June 13, 2020 · 8:01 AM
Murphy's Pizza — East Harlem
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The bell above the door jingles as River pushes into Murphy's Pizza, the smell of garlic and scorched mozzarella wrapping around her like an old hoodie. She has worked here long enough that the scent is stitched into her skin, but today it feels different. Today it feels like goodbye.
Behind the counter stands Obi Kato-Murphy, sleeves rolled to the elbow of her navy chef's coat, the name KATO-OBI stitched neatly on the chest. Her curly hair is pulled back with a dark headband, and her arms are crossed in that way she does when she is both proud and annoyed. Obi is Murphy's daughter, the one who runs the kitchen with military precision. Her eyes flick up from the ticket rail, sharp and assessing.
"You left your files in the office," she says, voice clipped but not unkind. "Thought you'd already run off to your shiny new life."
River grins, though nerves gnaw at her. "Not yet. I came back for them. Can't exactly show up to Black & Co. empty-handed."
From the prep station, Vince makes his presence known with a loud snort. He is all sharp edges: short dark hair styled within an inch of its life, a nose ring glinting under the fluorescent lights, a long earring dangling from one ear. His fitted black V-neck clings to a muscular frame, and his scowl could curdle milk.
"Yeah, golden girl's moving up in the world," Vince mutters, slamming a ladle into the sauce pot. "Leaving the rest of us to rot in franchise hell."
River leans against the counter, folder in hand. "Relax, Vince. Nobody's taking away your sacred ladle. You'll still get to glare at customers and terrify delivery drivers."
Vince glares harder. "You think this is funny? You sold us out to the suits. Murphy's was a neighborhood joint with a recipe that mattered. Now it's just a brand—a standardized, corporate product. You don't even care what that means for the rest of us."
Obi cuts in, voice like a knife. "Enough. River helped save this place. Without that deal, we'd be closed by Christmas. You'd be out of a job and still sulking, just in a different kitchen."
Vince mutters something under his breath, but River ignores it. She takes one last look around: the grease-stained walls, the clatter of pans, the smell of dough rising in the ovens. It has been her world for years, but now it feels like a chapter closing.
"Good luck, Kennedi," Obi says, softer this time. "Don't forget where you came from. Or your last shift schedule."
River nods, clutching the folder like a lifeline. "Wouldn't dream of it."
June 13, 2020 · 8:14 AM
East 47th Street — Midtown Manhattan
River's fingers drum the steering wheel of her 2004 Mini, a car so small it looks like it wandered into the wrong neighborhood between two hulking SUVs. On the passenger seat, the blue file-jacket sits fat with résumés and unnecessary printouts, the paper equivalent of nervous fidgeting.
The city air feels heavy, like anticipation she cannot breathe in. It is the moment of consequences, the turning point where her 'yes', the terrifying, life-altering commitment, begins to cash out. She is leaving the comfortable stench of scorched mozzarella for the cold, unfeeling smell of money, and the anxiety is so sharp it is making her dizzy. She feels like an imposter driving a sputtering Mini toward a monolith of glass, ready to take a job she isn't sure she is equipped for.
Traffic crawls. Then, through the windshield, the Black & Co. building rises into view, sixty stories of tinted glass and marble, shimmering like a monolith. River's mouth drops open.
"That is one high-ass building," she mutters. "Two more days. Don't screw this up, River Kennedi."
The city hums around her. Coffee cups clutched like lifelines. Cab whistles slicing the air. The endless shuffle of Manhattan's concrete jungle. For a moment, she lets herself believe she belongs here.
Then the horn blares. Then the crash.
The Mini jolts forward with a violent, stomach-churning shudder. Her heart rockets into her throat, a frantic percussion against her ribs. She slams the brakes, the car screeching, and her chest heaves as she throws the door open and stumbles out onto the street.
"No, no, no, no, no!" The words spill out, frantic and loud, carrying over the honks and murmurs of onlookers. She presses both palms to her face, then drags them down to stare at the dent in her fender.
A deep voice follows, calm but edged. "Great. So much for driving myself today."
River whirls, ready to unleash, and finds herself staring at a man who looks like he stepped out of a magazine spread. Sebastian Black. Double-breasted suit, flawless hair, and an ego that seems to arrive before he does.
"That's all you have to say?" River snaps, stepping closer than necessary, heat rolling off her in waves.
Sebastian's gaze flicks down, then back up, sharp and deliberate. "Oh, you're one to talk." His voice is low, gravelly, the kind of tone that could cut or coax depending on where he aimed it.
"You rear-ended me," River fires back, refusing to flinch under the weight of that stare. "You're not as smart as that suit, but you definitely have the ego to match."
Sebastian adjusts his collar, slow and unbothered, though his eyes never leave River's. "Well, you don't have to insult the suit. Miles worked really hard on this."
River tilts her head, smirking. "You always let other men dress you?"
Sebastian's jaw ticks, but before he can retort, a small voice pipes up from the backseat of his Chrysler. "Boss Lady!"
River blinks. A little boy leans out the window, curls bouncing, grin wide. Cairo. The same kid from the hospital yesterday.
River's jaw slackens. "Boss Lady? You're lucky you're adorable. Hi, Sprout."
Cairo nods furiously. "You helped me find my guardian. You have that pretty skirt! Boss Lady!"
