortunately, the best job I've been able to find is working at the local supermarket, which doesn't pay the bills nor provide a surplus to save for college someday. So when I stumbled onto Ms. Endlewood's job posting on Indeed for a personal assistant, I took it. The only prerequisite required is a background in music. You better believe I sold those three musicals I did costume and makeup design for on my resume.

Once downstairs in the apartment building's lobby, I push open the sparkling glass door. A warm breeze rustles the fur on my coat. It's way too warm for a coat, but who cares?

Two topiaries frame the apartment building's entrance, and a man in a white suit approaches from the left side, dangling a key from his hand.

"Ms. Barroe?"

"That's me!" I say. Excitement bubbles in my chest when he places the key in my palm.

"Your car awaits." He motions to a shiny, black sedan parked amongst two other cars in front.

"Thank you." I grab the bottom of my skirt with the hand holding the key and, still balancing the shrimp tray, hurry over to it. I catch a few stray looks from some women standing outside, dressed in their finest evening wear. My cheeks heat. Maybe I should've left the tray behind, but the shrimp just looked too good to leave behind.

"Do you want me to drive?" Saige asks.

"You do enough driving as is." I hand her the giant plastic platter. "Just pop a shrimp into my mouth every few miles."

"Okay," Saige laughs.

I buckle up in the front seat, and we're off. The sun sets over the city, painting a peachy backdrop against the reds, yellows, and greens of the traffic lights. Despite Bellcrest traffic, we arrive at the theater with forty minutes to spare, though twenty more minutes are eaten while trying to park.

The Theater is absolutely divine. Inside, my heels sink into a plush, red carpet that leads to a small set of marble steps ascending to the audience hall. The ceiling arches upward, forming a dome from which fluorescent light shines over the massive foyer. Long lines form at every entrance, composed of men in suits and women in slacks, dresses, and skirts. I duck behind an elderly couple in the line nearest the entrance. It moves quickly, and before I know it, I'm handing the woman at the door two opera tickets.

"Enjoy," she says with a smile.

I'm buzzing with excitement. A grin stretches across my rose-tinted lips, and my fingers keep tapping around my clutch, unable to sit still. Nothing says high-society more than opera tickets. And to think this is the first of many nights to come.

We pass the Mezzanine section, walking through the quickly filling rows, all the way to row H. That's right. Not only did my amazing boss get me tickets to the opera, she got practically front row seats.

"This is so cool!" Saige says when we sit down. "I still can't believe all this is free."

"I mean, technically it's not," I say. "Technically I'm on the clock once the show starts."

"Right." Saige rolls her eyes. "Like turning on your headphones and transcribing what you hear for a minute counts as a job."

"I'm getting paid for it." And once I'm done, I can finally meet the person who made all this possible.

"Got a pen and paper ready?" Saige asks.

"I have my phone."

Saige deadpans. "You can't use a phone in a theater."

I shrink in my seat. "Why not?"

"The light will disrupt the performance."

Heat rises to my cheeks. I turn my gaze to my clutch. My fingers slip inside, finding the two earpieces Ms. Endlewood mailed me. Her personal assistant job is composed of two, easy parts. Part one: I attend an Opera performance each week. All I have to do is have an earpiece in each ear, the left one on, the right one off. Apparently, at some point during the concert, I will hear some sort of alternate music and words in the left earpiece. That's my cue to turn the right earpiece on and transcribe whatever I hear. After the concert, I'm to report directly to Ms. Endlewood at her apartment and tell her what I heard.

The second part of my job — well, that comes later.

I slide the circular devices in each ear, pressing a silver button on the side of only one.

"I'm sure they'll excuse my poor etiquette just this once," I mumble at last.

Saige presses her lips in a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry. I wasn't meaning that as a dig."

"It's alright."

We chat idly until the lights flash several times. A hush falls over the audience, then the lights dim. A cheerful melody skips through the auditorium, and a woman dressed like a little girl bounces into the spotlight.

Les Petites Ensemble is a modern comedy opera about a child searching for a playmate. In the first half of the performance, the child tries to play with a bear, who dumps porridge on her fluffy pink dress, an elephant, who tries to bury her, and an unhinged hairdresser, who cuts her pigtails into a zig-zag pattern on the bottom and dyes them with zebra-stripes.

Although childish, I find myself laughing the whole time and tapping along to the upbeat tunes. The singers are wonderful, not only belting out long, virtuosic phrases in French with flawless accents, but also matching the sound of their character. The woman truly sounds like the greatest five-year-old singer ever born on this planet. The bear's voice is deep and gravely, in contrast, and the elephant manages a trumpeting sound effect.

