But it was decent.
Stable.
And for now—safe.
Well… until it no longer existed.
“Mira.”
My boss, Benny, greeted me like I was his parole officer—nervous, sweaty, probably two seconds away from peeing his pants.
He was in his forties, wore a man bun that did no favors for his hairline, and his arms were covered in tattoos best described as regrettable—one of which included a goat wearing sunglasses.
“You don’t need to be here today. I was just about to call you…” He stared at the floor. “You’re not on the schedule anymore.”
Excuse me?
“You’ve been… let go. I’m really sorry. I didn’t want to, but… I got a call. From your mom.”
My stomach dropped.
“She threatened to report us, said she’d have our license revoked if I didn’t fire you.” Benny kept staring at the floor. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t do anything.”
“She runs a luxury skincare company, Benny. Not the goddamn FBI.”
He shrugged helplessly. “She said she’d report us for health code violations. And you know she’s got connections. She could actually pull it off.”
I took a deep breath. Yelling at Benny wouldn’t do anything. This wasn’t his fault.
Before I did something stupid—like hurl a milk jug out the window—I stormed out.
I didn’t hate that job. Being a barista was just a side hustle.
What really paid the bills—what no one knew except Ivanna—was my jewelry design.
Ever since I was a kid, my mom had told me I was average. Ordinary. Talentless. Every time I tried to shine, she dragged me back into her shadow.
Eventually, I learned to obey. I buried my ambition, wore gray feathers like a peacock pretending to be a pigeon.
So no, I didn’t care about losing the coffee shop job.
What infuriated me wasn’t unemployment. It was that this—this power move—was her.
Her fingerprints were all over it.
It was her punishment. A response to me trying to escape Rhys. Trying to escape her.
She was sending me a message:
You don’t get to walk away.
I can destroy any scrap of pride you think you’ve earned—with one finger.
If she thought I’d come crawling back, like I used to, begging for her approval…
She could go to hell.
I wasn’t her puppet anymore.
I was done playing the good girl.
Thirty minutes later, I shoved open the front door of the Vance estate.
No knocking. I didn’t care.
I had come ready to start round two of our family war.
What I found instead was something far worse.
My parents were sitting on the ivory couch in the living room, sipping wine worth more than my rent, laughing—laughing—with a man I didn’t recognize.
The scene was picturesque. Like they’d stepped right out of How to Host the Perfect Suburban Power Dinner.
The man looked like a slimy, watered-down version of a 1950s mogul—maybe one who’d spent time in white-collar prison and came out with a tailor.
Custom suit. Shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, revealing a patch of chest hair that looked like someone had just trimmed a Christmas wreath.
His teeth were too white, his smile too polished—like greed dipped in varnish.
“Darling,” my mother cooed, sweet as syrup, “come meet Mr. Leonard Shaw, CEO of Alcott Shipping. A true self-made man. There’s so much you could learn from him—about turning raw talent into real success.”
It hit like a scented hammer to the face.
Leonard grinned ear to ear. His eyes—no, his eyes went straight under my skirt.
“Lovely to meet you, Miss Vance,” he said. “I do hope we get to talk more. I always enjoy mentoring young women. Especially smart, beautiful ones like yourself.”
I didn’t bother hiding my expression.
It wasn’t disgust. It was nausea.
He was practically licking his lips.
I could hear the soundtrack of Indecent Proposal playing in his head.
“Mira,” my mother warned in that sugar-coated threat tone, “don’t be rude. Shake Mr. Shaw’s hand.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t even blink.
If someone had thrown a raccoon at me in that moment, I’d have hugged it over touching Leonard’s hand.
Caroline’s laugh rang out, high and brittle, like she was trying to cover up my resistance.
“Young people are so sensitive these days, aren’t they?” she said to Leonard, with the practiced tone of someone saying she’ll come around.
Leonard just waved it off. “I like a girl with a little fire.”
Yeah, and I like dentists who don’t need pliers. We can’t all get what we want.
And my father—the same man who, just days ago, told me “we’ll take care of everything”—was now nodding at Leonard like a hotel concierge hoping for a good tip.
That’s when I understood.
This wasn’t an introduction.
It was a presentation.
I was the product on display tonight.
This wasn’t about meeting a “promising single man.”
This was a sale. I was being marketed like a financial package with a bonus gift.
When Leonard finally left—leaving behind a cloud of cologne and a trail of sleaze—I turned to face them.
“What the hell was that?”
My mother raised her wine glass, took a slow, triumphant sip.
“That,” she said with a smile, “was your future husband.”
