The kettle let out a low, mournful whistle before she reached it, a sound that somehow echoed the ache already pressing beneath her ribs. Alison moved without thought, her hand steady as she turned off the flame and poured the steaming water into the chipped mug. A single tea bag floated in it—no sugar, no milk, just the sharp, bitter taste of boiled leaves, mirroring the taste in her mouth since morning. She carried the mug to the table, nudging aside her laptop's charger as she sat, the screen already glowing with the dull blue light of her inbox. Three emails waited. Three companies she'd prayed would offer her even the smallest branch to hold onto. Her throat tightened as she opened the first one. Formal, cold, padded with carefully chosen rejections. The second followed with the same empty tone. The third she couldn't even finish. Her finger stilled above the trackpad, and her shoulders sank under the weight of it all. The tea had already begun to cool. It wasn't the rejections that shattered her—it was the fragile thread of hope she didn't even realize she'd been holding. That someone would see her. That someone would give her a reason to feel like she still belonged in this world.
Her eyes shifted to the edge of the table, where the white card lay undisturbed, as if mocking her from the place she'd flung it the night before. Daniel Morello. The name sat embossed in a shade of gold too confident, too precise. The kind of card that didn't bend when picked up. The kind that belonged to men who never heard the word no. Her jaw clenched. "No," she muttered, thumb brushing against her lower lip, trying to shake off the storm building inside. "No," she repeated, but the kitchen only offered silence. Her gaze drifted to the bills on the fridge. Jayden's school fees. Maintenance. A hospital notification lit up her phone—her aunt's medication needed refilling before noon—and below that, another ping from the billing department: "Balance Outstanding." She dropped her head back slowly, closing her eyes, resisting the sting behind them. Her pride had been her armor for so long, but armor didn't pay bills. It didn't buy prescriptions. It didn't stop time from slipping through her fingers. And Daniel—he wasn't just anyone. He was Ralph's business partner. The one she'd seen more than once at the company, always in tailored suits and unreadable stares. The last thing she wanted was to owe another powerful man anything. But even her resistance was starting to feel like a luxury.
She reached for the card. It felt heavier now, like it carried a price her soul already knew it couldn't afford. Her throat tightened, her pride threatening one last protest, but her fingers betrayed her. They moved anyway. Trembled a little as they hovered over her phone. All she would do was ask what the job was. That's it. No commitment. No surrender. Just clarity. That was still allowed, wasn't it? To ask? Just to know? Just to feel like she had a choice, even if deep down, something in her already knew she was going to do whatever it took. She pressed the call button before she could talk herself out of it. Once. Twice. Then his voice, crisp and calm, like he'd been waiting. "Daniel Morelle." She steadied her tone. "This is Alison Thompson." A beat. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't call," he said. "I almost didn't." Her voice betrayed nothing, though her hand gripped the edge of the table, white-knuckled. "And yet here we are." She didn't entertain his smugness. "You didn't say what the job is." He paused. "That was intentional. But if you need specifics—temporary assistant. High pressure. You'll be working under a top-level exec. Filtering communication. Making space. Being invisible and then visible when needed. It pays well. And yes—my offer to cover certain…personal situations still stands."
The room tilted slightly at that, like she was being pulled in deeper with every word. "You make it sound like a war zone," she said, almost under her breath. "It can be," he replied simply. "But it's still a job. And it needs someone sharp. Someone with nothing to lose." Her throat closed at those last words because they rang too true. Her aunt's prescriptions. Jayden's needs. An account balance as empty as her strength. Her head dropped, and for a moment she just listened to the quiet hum of the fridge, the fading steam from her untouched mug. "Fine," she whispered. "I'll come to the meeting." She heard the change in his voice before the words even left him. "There's an event tonight. Formal. You'll attend. Someone will approach you. If you're still interested after that, we'll talk terms." She hesitated. "And if I'm not?" "You leave. No questions asked." The line clicked off before she could say more. She stared at the phone like it had spoken back. And then came the knock. Quiet. Measured. At the door, she found it—the black box and the envelope, sitting neatly on the mat like they belonged there. She didn't need to open it. Somehow, even without saying the words out loud, they knew. And that terrified her more than anything else. Survival had a sound, and apparently, it had already been heard.
