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They drifted away, allowing the debilitating aura of Vanessa Shepherd to fade. The tug on my marionette strings went slack, and I sat beside Ivy, grasping my pen. “She was terrifying,” I whispered.

“She likes you.”

I snapped my gaze to Ivy. “Why do you think so?”

She shrugged. “She invited you to tea.”

“I’m sure she was just being polite.”

Ivy hummed. “Doubtful. Take it and run, darlin’. Nessa’s got good taste in people, and if she’s taken a shine to you, well… You could do worse.”

Seven

I dreamed once that I was born into his world.

Beautiful dresses. Decadent dinners. Vacations in Majorca.

And more simply than that… A stable home. Heat in the winter. No food stamps.

Exquisite.

But as I woke, shadows appeared around me, subtle at first—a mere smokescreen over the lavish life I’d invented in my mind—then clearer, darkening the crystalline chandelier light. I backed away, and vertical bars came into focus, a gilded cage within which I’d imprisoned myself.

Because even in my fantasies, I understood that his world wasn’t free. Its inhabitants were comfortable and privileged, but they paid for those luxuries with their autonomy. They were told what to think, who to love, how to believe. To remain within that world, they were subject to certain expectations, and if they didn’t measure up, they were disinherited, disowned, expunged.

If I had been born of that world, I would have been expunged. Because I never would’ve conformed. Better that I’d never tasted it, never wanted it, because the bars of that gilded cage would have bent and buckled against my desire to see those luxuries redistributed more fairly.

But the day I met Nessa Shepherd, that entire construct disintegrated. I thought of her many times that day, pondering the state of her cage. Had she bent her own bars, or had she looked around and found the door was open all along? Because if the commanding aura that glowed around her was anything to go by, she certainly did not exist solely within the gilded cage.

Vanessa Shephard was a force, and I wanted to know her better.

Unfortunately, she didn’t return during my initial week of employment at Henley, leading me to wonder why she’d graced us with her presence that first day. When I asked, Ivy only said Nessa was often in and out at odd times.

Putting the curiosity aside, I dedicated my initial day of work to combing through old marketing materials to get a sense of Henley’s vibe, running analytics on the brand and customer trends, and acquainting myself with the marketing team—three men who were clearly iffy on my presence in their department.

Xavier and Edmond, both young, though still a few years older than me, appeared confused when Ivy introduced me.

“But why do we need anyone extra?” asked Xavier. “We work fine as we are.”

“You and me got different definitions of fine, sugar,” Ivy said.

Edmond crinkled his brow and ran a hand through bright red hair. “But there’s not another desk. Where will she sit?”

Ivy smiled. “Don’t you worry about that.”

She placed me at an empty desk in the cluster beside the marketing one, a regrettable byproduct being that I sat in direct sightline of Camden Shepherd when his office door stood open. At least a dozen times that first day, my skin tingled as if someone was tracing the lines of my profile, but when I turned to look, he sat at his desk, paying me no mind.

Each time, my spirits sank. How pathetic I was, fantasizing about his interest.

By the afternoon, he kept his door closed, probably because he was tired of me darting glances his way.

Wilson, a third older gentleman, was the director of the marketing department. He had graying hair, a scar through his upper lip, and everyone called him “Booboo” for reasons I didn’t care to explore. His bland kindness didn’t make up for the fact that he spoke down to me as if I was stupid. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said in a kind drawl as I spent Tuesday morning scrolling through the Henley social media platforms. “The job’s hard to pick up, but you’ll get there.”

On Wednesday, I witnessed evidence of the department’s camaraderie in our first meeting—a brainstorming session regarding damage control. Together, the three of them flowed like a peaceful river. My presence eddied their currents. Once I inserted myself into the conversation, the four of us foundered in a series of false starts, awkward throat-clearings, crappy ideas, and sighs.

“What if—” I said at the same time that Edmond said, “I think⁠—”

Then came a round of Oh, you first…No, you…I insist that I won.