STEPHANIE
....

The GPS is driving me insane.

Or maybe it’s the driver. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s deciphering some ancient map, and every time I try to correct him, he just waves me off.

“Miss, I know the way. Trust me.”

“Yeah, sure,” I mutter, glancing at the route on my phone for the third time. It’s like watching a train derail in slow motion.

We’ve taken two wrong turns already, and I’m starting to regret not just taking the bus or biking like I usually do.

When he misses another turn, I’ve had enough. “Stop the car. Just stop. I’ll walk from here.”

“Miss, it’s a long way—”

“I don’t care. Stop the car!”

He pulls over reluctantly, and I shove the door open, grabbing my bag.

“Thanks for nothing,” I snap, slamming the door shut.

He mumbles something under his breath, but I’m already out, slamming the door shut. I don’t even bother paying him; he didn’t get me where I needed to go, so why should I?

The sidewalk is hot under my feet, and I’m sweating before I’ve even walked a block. Pulling my phone out, I dial Amber, my sister, the only person who could make this day slightly better—or worse, depending on her mood.

“You lost already?” she answers, her voice dripping with amusement.

“Ugh, Amber, don’t even start,” I groan, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. “It’s not my fault! The driver was useless, and this address you gave me doesn’t even make sense.”

Amber bursts out laughing, that annoying, smug laugh that makes me want to chuck my phone into traffic.

“You always manage to get lost, even with a GPS.”

“I do not! I just—okay, maybe I’m a little directionally challenged, but that’s not the point! This guy has no clue what he’s doing.” I glance at the street signs. “I’m literally standing here, in front of some random building that looks way too fancy for a job interview.”

Amber’s laugh gets louder. “Oh my god, you are such a mess. Did you even check the address properly? It’s all in the email.”

“I did check! I swear, I’ve been over it like five times. But, you know, this is your fault for sending me on this wild goose chase without warning me.”

“Okay, first of all, chill out. You’re obviously in the right area, just look up. I told you the building would be tall and fancy, didn’t I?”

I glance around, and sure enough, there’s a sleek skyscraper towering over the block, way too rich and intimidating.

“Found it,” I mutter under my breath. “Guess this is it.”

“Duh. Now, get yourself together and don’t make us look bad. I know if anyone’s going to mess up, it’s gonna be you.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I snap, but I can’t help the corner of my mouth twitching up even when
I want to strangle her.

“But seriously, I’m trying not to have a meltdown over here. This place looks like it’s the headquarters of a billion-dollar company.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve dressed up instead of wearing that t-shirt,” she shoots back, and I can hear the smirk in her voice.

“First of all, it’s a graphic tee, not just a regular one,” I defend. “And second, the last thing I need is to be suffocated by some funny blazer. I’ll charm them with my... impeccable personality.”

Amber lets out an exaggerated gag. “Yeah, that’s gonna go well. Just fon’t screw this up. I’m pretty sure you’ll somehow find a way to do it anyway.”

I roll my eyes. “A little faith in me would do.”

“Steph, faith? I'm insulted.” She gasps.

“You're so dramatic, bye.”

I stand there for a moment, staring up at the building. It’s intimidating, all shiny windows and expensive vibes.

The email from Mr. Jetson stating the job offer pops up again. I had jumped on the second it came in and thanks to Amber for that.

I need the money, and judging by this place, it’s going to pay well.

I step inside the lobby, which looks like something out of a movie—glass, marble, and a chandelier so massive it could probably crush a car.

The receptionist barely glances at me as I head to the elevator, clutching my bag tightly.

The ride up is smooth and quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of every little sound. When the doors finally slide open, I step into a hallway that smells like lavender and money.

At the door, a tall man with brown hair and a warm smile greets me.

“Mr. Jetson?” I ask, trying not to let my nerves show.

“Please, call me Jeremiah.” His handshake is firm, and he looks way too put-together for someone who has to deal with what I assume is a grumpy teenager.

The email said that too. Not exactly grumpy teenager but a basketball high schooler with a broken leg. They're always so grumpy.

He leads me inside, and I nearly trip over my own feet. The condo is stunning—airy, with floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the kind of light that makes Instagram influencers weep.

Everything looks expensive, from the sleek gray furniture to the abstract art on the walls. It’s the kind of place that screams money, a far cry from the cramped apartment I share with Amber, where every corner is stuffed with mismatched furniture and hand-me-downs.

This is what you see in TV shows about rich people’s lives, and I feel a little out of place in my scuffed sneakers and second-hand jeans.

“Please, have a seat,” Jeremiah says, gesturing to the couch. I look around, acting unimpressed but I'm screaming inside.

I sit down carefully, trying not to sink too far into the cushions.

He then disappears, a second later, I hear voices echoing from the hallway.

“I was on FaceTime!” a girl yells, her voice sharp and annoyed.

A guy responds, his tone calm. “I don’t have time for this. Stephanie is here.”

“Who the hell is Ste—” The sentence is cut off as Jeremiah walks in, pushing a wheelchair.

The girl in the chair has brown hair and striking brown eyes. I don't need much to deduce that they're siblings.

“Hi, I’m Stephanie,” I say, forcing a smile and extending my hand.

She doesn’t take it. Instead, she frowns, her eyes sweeping over me like she’s trying to find something wrong. “She looks young. How can she possibly know—”

“Mel,” Jeremiah interrupts, his tone firm but gentle. “She’s a professional. Now, I need to rush to work.” He turns to me. “Stephanie, thank you again for doing this. She’s a little... juvenile, but she’s a good kid, I promise. We’ll go over your contract this weekend, yes?”

I nod, but he’s already grabbing his keys and heading out the door.

The girl—Mel, I guess—crosses her arms and watches him leave. Then she turns to me, her expression skeptical.

“So, you’re the one who’s supposed to fix me?”

Her tone is dripping with doubt, and sarcasm.

I can already tell, this is going to be one hell of a job.