Isla's POV
The coffee spills across my borrowed shirt.
"I'm so sorry!" I grab napkins, dabbing frantically, but it's too late. Brown stains spread across the white fabric—Sophia's favorite white shirt that I promised I'd be careful with.
The café manager stares at me. "Miss Monroe, this is the third time today you've messed up an order."
"I know, I'm sorry, I just—"
"You're fired."
The words hit like a slap. "But this is only my second day—"
"And you've already cost us more in broken dishes and wrong orders than you've earned." She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, but you're clearly not cut out for this."
I walk out into the afternoon sun, still wearing the coffee-stained shirt, and want to scream.
That's job number three. Three interviews yesterday, three jobs today. Hired and fired from all of them in less than eight hours.
The coffee shop this morning—fired for breaking cups. The boutique at noon—fired for accidentally giving a customer the wrong change. And now this café—fired for being a disaster.
My phone buzzes. Sophia: How's it going?
I can't even answer. Can't admit that I'm a complete failure at everything.
A woman bumps into me on the sidewalk and doesn't apologize. Two teenagers point at me and whisper. One pulls out her phone and I know she's taking my picture. Another viral moment for people to laugh at.
I duck into an alley, pressing my back against the brick wall.
How did I get here? Four days ago I had everything. Money, an apartment, a fiancé, a future.
Now I have nothing. Less than nothing.
My stomach growls—I haven't eaten since yesterday because I'm trying to stretch Sophia's groceries. She's already doing too much, letting me crash on her couch, sharing her food, her clothes, her entire life.
I can't keep being a burden.
I pull out my phone and do something I swore I wouldn't do: I call my mother.
It rings once. Twice. Then: "Isla, sweetheart."
"Mom." My voice cracks. "I need help."
"I know, baby. I heard what your father did. I'm so sorry—"
"Can you talk to him? Please? I'll apologize to everyone, I'll do whatever he wants, I just—I can't do this. I can't survive out here."
Silence. Then: "Isla, your father won't budge. I already tried."
Hope dies in my chest. "Oh."
"But that's why I need to see you. Meet me at The Plaza. One hour. I have something to tell you. Something that might help."
"What is it?"
"Not over the phone. Just... trust me, okay? One hour."
She hangs up before I can argue.
I look down at myself. Coffee-stained shirt. Jeans I've worn three days straight because they're the only pants that fit from Sophia's closet. Sneakers with a hole forming in the toe.
I can't go to The Plaza looking like this.
But I also can't not go.
I arrive at The Plaza exactly one hour later, still in my stained shirt because I have nothing else. The doorman gives me a look that says I don't belong here.
He's right. I don't.
Mom is waiting in the tea room, and when she sees me, her face crumples. "Oh, Isla."
"I know. I look awful."
"You look tired." She pulls me into a hug that makes me want to cry. "Have you eaten?"
"I'm fine."
"Liar." She orders us tea and sandwiches, and when they arrive, I try to eat slowly, with dignity. But I'm so hungry that I devour three sandwiches in minutes.
Mom watches with sad eyes. "Your father is a fool."
"He's right though. I can't do anything. I got fired from three jobs today, Mom. Three. I'm useless."
"Stop." Her voice is firm. "You're not useless. You're adjusting. There's a difference."
"I don't have time to adjust. Sophia's place is tiny and I'm already overstaying—"
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." Mom sets down her tea. "I'm getting remarried."
I blink. "What?"
"His name is Richard Steele. He owns Steele Industries. We've been dating for six months and... he proposed. I said yes."
My mother is getting married. To a man I've never heard of. While my life is falling apart.
"That's... great, Mom. Congratulations."
"Don't be like that. I know the timing is terrible, but Richard is a good man. He knows about your situation and he wants to help."
Warning bells go off in my head. "Help how?"
"He has a penthouse. Huge. More rooms than he knows what to do with." She reaches across the table, grabs my hand. "Move in with us, Isla. Until you get back on your feet."
"No." The answer is instant. "I can't take charity—"
"It's not charity. It's family. You'll be my daughter, which makes you Richard's stepdaughter. Family helps family."
"I don't even know him!"
"Then get to know him. He's wonderful, Isla. Patient and kind and nothing like your father." Her eyes plead. "Please. I can't stand watching you suffer like this."
I want to say no. Want to prove I can make it on my own.
But I'm so tired. So hungry. So completely lost.
"What about his family? Won't they mind some stranger moving in?"
Something flickers across Mom's face. "He has a son. Caspian. He's... intense. But he travels a lot for work. You probably won't see him much."
"Intense how?"
"Just... he's very focused on business. Serious. Not exactly warm." Mom squeezes my hand. "But the penthouse is enormous. You'll have your own space. And it's temporary, just until you find your footing."
Every instinct screams this is a bad idea. Moving in with strangers, depending on someone else's generosity, owing more people more favors.
But what choice do I have?
Sleep on Sophia's couch forever? Get fired from a fourth job tomorrow? Starve on the streets?
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay, I'll do it."
Mom's relief is visible. "Thank you. The wedding is in two weeks. You can move in right after."
Two weeks. I can survive two more weeks on Sophia's couch. Maybe even find a job that doesn't fire me.
Maybe.
We finish tea and Mom pays—I don't even have money for the subway home. She offers to drive me, but I lie and say I'm meeting Sophia nearby.
Instead, I walk. Forty blocks back to Sophia's apartment because I can't afford the fare.
By the time I arrive, my feet are blistered and the sun is setting.
Sophia is waiting with takeout. "I got Chinese. Your favorite."
I almost cry. "You don't have to keep feeding me."
"Shut up and eat." She hands me chopsticks. "How'd the jobs go?"
"I got fired from all of them."
"Seriously?"
"I'm a disaster, Soph. I don't know how to do anything." I stab at my noodles. "But my mom has a solution. She's getting married and wants me to move in with her new husband."
"That's great! Right?"
"I don't know. Maybe." I tell her about Richard Steele, about the penthouse, about the son who's apparently 'intense.'
Sophia pulls out her phone. "Let me look him up. Richard Steele... oh. Oh wow."
"What?"
She shows me her screen. It's a Forbes article: "Richard Steele: Billionaire Mogul Expands Empire."
Billionaire.
"And his son..." Sophia scrolls. "Caspian Steele. CEO of Steele Industries. Age thirty-one. Net worth... holy crap, Isla. This guy is loaded."
She turns the phone and I see his photo.
My breath catches.
He's devastatingly handsome. Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that look cold even through a photograph. He's in a suit, standing in front of a glass building, looking at the camera like he owns the world.
Probably because he does.
"Intense is right," Sophia mutters. "He looks like he could kill someone with a look."
Something about his face makes my stomach flip. Not in a good way. In a "this man is dangerous" way.
"I won't even see him much," I say, trying to convince myself. "Mom said he travels a lot."
"Right. Sure." Sophia doesn't sound convinced.
That night, I lie on her couch, staring at the ceiling, thinking about billionaires and cold-eyed CEOs and mothers who remarry strangers.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
I heard you're moving in with the Steeles. Careful, big sister. Richard's nice but his son is a monster. Wouldn't want you to get eaten alive. 😘 - Natasha
How does she know already? How does she always know everything?
I delete the message, but her words stick.
Monster.
I pull up that photo of Caspian Steele again. Study those cold eyes.
What am I walking into?
And why do I have a feeling that moving into that penthouse is going to be the biggest mistake of my life?