The door creaked open with the familiar thud of grocery bags brushing against the frame, followed by Michelle's cheerful voice echoing into the quiet apartment. "Alison, you would not believe what happened at the store—oh my God, babe, you wouldn't believe!" she said again, louder this time, balancing two heavy paper bags as she kicked the door shut behind her with the heel of her sneaker. She walked into the kitchen without waiting for a reply, unloading things onto the counter, pulling out cartons of eggs and boxes of cereal and two-for-one noodles she found on sale. "This guy, Jason—I think you might want to hear.". she continued, twisting her lips in mock pride as she held up her phone and scrolled. "Anyway, he was totally flirting with me, said I have a sexy laugh, gave me that sheepish nerdy look, like he couldn't believe he was even talking to me. Told me to 'text if I ever want free coffee.' Girl." She turned around to grin, expecting Alison to be standing by the stove or scrolling her phone at the table, but her friend hadn't moved. Alison was still by the front door, shoulders stiff, holding a long rectangular box in her arms like it was a glass sculpture about to shatter. Michelle blinked. "Uh… did someone send you something?" Her voice softened when she saw the expression on Alison's face.
Alison didn't answer immediately. She just walked past Michelle and placed the box gently on the couch, her hands moving slowly, like she still wasn't sure if it was safe to open. "It was here when I opened the door," she murmured, the words half-lost in the quiet hum of the fridge. Michelle wiped her hands on her jeans and moved closer, her curiosity pulling her forward as Alison finally lifted the lid. The moment she peeled back the black tissue paper, both of them let out the softest breath. Inside was a dress — a beautiful, unmistakably expensive black gown that shimmered without being glittery, elegant yet restrained, like something out of a high-society magazine. The neckline was sleek, the cut fitted, the fabric silk that caught the light even in the dim apartment. Beneath it, nestled in another layer of tissue, were matching heels — stilettos that looked hand-made, with thin straps and delicate silver accents. Alison stared, unmoving, while Michelle gasped and stepped forward. "Holy shit. That's designer. Who sent this? Is there a name?" She rummaged through the tissue and found the cream-colored envelope, the edges gilded. No name on the front. Just a simple embossed logo she didn't recognize. "Girl. Tell me you didn't sleep with someone rich on the low and forget to mention it," Michelle teased, laughing, but the laugh faded when she saw Alison's face hadn't changed. Still distant. Still unreadable.
"I didn't," Alison said, finally sitting, her voice flat. "It's for a job." Michelle raised an eyebrow. "A job that sends dresses like this? Where do I apply?" Alison shook her head slowly. "I don't know what kind of job it really is. All I know is that someone handed me a card, offered help I didn't ask for, and now this shows up after one phone call. I didn't even say yes. Just said I'd show up to some event. And this—" she looked at the dress like it was both beautiful and poisonous— "this came within minutes. Like they knew I'd call. Like they'd been waiting." Michelle dropped onto the armrest beside her, folding her arms, her teasing gone. "Alison… this sounds shady as hell. Are you sure about this?" Alison gave a tired shrug, her eyes on the smooth curve of the stiletto heel in her palm. "I'm not. But the rent's due in five days. My aunt's medicine is twice what it used to be. Jayden's academy fees? I don't even want to check my email. So no, I'm not sure. But tell me what other choice I have." Michelle didn't speak, just sat beside her in silence for a long time, the dress catching a faint breeze from the open window like it was breathing.
Alison stood, dress still folded in her arms, her body heavier than it looked, her movements quiet and deliberate. She didn't want to admit that the gown fit her dream tastes perfectly — that even just holding it made her want to believe in something more than desperation. But she had to be honest with herself: this wasn't about glamour. This was survival dressed in silk. And even though her gut told her nothing came free, not from men like Morello or from worlds she didn't belong to, she knew that whatever was waiting at that event tonight, she'd face it. Head high. Lips sealed. Mask on. She looked at Michelle and whispered, "Help me zip it up when it's time?" And Michelle, though her worry lingered, simply nodded and said, "Always."