The cab pulled up, disgorging me onto a bustling New York street corner. Towering skyscrapers loomed overhead, their glass facades reflecting the hurried chaos of the city. I smoothed my suit jacket, a knot of nerves tightening in my stomach. After four years toiling at a mediocre firm, this was it—my chance to interview for a top position, a lifeline for my father and me.

My phone buzzed. Dad. "Princess, you've arrived," his voice chimed, instantly calming the storm in my chest. I sighed, a fond smile touching my lips. "Dad, please stop calling me that. I'm 25, for heaven's sake."

He chuckled. "Doesn't matter how old you get, you'll always be my princess. Did you eat? I packed sandwiches." I glanced at my bag. "Not yet, Dad. I'm too focused on this job. I need this, for us." He understood. This job wasn't just a career move; it was our survival.

"You'll ace it, Ella. My Ella is the best," he insisted, his confidence a balm to my frayed nerves. His belief in me always had this effect. I bit into the sandwich, a small comfort. California felt a world away, but Dad's health had called me back to New York, and now, this interview was everything. My financial stability, his medical care—it all hinged on this.

Lost in thought, I almost missed it. "Miss Hart?" the receptionist called, pulling me back to reality.