At nine, I stand to go, gather my stuff, and take one last look around. Simone walks me to the door, arms folded.
“Text me when you find out the client’s name. And a selfie with today’s newspaper so I know you’re alive,” she says, only half-joking.
“I promise. Cross my heart.” I draw an X over my chest.
Sim’s face softens. “Take care of yourself, Kat. The world is a hard place, but I know you can make it.”
I nod, and give her a hug, my heart in my throat.
Outside, the city is half-shrouded in fog, every streetlamp a yellow halo. I walk the block to my place, the magazine pressed under my arm, and the words “Sweet Lies” echoing in my head. The more I replay Sim’s warnings, the more my stomach knots, but under that is a hot, sharp core of want.
I want to believe this is the thing that fixes my life.
In my room, I open the envelope from the interview. There’s a contract—three pages, tiny font, lots of legalese. It looks like some kind of non-disclosure agreement that drones on and on for ages. Yet, I see a number: the pay is real. The address is real. The last page is blank except for a link online where I can sign electronically.
I sit on my bed, cross-legged, and stare at it for a long, long time. My phone is in my hand before I know it. I bring up the link, type my name, fill out the required info, and press SEND.
The reply comes instantly: “Thank you for your submission! Further instructions to follow.”
I toss the phone onto the covers and lie back, arms flung wide, waiting for the future to crash over me.
Whatever comes next, I just hope it works out.
2
CHAPTER TWO – ANOTHER INTERVIEW
Kat
I’m back at Sweet Lies, and take a deep breath because am I really ready to do this? Simone’s warning rings in my head but I push it out of my brain. If I want to move beyond my barista life, then I have to do this.
Besides, what Simone doesn’t know is that after I signed the electronic NDA, a thousand dollars was deposited into my bank account. I wasn’t even sure where it came from at first. But the agency has my name and contact info from the NDA, and they must have pushed it through given that these days, the only thing you need is a phone number to transfer money. I swallowed, looking at my screen, and swallowed again. It’s a lot of cash, just for an NDA. No matter what it takes, I should see this through because who knows how much is in the pot of gold at the end?
Still, I have misgivings because even the Sweet Lies office gives me chills—too sleek to feel real, the kind of place where if you bled out on the tile, you’d vanish before the next client’s arrival.The lobby is empty except for the receptionist from yesterday, a woman with the face of a soap opera villain and the voice of a GPS. She eyes me as if I’m a misplaced package: curious, but not her problem.
My hair—powder pink and still damp at the roots—feels out of place in this setting. The walls are a silent, gleaming white, the art on them nothing but minimalist lines, as if daring you to find a speck of character. The floor shines. I do a double-check of my reflection in the glass doors. Sweater: navy today. Trousers: as close to business casual as Target allows. My boots are scuffed, and that’s probably going to lose me points.
“Ms. Vreeland?” the receptionist says, her vowels crisp enough to cut glass.
“Yes?” My voice is an octave lower than last time I was here. I clear my throat.
She gestures to a single orange chair by the far window. “Please wait. Ms. Reyes will see you momentarily.”
I drop into the chair and immediately want to evaporate. My thighs spill over the seat. The city outside reflects off the glass, making it look like I’m sitting in the middle of a commercial. I rest my tote in my lap, clutching it like a life vest.
The silence is surgical. Even my breath feels too loud. I check my phone—no new texts, of course—and scroll through the NDA again, just in case I missed a clause about something important. The language is dense, but the terms are clear: confidentiality is everything. Also, the salary is very, very real. Five grand a month, direct deposit.
“Ms. Vreeland?” The voice snaps me upright. Camille Reyes glides into the lobby again, all five-two of her wrapped in a greysuit. Her dark hair is pulled into a bun that lifts her features. She carries a slim tablet and a pen that costs more than my rent.
She looks at me, and smiles.
“Thank you for your punctuality,” she says. “If you’ll just follow me.”
“Of course,” I say, rising and instantly wishing I hadn’t, because standing next to Camille, I look like I was grown in a different climate. She is small and severe and moves like she’s always three steps ahead of everyone else, whereas I’m a lumbering giant by comparison.
We pass through a corridor lined with frosted glass offices, every single one empty or populated by people in business casual, looking very important.
Camille stops at a glass-walled conference room and gestures me inside. “Please, have a seat.”