Sebastian glances at him, then at River, brow arched. "You two know each other?"
River folds her arms, the cuff of her t-shirt stretching tight like a challenge. "Apparently. I've also been rebranded."
Cairo claps his hands. "Boss Lady saves the day!"
River mutters, "Not exactly saving the day here, kid."
Cairo tilts his head. "You're still my hero."
Sebastian sighs, the sound rough, like gravel underfoot. "Cairo, please. This is not the time."
River smirks, leaning just a little closer, enough that Sebastian can smell the faint trace of soap and city air on her. "Actually, I think it's the perfect time. Your kid's got better manners than you."
Sebastian's eyes narrow, his voice dropping. "Watch it."
Cairo interrupts again, voice bright. "Say sorry to Boss Lady."
River nearly laughs, but her eyes stay locked on Sebastian's. "Yeah. Say sorry."
Cairo pouts. "You always say later. Boss Lady deserves now."
River leans down to the window, lowering her voice conspiratorially, though her gaze flicks back to Sebastian's. "You're right, Cairo. Boss Lady does deserve now."
Sebastian exhales, defeated, and finally mutters, "Fine. I'm sorry. Happy?"
River grins, slow and sharp. "Ecstatic."
Cairo beams. "See? Heroes always win."
The crowd begins to disperse, but the air between the two adults only thickens. Sebastian clears his throat, straightening his jacket as if that might smooth over the chaos. "Now that we've had our... theatrics, let's be adults about this. Insurance. Paperwork. Done."
River barks a laugh, stepping into Sebastian's space until their shoulders nearly brush. "Adults? You rammed into me, handed out an apology like it was a coupon, and now you want to play Mr. Responsible? Cute."
Sebastian doesn't move back. His eyes darken, his voice dropping to something that vibrates low in his chest. "You slammed your brakes. I had no time to react."
River points at the dent, her arm brushing Sebastian's as she does. "That's called driving in Manhattan. If you can't handle it, maybe stick to chauffeured limos."
From the backseat, Cairo pipes up again. "Don't fight. Boss Lady and Bassy should shake hands."
River arches a brow, lips twitching. "Bassy?"
Sebastian growls, the sound low and dangerous. "Don't even, Miss Kennedi."
River leans in, close enough that Sebastian's cologne curls into her lungs. "Hear that, Bassy? The kid's got better conflict resolution skills than you."
Sebastian's nostrils flare, his voice a warning rumble. "You're pushing it."
River doesn't blink. "Good. Someone has to."
The tension teeters between absurd and combustible, the kind of heat that could tip into violence or something far more reckless.
Before Sebastian can answer, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, jaw tightening. "I don't have time for this."
River's voice rises, sharp but threaded with something else now, something electric. "Excuse me? We're not done here."
Sebastian pulls out his wallet, thick with cash, and without ceremony shoves a fat wad of bills into River's chest. The move forces River back a step, but Sebastian follows, close enough that River can feel the heat of him.
"What the hell is this?" River demands, breath catching despite herself.
"Compensation," Sebastian says curtly, voice low, rough. "More than enough to fix your... vehicle."
River shoves the money back at him, but Sebastian doesn't take it. Their hands brush, linger a second too long, before Sebastian pulls away.
"I don't want your handout," River snaps, though her pulse betrays her. "We're supposed to call insurance."
Sebastian's phone buzzes again. He turns toward the car, voice clipped. "I have to go. Cairo, buckle up."
"But—"
"Now." Sebastian's tone leaves no room for argument. Cairo huffs but obeys, climbing back into his seat.
River's voice cracks with fury, but her eyes stay locked on Sebastian's retreating form. "You can't just throw money at me and drive off like some Wall Street cliché!"
Sebastian slides behind the wheel, jaw set, but his gaze flicks to River one last time, lingering, heavy with something unspoken. Then the Chrysler pulls away, sleek and unbothered, leaving River standing in the middle of the street with a wad of cash in her hands, a dented Mini behind her, and the ghost of Sebastian's nearness still burning on her skin.
For a moment, River just stares, the paper cold and insulting in her palm. She starts counting. One thousand. Two. Three. Four. Five. She pauses, her eyes widening at the casual opulence of the gesture. Sebastian hadn't even checked the damage; he just threw half a month's salary at her like spare change.
She glances up, suddenly aware of the crowd still lingering, gawking like it's free theater. "What the hell are you all staring at? This isn't a soap opera!"
The onlookers scatter, muttering. River shakes her head, muttering under her breath. "Just nosy as fuck."
She turns back to her Mini, crouching to assess the damage. The dent looks worse up close. She exhales sharply. "Stupid, rich son of a bitch," she mutters, meaning Sebastian.
Frustration boils over. She stands and kicks the front bumper, letting out a roar of pent-up anxiety and rage. It clatters to the pavement, dragging a piece of the grille with it.
"Perfect," River growls. She kicks again, too hard this time, and searing pain shoots through her toes. She hops on one foot, cursing loud enough to echo off the buildings. "Goddamn it!"
The Mini sits there, wounded and pathetic, while River clutches the five thousand dollars in one hand and her throbbing foot in the other, caught between fury, disbelief, and the absurdity of being knighted Boss Lady by her arch-nemesis's kid in the middle of Midtown traffic.
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