1
BEA
Three hundred and forty-three dollars.
That’s what stands between me and complete financial collapse. I checked my account this morning.
$343.17.
The seventeen cents feels like a cruel joke.
I adjust my blouse in the elevator mirror—the nicest one I own, bought at a thrift store two years ago for a job interview I didn’t get. The fabric is starting to pill at the elbows. I’ve been hiding it by keeping my arms close to my body, which probably makes me look like a nervous penguin, but it’s better than looking poor.
Though I’m pretty sure everyone here already knows.
D’Amico & Associates takes up twelve floors of a downtown high-rise that dominates the skyline. The lobby alone has more marble than some museums. And the people—God, the people. They move through this place like sharks in expensive suits, all sharp smiles and sharper briefcases, talking about mergers and acquisitions and other words I only half understand.
I’m the receptionist. Week one. Fresh out of community college with a degree that qualifies me to answer phones and smile politely at people who look through me like glass.
The elevator dings. Fourth floor. Two more to go.
The doors slide open, and a man steps in.
I notice the suit first. Charcoal gray, tailored so precisely it looks painted on. Then the rest of him registers: jet black hair pushed back from a face that belongs on a magazine cover, or maybe a wanted poster. Sharp jaw. Sharper cheekbones. And eyes so deeply blue they’re almost black.
He doesn’t look at me.
No—that’s not quite right. He looks at me the way you’d look at a lamp or a potted plant. His gaze flicks in my direction, assesses, dismisses. All in under a second. I don’t even warrant a full glance.
He hits the button for the top floor, and I recognize it immediately—not because I’ve been there, but because of the way people don’t talk about it. Just the occasional hint: it’s for senior partners; it’s restricted. And the assistants who go up? They come back quiet, like they’ve decided silence is safer.
The elevator climbs in silence.
There’s a moment where I could speak. Something simple, harmless. I miss it completely, too busy studying the floor numbers.
Ding.
Sixth floor. My stop.
I practically throw myself through the doors, and I don’t look back. I can feel his gaze on me for just a moment—or maybe I’m imagining it—before the elevator continues its ascent.
The morning crawls by. I transfer calls, sign for packages, smile at people who don’t smile back. Standard receptionist stuff. I’m getting the hang of it, finding a rhythm, almost starting to relax?—
“Mendez.”
I glance up to find Margaret already at my desk, carrying a manila folder and the kind of expression usually reserved for bad news.
“Marcy from filing called in sick,” she says, setting the folder down in front of me. “I need this delivered upstairs.”
I flip it open just enough to catch the label—something about a subpoena, dense with legal terms I don’t fully understand.
“Upstairs… where exactly?”
She gives me a look. “Executive floor.”
I hesitate. “You mean the top floor?”
“Is there another executive floor I’m not aware of?” Margaret asks. “Mr. Castellano’s office. Drop it on his assistant’s desk. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Just drop it and leave.”
