The elevator rises silently, floor after floor, each chime tightening the knot in my stomach. My resume said ‘detail-oriented,’ not ‘willing to sell my soul,’ but here I am—hired by Evelyn Vance, the woman whose name is whispered in boardrooms and bedrooms alike.

Her penthouse office is colder than I imagined. White marble, black leather, and her—seated like a queen, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. 'Rule one,' she says, voice smooth as silk, 'you don’t speak unless spoken to. Rule two: you don’t look at me unless permitted. Break either, and you walk out without pay.'

I nod, gripping my notebook like a lifeline. Then she stands, strides over, and places a single red folder in my hands. 'Open it,' she commands. Inside: a photo of me leaving the hospital yesterday. 'I know what you’re hiding, Leslie. How much your mother needs this. So let’s see if you’re as desperate as I require.'

My breath catches. This isn’t just a job. It’s a test. And I have no idea what happens if I fail—or if I succeed.