I gather my things, determined to not have to make cold calls for minimum wage. A cold sweat settles on my brow as panic rises within me and I curse myself for not following the script.

You were supposed to say thanks, but no thanks. This was just to get your mother off your back. And now you’re actually going over there?! You are so damn weak, girl.

I pause for a moment as I open my apartment door. My ears focus on any and all sounds in the hallway. When I say I can barely pay rent, I mean that I can barely pay my rent. And my landlord, Marty, is well-aware of that fact. I’ve been trying to stall the inevitable showdown for weeks, but it is only a matter of time before Marty finds me.

But that day is not today, thankfully. I charge out of the building into the hot April sun. I curse under my breath as I check myself out in the mirrored windows of office buildings. I’m not exactly dressed in my best interview clothing, but in all honesty, I don’t really care. It was just Zeke, after all. My stepbrother, not a stranger.

It’s ten blocks to Belmont Tower. Everyone knows about it. It’s a hotel — the hotel — that caters to only the rich and famous. I’ve never been there before. I refused. I wanted to keep that part of my family history from invading my life. But my toes tingle with each step deeper into the city.

As I round the final corner, Belmont Tower and all its glory fills my vision. It’s one of the tallest buildings in the entire city and was built that way on purpose by my stepfather’s father. He wanted the world to know their family’s name the second they entered the city. He wanted them to know who had the most power.

I step toward the golden doors and without hesitation, the doorman stops me from entering.

“Miss, do you have business here?”

I catch my breath fast, my pulse still thumping from the heat and urgency of the walk. “Yes, I’m here to see my stepbrother, Zeke Belmont.”

The doorman pauses, looking me up and down. “Rocky Ramone,” he says quickly, his fingers squeezing the door handle.

I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking that I don’t belong here. That I’m not dressed the way they dress. I’m the black sheep.

A smirk runs across his lips and he chuckles at me. “The elevator is straight ahead through these doors. Hit P — for penthouse.”

“Thank you,” I say as I enter the golden doors.

The memories come roaring back. The glorious luxury of being a Belmont. My mother dragged me around from party to party during my teen years. “At least try to act like you belong here, Rockette,” she’d say to me. But I never could. I’d cause trouble and bring up politics with the more conservative folk in my stepfather’s circle. I’d never felt so out of place in all of my life and I never felt happier than the day I abandoned the lifestyle.

Everywhere I look, I see suit jackets and fancy dresses scattered across the lobby. Ties and stockings. Those who bother to make eye contact with me throw their noses up with disdain. I look straight ahead and ignore them, my feet stomping toward the golden elevator.

When I reach it, I tap the call button repeatedly to open the doors, glancing over my shoulder at the other guests. I breathe a sigh of relief when they finally open and I step into an empty elevator.

P for penthouse. I push the button and watch my reflection come together as the doors close on the lobby.

I wipe the sweat off my face and fix my hair the best I can in the reflective walls. My empty stomach turns as I ascend higher and higher in the golden box, inching closer and closer toward the life I left behind. I close my eyes and breathe in and out, listening to the full rumble of mechanics beneath my feet.

I feel nervous. Painfully nervous. I have no business being here. Just tell him it was nice to see him and dismiss yourself. You don’t have to take anything from them. Just go home and contact the call center. That job can’t be as bad as people say—

The final ding fills my ears as I reach my destination. My heart leaps into my throat, my nerves bouncing throughout my body.

I step off the elevator and enter a small foyer. It’s completely bare with white walls and two benches on either side of the front entrance. A door stands on the opposite side with a doorbell next to it. I take a few quick breaths before reaching out and pushing the button.

The sound of it bounces off the walls of the small room, vibrating my ears. My ears are ringing and the seconds feel twice as long. But I hear the rustling sound on the other side of the door, then the clacks of it unlocking, and it jerks open a few inches.

My breath catches in my throat as I look upon my stepbrother for the first time in years.

“Zeke?” I ask.

He’s still tall, very tall, but now he sports thick, muscular shoulders. He’s built like a fireman with perfectly styled, short hair. His t-shirt is tight, showing off his perfect physique. And his eyes. They aren’t hidden behind glasses anymore. He’s upgraded to contact lenses and they show off his dark eyes. I stare at them in the dim entryway, trying to decide what shade of gray they are.

“Hey, Rocky,” he says, pulling the door open all the way. “Come on in.” He steps away from the open door frame and walks down the hallway.

My heart thumps in my chest. I can feel it flutter with each breath, forcing me to take gulps of air to sustain it. “Um,” I say, watching him slink of out sight around the corner. My eyes flick downward to catch a good glimpse of his rear end, packed into a tight pair of jeans.

