dedication:

for the people who are underrepresented. for the people of color who "don't belong" in romance narratives. for the people who never find themselves in the protagonists. for the people who society has deemed unattractive and undesirable. you don't have to fit the standards to be the main character of your own novel.

• • •

a a l i y a h

It was 4:30 PM when TMZ and The Daily Mail accused me of sucking off Lance Harper for a promotion.

If they knew me then they'd know I'd never pick head over heels.

As a public relations executive, it was fundamental to be updated with the news every single morning, and so it was only part of my routine to skim through the internet and media outlets. I was expecting to see something along the lines of the Kardashian's, Trump's tweets, and the stock market, only to stumble upon an article of none other than myself.

I wished I was surprised. This wasn't the first time, the second, the third, or even the fourth. At this point, it was only natural for my name to be tied somewhere in entertainment.

Except this was different, this time, I actually had a job that I needed to keep.

I could imagine the words 'you are fired' leaving my boss'—Mikayla's—mouth. If anticipation could kill, I would've imploded already.

Almost anyone knew the fear of those few words slipping into the air. Three words that could change the entire course of your career, your relationships, your future.

Anxiety swirled through my nerves as I leaned back into my favorite brown leather swivel chair and the hairs along my arms standing still. I combed the crown of my head, taking my relentless craving for nicotine out on my unruly curls. Withdrawals of my addiction spread over my body as slow as a creeping stench. It was the kind of stench that invaded my lungs, that invaded my mind.

I yanked open my desk drawer and shoved a cherry lollipop into my mouth, my tongue whirling around the sweet sugar.

Disappointment. I could already imagine her disheartened sky blue eyes cast to the ground. Disappointed, that I couldn't keep Coda Public Relation's name out of the hands of greedy, inauthentic entertainment papers.

"Can you fucking believe these pigs?" Talon Keane, my best friend, spoke over the phone. Her voice distorted by the hush of the coffee machines and the brashness of New York City coffee-drinkers. "This reeks of desperation. Mikayla will never believe this crap."

"It's not about believing, it's about the fact that I'm supposed to be representing this company and look at me... 'head over heels'? How tacky," I said, then my jaw snapped shut as my knee began to bounce.

Like a sparking fuse, rage spiraled through me. The downside to having a Nobel-prize winning father was the massive target on my head since birth. I was born into his shadow, perpetually compared to his ambitions, his accomplishments, and my disappointments.

Hell, all I wanted to be was out of the limelight, in a regular corporate job with regular interpersonal relationships, to live a regular life. Unfortunately for TMZ, my current life wasn't as scandalous or interesting as it was when I was twenty, so the only "logical" solution was fabricating news out of thin air and paying people for "dirt" on me. It was difficult to tell.

I could feel the heat rise along my neck, and build up in my ears. Suddenly, my office was unbearable. There were too many windows and not enough air.

Here, I was actually someone outside of Isaac Zarren's daughter, and I was positive that I couldn't find that anywhere else in New York City.

"Exactly! Look, talk to her and tell her everything you're telling me," she suggested.

Mikayla Brown emerged from her office, radiating authority with her graceful figure clad in a dangerous shade of red. Her blonde hair was curled at the shoulders, a necklace of pearls adorning her neck and a pair of challenging blue eyes landed on me, a brief empty smile on her red lips.

"Aaliyah, please meet with me in my office." That was the thing about Mikayla. Any newcomer could have mistaken that tone of hers to be sweet.

There was no necessity in gathering up any dignity. I already knew the look Mikayla would give me. Having worked with her for a year now, I knew exactly the look she had when she made cuts at the beginning of the year: raised eyebrows, a half-solemn half-suspicious look, and more crow's feet than usual.

"Good luck," Talon said.

I watched Mikayla return to her office when I replied: "Are we still on for dinner tomorrow? I'll tell you all about how she fired my ass."

"Shut up, you'll be fine. Actually, I'm trying to work out today so I can order three meals tomorrow."

"Talon, that's not how it works."

"According to who? It's mind over matter. If I believe I'm fit, then it could manifest within me and therefore, I will be fit," she argued.

