Morning sunlight hit Chanel's face. She woke up on Jojo's couch, her neck stiff but her mind clear.
Jojo was already up, sitting at the kitchen island, typing furiously on a laptop.
Good morning, Chanel said.
Jojo spun around. Coffee? It's cheap, but it's caffeine.
Chanel accepted the mug. She took a sip and looked around the room. She spotted a framed photo on the wall.
It was her and Jojo at a graduation ceremony. They were wearing gowns. Chanel was wearing a sash that read Summa Cum Laude.
Chanel pointed at it. I graduated with honors?
Jojo laughed. Top of the class, Wharton School of Business. You were a beast in finance. You made grown men cry in stats class.
Chanel was shocked. My mother always said I bought my degree.
Jojo scoffed. "Your mother is a liar. And Isamar made sure that lie spread. She spent a year whispering to anyone who would listen that your Wharton acceptance was a backroom deal for a new library wing, that your honors were a fluke. She painted you as a fraud so Beckham would look like the genius for choosing her instead." You were recruited by Wall Street. You turned it down to 'support' Beckham and his fragile ego.
A flash hit Chanel. Numbers. Charts. Moving averages. The logic of the market. It flooded her brain like a download completing.
Can I borrow your laptop? Chanel asked.
She sat down. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She logged into a market simulator. She didn't know the password, but her fingers did. Muscle memory.
She analyzed a stock trend in seconds. She saw the patterns. The resistance levels. The breakout points.
Jojo watched her, amazed. The amnesia didn't take the brain, thank God.
Chanel checked her email. It was flooded with spam and hate mail from tabloids.
She found an old draft folder. Inside was a resume she had never sent.
It listed CFA, CPA, and internships at top firms.
I need a job, Chanel said decisively. I need to pay Duke Montgomery back.
Jojo choked on her coffee. You owe Duke money? The Duke?
Yes. And I'm going to apply to Montgomery Corp.
Jojo warned her. Beckham works there. It's the lion's den.
Beckham is an idiot, Chanel said coldly. I'm aiming for the strategic analysis department. He won't even understand what I do.
She updated the resume, deleting the "socialite" fluff. She hit submit.
But then she realized something.
I need my original documents, she said. Passport. Social Security. My degree certificates. I can't get hired without them.
They are in the safe at the estate, she remembered suddenly. A visual memory of a wall safe behind a painting popped into her head.
I have to go back, Chanel said, her eyes darkening.