A fourth playmate bounds onto the stage. This time, it's another woman dressed as another little girl, wearing a navy tutu and has bows interwoven in her braids. Actresses filter into the background in tea-colored tutus. The main girl and her new playmate sing about how grown-up they are for drinking tea. Every time an actress twirls by the teapot on set, she drops a little white sugar cube inside, holding a finger to her lips.

The music cuts out while the girl in the navy tutu belts out a long, high-pitched note. Then, she dumps tea onto the lead girl's head. The little girl licks her lips, tasting the tea, then sticks out her tongue in a gag.

"Bleh! Il n'y a pas de sucre!"

Above the performers, a screen flashes the translation.

"Bleh! There isn't any sugar!"

I chuckle to myself. I know, it's dumb humor. But her declaration is just so unexpected after all the sugar dropped into the tea by the chorus.

The music picks up in a lively tempo. Actresses swirl across the stage, singing about how tea is too bitter, best to stick to soda. On beat, they leap over each other and flutter about the stage, while singing the gleeful, allegro tune. The energy on stage is infectious. I can't help but grin and tap my foot along.

The lead actresses step to the shadows of the stage, no longer singing while the chorus takes the spotlight. Jubilant chords fill the air, except an odd dissonance slips between the notes. It lingers, swelling in my ears until the song is eerie and distorted. Hollow winds open within my eardrum, sucking the happy tune into an isolated cavern. The french words turn into a wash of noise. My lungs constrict, and I can barely breathe, let alone pay attention to the opera.

Eerie pitches screech and scrape the air. I cover my mouth as tears prick at my eyes. With the chorus still singing, it sounds like the screams of forgotten children, of death and loss and nightmares. Chimes whisper through my ears, brushing through my curls and grazing my neck. I nearly leap from my seat. My fingers grip the edges of my seat as a single beat drums twice.

It beats again, louder. Again, louder. Again, louder!

My skull pounds. The drum beat drills deeper and deeper. Pressure builds in my bones, a threat to fracture into a thousand fragments. I clutch my temples, when discordant chords surge in my ears. A ghostly voice breathes a wailing pitch, sending shivers down my spine.

"Singing loud, singing proud. Singing for an empty crowd."

With tears rolling down my face, I almost miss it. But that phrase was rasped in English.

That's what Ms. Endlewood told me to write down.

I fumble for the button on my right earpiece. The moment I press it, any semblance of happy chords evaporates to the dark, twisting music. Chilling, clashing melodies carve their way in my eardrum, punctuated by the chimes tolling at odd pitches.

"Listen up, I only sing once. Time is five-five, the object is one shiny piece. Opt for daytime at the Sorrel Gardens."

I need to write this down. Hands shaking, I pull out my phone just as the woman begins a hypnotic chant of random numbers. My thumbs fly across the screen, barely processing what she's saying.

Her voice screeches. I cringe in my seat, covering my head with my hands. What is this? What kind of sick person created this?

A few more notes slide into a final, clashing refrain. Slowly, the dissonant notes die away from my ears, though a creepy, hollow sound remains several beats longer.

Soon, it all fades to a single, ringing tone.

I sit there, too frightened to move. The performers are sashaying off the stage, and when I glance to my left, I notice Saige is clapping. I still can only hear that piercing dial tone.

Why can't I hear anything?

Hands trembling, I turn both earpieces off. Noise erupts around me, jolting me and making me clutch my ears again. Pain splits my head. My stomach roils with fear, and a metallic taste lingers on my tongue. Words fail to describe it. It sounded like a twisted, darkest of dark nightmare. It sounded like death knocking on my doorstep.

The lights brighten overhead. My head reels, though at least I process that it's intermission.

"Cleo, are you okay?"

I face Saige. Her brown eyes are worried as they take me in.

"Oh my gosh, Cleo! What's wrong?" She reaches into her purse, supplying a tissue pack.

"Did... did you hear that?" I stammer. I sniffle and wipe my eyes. People glance at me as they pass by, but I hardly care.

"Hear what?"

"That haunting song that played during the performance."

Saige's brow creases. "No, I thought the show was great."

"Something strange is going on here," I whisper, trying to hold back a fresh wave of tears.

"What do you mean?" I don't respond, just slide the earpieces and my phone back into my clutch, that beautiful, shiny purse that was too good to be true. Saige places her hand on my mink coat, turning me to face her. "Cleo, what happened?"

"I... I don't quite know yet." I swallow, my throat begging for some water. "But hopefully Ms. Endlewood can explain when I see her tonight."