CHAPTER 1
Sarah
Murphy’s Lawshould come with a warning label; something like: Caution, life will find increasingly creative ways to screw you over, especially when you’re running on fumes and bad coffee.
Case in point: the subway.
It wasn’t a dramatic failure—no sparks, no screaming—just a quiet mechanical death that trapped me underground for thirty minutes while my phone buzzed itself into a panic. I watched the minutes tick past my session start and thought about all the ways Hector Valdez might fire me.
Because Hector Valdez did not tolerate lateness. I knew this the same way I knew loan sharks didn’t accept IOUs and coffee didn’t count as breakfast. Some lessons you learn fast when your life depends on it.
My sneakers hit the pavement at a run, the left sole flapping loose enough that every step felt like a small betrayal. Sweat clung to the back of my neck despite the April chill. My bag kept sliding off my shoulder, threatening to spill my therapy notes all over Fifth Avenue like some kind of disaster.
Thirty minutes late. Thirty whole minutes to a man who probably fired people for being five minutes late.
The doorman waved me through without a single question. We had an understanding by now: I was the girl who showed up three times a week looking progressively more exhausted, and he was the guy who pretended not to notice.
I twisted my mother’s ring as the elevator climbed. The silver was warm from my skin, worn smooth from years of nervous fidgeting. She gave it to me before the cancer took her—back when I still believed hard work got you somewhere. That belief died around the same time my estranged father did, and loan sharks started leaving notes on my door, but I kept the ring.
Sentimental and stupid, probably, but it was mine.
Six months ago, I was serving overpriced pasta to people who treated waitstaff like decorative furniture. Now I worked in a penthouse for a brooding man, trying to help a little girl find her voice again. The jump from there to here still didn’t make sense, but then again, nothing about my life made sense anymore.
The elevator doors opened.
Marble floors stretched out before me, polished to such an absurd shine I could see my reflection. My jacket was wrinkled from the subway crush, braids pulled into a low bun, sneakers that had seen better days but were clean at least. I looked exactly like what I was.
Six months in this penthouse, and I still felt the gap between their world and mine.
“He wants to see you first,” Gianna, the housekeeper’s daughter, said the moment I walked in.
My stomach dropped. “Is Lily okay?”
“She’s fine. Waiting in the therapy room.”
Gianna is amazing. Over the course of my time here, I realized that she’s loud and warm in the best possible way, completely incapable of keeping anything to herself.
Today she only gave me a worried smile, as if she already knew I was in trouble.
“Great,” I muttered. “That’s just fantastic.”
She vanished before I could extract any useful information, leaving me alone in the oppressive quiet.
The penthouse was always too quiet—no music, no normal sounds of actual human life. Just expensive silence and my footsteps echoing off surfaces too perfect to be real. It felt like walking through a museum after hours—except the museum was someone’s home, and that someone could fire me for breathing wrong.
I headed toward Hector’s office, running through possible explanations that didn’t sound completely inadequate. “The subway broke down” wouldn’t cut it. He probably thought people who relied on public transportation were fundamentally bad at planning. He owned multiple cars and had drivers who ensured he never had to worry about mechanical failures or delays.
My story wasn’t Cinderella, despite what it might look like from the outside. I’d figured that out within my first week. Hector Valdez was no Prince Charming. He was cold and controlled and looked at people like they were either useful or obstacles. The only reason I was still employed was because his daughter liked me, and he’d apparently do anything for her.
Including tolerating my obviously lower tax bracket and my secondhand everything.
His office door loomed ahead. I stopped in front of it and took a breath, steadying myself. Preparing for whatever was coming.
I knocked once, sharp and professional.
“Come.”
One word. That was all he ever needed. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
