SLOANE'S POV
The Hamilton-Vance Tower didn't just scrape the sky. It owned it.
I stood in the lobby, craning my neck at a chandelier that probably cost more than the GDP of a small island nation, and felt my one good pair of heels—scuffed at the left toe, resoled twice—sink into carpet so plush it might as well have been made of angel wings.
"Name?" The receptionist didn't look up. Her cheekbones could have cut glass. Her voice could have frozen vodka.
"Sloane Beckett. I'm here for the—"
"Fourth floor. Ballroom C. Next."
She thrust a numbered placard at me—47, lucky me—and turned her attention to the woman behind me.
That woman was draped in Valentino, trailing a personal stylist and what appeared to be a small emotional- support poodle wearing a diamond collar.
I gripped my placard.
The elevator ride was a masterclass in comparative self-loathing. Six other women crowded in with me. One was adjusting her Cartier bracelet. Another was practicing her "genuine, approachable smile" into a compact mirror. A third was on the phone with someone named "Father," confirming that the jet would be waiting at
Teterboro "should this little pageant prove beneath us."
I looked at my reflection in the polished brass doors.
Discount suit. Navy blue. Bought at a Macy's clearance rack three years ago for a job interview I didn't get.
My hair was behaving mostly, which was a minor miracle. No diamonds. No poodle. No jet.
"First time?" The Cartier woman glanced at me, eyes sweeping my outfit like it was a biohazard.
"First and last," I said. "I'm just here for the participation check."
Her laugh was a tiny, dismissive puff of air. "How adorable. You actually think you'll make the first round."
The elevator doors slid open before I could respond.
Ballroom C was a slaughterhouse disguised as a debutante ball.
Rows of velvet chairs. Crystal chandeliers dripping light onto a sea of designer gowns. A stage at the far end.
And everywhere—everywhere—women who looked like they'd been genetically engineered for this exact moment. Cheekbones. Collarbones. Hair that cascaded in waves requiring professional lighting.
I found my seat and tried not to breathe too loud.
A woman two chairs over was reviewing a leather-bound dossier on Declan Vance's "known philanthropic interests." Another was doing vocal warm-ups, trilling soft scales under her breath.
My preparation, by contrast, had consisted of a Google search that yielded precisely three photographs—all silhouettes or partial profiles—and a Wikipedia page with exactly one sentence: "Declan Vance is the CEO of
Vance Industries, a privately held conglomerate."
His net worth was listed as "undisclosed."
Which is billionaire-speak for more than you can possibly imagine, peasant.
"Ladies."
A woman in a severe charcoal suit strode onto the stage. No smile. No warmth. A tablet clutched in one hand like a weapon. "I am Ms. Kruger, Senior Vice President of Candidate Acquisition. You will each receive a questionnaire. You have ninety minutes. Answer honestly. Attempts to anticipate preferred responses will be flagged by our AI and result in immediate disqualification."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Questionnaire?" The Valentino woman from the elevator raised a manicured hand. "When does the runway portion begin? I was told there would be a swimsuit category."
Ms. Kruger's expression didn't flicker. "This is not a beauty pageant. Mr. Vance is seeking a life partner, not a centerfold. The questionnaire is the entirety of today's assessment."
I almost laughed.
Fifty pages.
It was fifty fucking pages.
The booklet landed on my lap with the weight of a university textbook. Questions upon questions upon questions. Multiple choice. Fill-in-the-blank. Short answer. Scenarios so bizarre I had to read them twice.
Question 14: Your partner arrives home at 2 a.m. after a catastrophic business meeting. He has not eaten in fourteen hours. What do you prepare?
The Cartier woman's pen flew across the page. I caught a glimpse of her answer: "My private chef, Jean-
Claude, would prepare a five-course tasting menu with wine pairings from the cellar. Truffle risotto to start
—"
I wrote: Grilled cheese. Extra butter. Burnt on one side because that's how the pan always tilts on my stove.
Question 27: Your partner's favorite shirt has acquired a hole in the left sleeve. It cost approximately
$11,000. Describe your approach.
My pen hovered.
Dane's face flickered through my mind. Not the Dane who kissed the Chanel woman. The Dane from before.
The one who'd come home from the garage, grease-stained and exhausted, his favorite band tee torn at the elbow. I'd spent an hour stitching a tiny dinosaur over the hole. A cartoon T-Rex with orange thread and googly proportions. He'd laughed for five minutes straight, then worn it three times that week.
I blinked the memory away.
On the questionnaire, I wrote: I'd sew a dinosaur over the hole. A really ugly one. With orange thread.
Question 31: Describe your ideal Sunday morning.
Instant coffee. Lukewarm by 9 a.m. because I forgot I made it. Left side of the bed. No alarm.