After I hung up, I rose from my seat, and with false confidence, sauntered into Mikayla's office. This room was all too familiar, but not in this circumstance. The vast stretch of glass windows reflected the wealth and power of New York City, while the white fur carpet and matching sofa reflected her power.

I sat down, admiring the office space just in case it was the last time I'd be able to. There were no frames of children or even any kind of indication that Mikayla had a partner. The colors were all grey, white and black, minimalistic, just the way she liked it. There was a portrait with a quote belonging to Confucius and shelves lined with books of all kinds.

Suddenly, Mikayla slammed a piece of paper on her desk and pushed it towards me with her long red acrylics.

"What the hell is this?" Her voice could command an army in the most chilling, unexpected way.

I didn't need to look at the paper to know what she was referring to.

"Look, Mikayla, I know this looks bad but I had absolutely nothing to do with this. Lance and I are solely friends and nothing more," I began as stern as possible. You couldn't show her weakness, and I learned to be as solid as stone when engaging with her.

Her slender fingers weaved together. "You think I give a shit about if you actually did this? Do what you want to do but keep Coda's name far, far away from your disasters."

I nodded. "I know, yes, you are right."

Say it over, and over again. You are right. Yes, you are right Mikayla.

She frowned. "This is not the first time you've appeared on something foolish like this. Honestly, Aaliyah, I'm starting to wonder if you should even be here."

My mouth fell open, and I wanted to say something but the words dissipated and a small gasp left my lips instead. My posture straightened as I waited for the crushing impact, for the words to hit the air: you are fired.

Mikayla tapped her pen against the glass desk as she evaluated me, it was so scrupulous that it could mimic the evaluation process of entering heaven or hell.

"You know," she started, but trailed off, turning in her swivel chair. "Initially, I thought you'd be a safe girl—someone who would never bend the rules." Her eyes flitted from her fingers to my muddy brown ones.

She snickered. "But then I met you, and while I quite like how bold you are and whatever...I realized that rich girls like you don't really ever have to fight for anything."

Unsure of where she was going with this, I remained quiet.

"I know this because I was once like you, though not with billions attached to my name, and so I learned the most when I had the most to lose," she said, her fingers tapped against the thick stack of files next to her.

"What do you mean?" I asked, shaking my head.

Mikayla grabbed a file and dropped it in front of me, unimpressed, she sighed. "Prove yourself to me. Have you ever heard of Octavio Castellano?"

I flipped through the file, skimming through his profile. No pictures. He was from what I could briefly tell an artist, emerging but underground.

"No," I shook my head.

"Well, he's an artist and entrepreneur, up and coming—his galleries and exhibitions are definitely successful. As you can see, he has lots of promising stats, but he's one of those non-believers," Mikayla explained.

At Coda, we call non-believers talented people that don't "believe" in having a manager or publicist to increase their career opportunities. Our client roster didn't have many non-believers because they were nearly impossible to convince.

Mikayla stood up and started pacing up and down the room with folded arms. The woman's short blond hair bounced as she moved. "He's declined several other PR firms before us and prefers to DIY, essentially, his entire life. Push comes to shove, and I want you to be responsible for signing him on as our new client."

I instantly knew that this was all a game to Mikayla. Dangling my job in front of her very eyes, it was genius and sadistic.

"But if he doesn't want to be represented, aren't we wasting our resources trying to pursue him as a client?" I argued, slowly, of course, I didn't need to get fired and thrown out of the building. "I mean, couldn't we be fostering new relationships with other clients that do want this."

Maybe I said too much.

Her face was inscrutable, but she raised a brow. "If I were you, I wouldn't be telling me what to do when your career is on the line."

"Absolutely," I agreed, swallowing hard.

"Also, never forget that everyone can be bought." She returned her eyes to her desktop computer. "You just need them to be at the right price."

As soon as I left Mikayla's office, I lit up a cigarette on the smoking balcony. I was supposed to feel alleviated that I wasn't fired. It was supposed to feel like the pressure of the weight of a thousand suns was removed off my shoulders.

It didn't.

Because if everyone had a price, then I was about to find mine.