I think about the pill organizer. Em in class all day, drowning in lectures and debt and determination.
“Where?” I ask.
“Northwell Holdings.”
The name means nothing to me. But the money could mean everything.
“Okay,” I say, even as my heart beats faster. “I’ll come in.”
When I hang up, Mom is standing in the doorway.
“You’re going to work,” she says.
“I don’t want to,” I admit.
“But you will,” she replies. “Because that’s who you are. You show up when you are needed.”
I hesitate. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“I’ll be fine for a few hours,” she insists. “Em’s a phone call away. And I’m not helpless.”
She lifts my chin gently, her fingers cold against my skin. “Go.”
I dress quickly. Hair pulled into a low, messy bun. Just polished enough to look intentional. Wide-leg camel trousers that make me feel steady. A soft off-white sweater, comfortable, clean, and professional.
I catch my reflection in the mirror.
I look professional but frayed at the edges.
I feel like maybe I need a blazer or some sort of corporate armour, but today, soft feels necessary.
I kiss Mom’s cheek, promise to call, promise not to stay late, promises I always mean, even when I can’t keep them. Because money doesn't grow on trees, and I don't have anyone to fall back on, to rely on.
Outside, the city moves the way it always does, indifferent to my feelings, relentless. I fall into step with it, my mind already shifting into planning mode.
Corporate events aren’t about warmth.
They’re about precision.
By the time I reach the building Karen texted me the address for, I’ve already started breaking down the event in my head: timelines, staffing, and flow.
Northwell Holdings rises in front of me; all glass and steel and authority.
I pause at the entrance for half a second.
This is just another job,I tell myself.
Chapter 8 - Julian
By ten a.m., my office is already too full.
Elliot is sprawled in one of the chairs opposite my desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled, phone in hand like he’s half-present by choice. Rowan stands near the window, arms crossed, gaze flicking between the city and the tablet he’s scrolling through. Caleb sits on the edge of the couch, immaculate as always, briefcase at his feet, posture suggesting he’ll leave the second this stops being useful.
I’m halfway through outlining the agenda when the door opens without a knock, and my younger brother strolls in like he owns the place.
“Wow,” Theo says, looking around. “You’d think someone here worked for a living.”
Caleb glances up. “Do you?”