I take a curious step forward into the penthouse. My feet move without my involvement, following him into the main room. I immediately spy a beautiful set of black furniture in the living area. Everything is neat and tidy. A bachelor pad ripped right out of a magazine ad.

“This is nice,” I say, my eyes as wide as saucers. A little voice inside my mind screams at me, telling me that it was all just a lie. Don’t be seduced by this luxury. But I just can’t help myself.

“Yeah, well,” Zeke says, shrugging his shoulders. “I had the maid come through before you arrived. Should have seen it twenty minutes ago.”

“Right,” I chuckle, reminding myself not to get lulled in.

“Want a drink?” he asks, holding up a glass. A soft, brown liquid swirls around inside of it.

Say no.

“Sure,” I say.

Goddammit, Rocky.

Zeke steps toward the drink cart in the corner and tosses two ice cubes into an empty glass. I listen to the clinking sounds as my eyes wander around the room. Fine art lines the walls. Expensive electronics sit upon the shelves. I forget what it feels like to have whatever I want at my fingertips. And I hate myself for missing it.

Zeke holds out the fresh drink to me. I take it from him and raise it up to my nose, inhaling deep.

A smirk runs along my lips. “Amaretto sour?”

“Of course,” he says with a grin. He takes the seat in the large armchair across from the couch and motions for me to sit in front of him.

“You remembered?” I ask, genuinely touched. I bring the drink to my lips and the cold elixir of almond liqueur and sour mix teases my taste buds.

“How could I forget? You made me make you one of these every day for an entire summer.”

I recall that summer — the sober pieces, anyway. It was just before our senior year. My mother and stepfather went to Europe for three months. It was a constant party at the Belmont mansion until they suddenly came home a few weeks early. The house was trashed. The maid had quit. And Zeke and I were no longer on speaking terms. I can hardly even remember why anymore. The aroma of almonds teases my brain, urging me to remember, but I just can’t form the thoughts.

“So, you want a job?” Zeke says, breaking the tension.

I sit down on the couch across from him and reach for a coaster before placing my drink on the glass table. Maybe that was why we stopped speaking to each other. Back then, Zeke was very anal about coaster usage.

“Yes, I do,” I say. “But, really, you don’t have to do anything. I just called you to get my mother off my back about it. I’m fine, really.”

I look up from the floor to find Zeke staring at me. His eyes, frozen in space, look into my own as if he caught sight of something special.

“Well,” he says. “I checked with hotel management. They don’t have anything.”

I breathe a sigh, not really sure if it was for relief or disappointment. “Oh… okay. Thanks for asking. Maybe now I can get Mom to leave me alone.” I reach forward and grab my drink off the table.

“Doubtful,” Zeke says, taking a sip of his own drink. “But I could always use somebody.”

I pause, the rim of my glass balancing on my lips. “Use somebody?”

“An assistant.”

A laugh escapes my lips. “You need an assistant? I thought you people had like four of those?”

Zeke smiles at me and I feel a shockwave radiate through my kneecaps. “Executives usually do, yes. But I’ve never had one. Never wanted one. But Dad has been bugging me to get one, saying that I’m hard to get in touch with for business.”

“Is that why you answered the phone like a total dick earlier?” I ask.

“Probably,” he says, downing the rest of his drink in one go. “So, what do you say? I hire you on as my assistant. Gloria stops bugging you about dumb shit. Dad shuts up about me making him look bad to his colleagues. And I get peace and quiet. It’s a win for all involved.”

I pause, the world falling into slow motion. I tilt the glass over my lips, pouring the rest of my drink onto my tongue. A bit of it drizzles out of the corner of my mouth and runs down my chin. I wipe it off, enjoying the light buzz of alcohol for the first time in ages.

Decline the offer. Leave. Call center.

That sounds… fun… right?

“How much would I be paid?” I ask.

“Whatever you feel is fair,” Zeke says.

“No, seriously. How much?”

“We can negotiate that later. Just say yes.”

I want to say yes. I really do. With one single word, I can banish away all of my problems. I can pay my rent. I can afford both food and my utility bill. And most importantly, I will be able to continue going to school.

“I’m still in school,” I spit out, my voice shaking.

“We can work around your schedule,” he says.

The smell of amaretto lingers in my nose and toys with my brain. I can’t shake the feeling that there is something wrong. There’s something amiss, something on the tip of my tongue that I can’t get out.

But instead of waiting to figure it out, I look up into his gray eyes.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m in. Yes, I’ll take it.”

“Excellent,” Zeke says, his lips curling into a smile.