Question 42: You are playing Mario Kart. Your opponent, a child of approximately eight years, is winning.
Do you let them win?
Absolutely not. But I'm still losing because I'm terrible. Yoshi can only do so much.
Question 55: List all known food allergies.
Strawberries. Anaphylactic. EpiPen lives in my purse.
Question 61: You discover a new cafe. What is the first thing you order, and how do you modify it?
Large black coffee, two and a half pumps of vanilla syrup. The cheap kind. If they only have name-brand syrups, I leave.
Around me, women were sweating. Literally sweating. One was hyperventilating into a silk handkerchief.
Another had requested a second booklet after claiming she'd "made a strategic error" on Question 9— something about preferred opera composers.
I finished in forty-seven minutes.
I didn't check my answers. I didn't strategize. I just wrote what was true, handed the booklet to Ms. Kruger, and sat back in my chair.
The five thousand was all I needed. One more round—the guaranteed in-person interview bonus—would be fifty thousand. That was the number I kept in my head. Fifty thousand dollars. Six months of rent. Breathing room. A chance to find another job without panhandling outside a bodega.
"Time," Ms. Kruger announced.
The booklets were collected. The women around me started whispering, comparing notes, fretting about their answers. I heard someone moan, "I said I'd call the dry cleaner for the wine stain, do you think I should have said the tailor?"
I closed my eyes and imagined my bank account with a comma in it.
---
DECLAN'S POV
“Notify her immediately. She gets the black card.”
Hayes blinked. "The VIP pass is reserved for the final round. If we accelerate the timeline—"
"She gets the black card." Declan's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "And the fifty-thousand-dollar deposit.
Transfer now. Before she leaves the building."
"And the others?"
"Clear them out." Declan moved closer to the glass. His reflection ghosted over her image—Sloane, sitting in that cheap navy suit, completely oblivious to the fact that she'd just won a game she didn't know she was playing. "I've found what I wanted."
Hayes hesitated. "Sir, her profile indicates she's recently unemployed. Recently single. Her bank account currently holds twenty-three dollars. She may interpret this as—"
"Good." Declan's mouth curved. Not a smile. Something sharper. "Desperate women don't run."
---
SLOANE'S POV
Ms. Kruger returned to the stage with an expression I couldn't read.
"Ladies." Her voice cut through the chatter. "The results are in. Mr. Vance has made his decision."
The room went silent. Women straightened. Smiles locked into place. The Cartier lady fluffed her hair.
"The winner of today's selection event—" Kruger paused, glanced at her tablet, and for the briefest moment, her professional mask cracked. Something like disbelief crossed her features before she controlled it. "Is candidate forty-seven. Sloane Beckett."
The silence that followed was the loudest thing I'd ever heard.
"OMG, Excuse me?" someone hissed.
"This hick?! Must be a mistake," the Valentino woman said.
My phone buzzed.
I looked down. A notification from my banking app. A deposit. Fifty thousand dollars.
Not five thousand.
I stared at the screen so long the numbers blurred.
"I'm sorry," I said, standing on legs that didn't feel entirely attached to my body. "The participation bonus is —I thought the deposit was five thousand?"
Ms. Kruger's smile was a thin line of something I couldn't name. "The participation bonus was for candidates who are not selected. You, Ms. Beckett, have been selected. Fifty thousand is the first-round advancement bonus. Additional compensation will be discussed at your final-round interview."
The Cartier woman stood up so fast her chair toppled backward. "This is absurd. She's wearing off-the-rack.
She doesn't even have a stylist. Her shoes are scuffed."
"My shoes are fine," I said, but my voice came out distant.
Because I'd just looked up.
Past the stage. Past Ms. Kruger. At the far wall of the ballroom, where a massive panel of black glass reflected the chandeliers and the chaos and my own wide-eyed expression. Something about that glass.
It was too dark.
Too reflective.
I squinted. And for a fraction of a second, I could have sworn I saw movement behind it. The faintest shift of a silhouette. Broad shoulders. Dark hair.
Then Kruger was pressing a black card into my palm—matte finish, gold lettering, VIP stamped in a font that screamed old money—and the moment dissolved.
"Your final interview is scheduled for Friday. Details will be emailed." She turned to the rest of the room.
"Everyone else, please exit to the elevators. Security will escort you."
The protests erupted behind me as I walked toward the door. Outrage. Confusion. Someone was crying. The poodle was barking. I didn't look back.
The black card was cool against my fingers.
Fifty thousand dollars was warm in my bank account.
This billionaire doesn't just have bad taste, I thought. He's a full-on creep.
Then my phone buzzed again—rent payment reminder: PAID—and the thought evaporated like cheap vanilla syrup in hot coffee.
I clutched the black card and walked out.
