The air is stale with sweat from condensed bodies and the tuna sandwich a man is holding across me. The seat under me is uncomfortably hard against my lower spine, the unsteady jostling of an underground subway swaying me from side to side. Yet, these things do not bother me. I was raised with the unaccommodating seats of a subway, a rough crowd, and a quick-paced life.

The two women I'm sandwiched between chat loudly into their phone speakers, making no account for the close quarters I and the other dozen people are trapped in. But then again, no one in New York ever makes account for much of anything. People do their own thing, only taking into account their ambitions, their next footsteps, the now and nothing else. My mother had always told me that if you don't keep looking forward to your next step, you and your dreams will fall behind in this city. It is not a soft city, it's all sharp edges, only suited for sharp people. I think that's why Mom fell behind. She is soft, a mellow peach amidst hard apples.

The groan of the breaks pulls me out of my thoughts to the obnoxious women on either side of me. One of them raises her voice over the whooshing sound of doors being pulled open, her eyes bulging as she shrieks "divorce".

Probably for the best, I think to myself, watching her dive into the fourth argument since she sat down.

This is my stop, thankfully. I grab the arm of my worn bag, slinging it over my shoulder before stepping out of the train. The platform is full of rushing people stepping in and out of subways. Immediately, I'm pulled with the tide of a crowd as they head towards the stairways leading into the open air.

I welcome the familiar relief of breathing fresh air after the suffocating dampness of an underground railway. Well, it's as fresh as it can get in the congested, polluted atmosphere of Manhattan. The sight of a busy street of pedestrians, businessmen, and yellow taxis is enough to make many stop for a second to admire the city in action. But I don't have the time for that.

The narrow low-rise apartments of Harlem rush past me as I hurry to the café a block away. My legs find their own pace between long strides and a slow jog, dodging bicycle riders and tourists until I reach the entrance of the small coffee shop.

Rin's Coffee, the label reads.

A blast of conditioned air and coffee aroma washes over me as I step inside, the animated chatter an indication of a long, busy day. The café has a chic, wood-steel industrial interior, along with its location in the middle of the city, we attract a lot of customers.

Rin catches my eyes with a relieved look before tossing an apron in my direction. Rin is my trainer's brother—ex-trainer now—and my current boss. Her pixie cut and septum piercing are a stark contrast to her modest personality. She may be kinder and more merciful than her brother but she's still my boss.

I don't waste time getting a notepad and following her rapid orders. Soon enough, I get into the mechanical pace of a waiter on a busy day, hands darting out for empty mugs, fingers jotting down orders, lips pulling into a fake smile as the hours drag on.

It's only Rin, Andy, and I in the café today, making the workload double of that on a normal day with 4 workers. On days like this, I'm promised higher wages so I don't complain. Any money was good money, no matter the work.

At one pm exactly, I glance at the time on my watch through dirty, cracked glass held together by worn leather. As expected, the bell rings, indicating the arrival of a customer, and a special one at that—David Roman. The businessman comes into the café at the same time everyday, sits at his usual table by the window, and orders the same drink everyday: an espresso with one sugar cube. He also requests to be served by the same waiter every day—me. His being a very generous tipper and a customer of little words, I don't mind.

Andy takes the table I was currently waiting for without question, and I quickly make the cup of coffee before approaching the table by the window.

The businessman lifts his gaze from his phone to spare me a glance above his Cartier sunglasses. Today, he wears a tie-less charcoal grey suit.

He nods. "Good morning, Sage."

"Morning, Mr. Roman."

That usually sums up the interaction the man and I have had every morning for the past month. He would drink his coffee with no more requests before paying the bill with a nice tip that equates to a day's wage. So I'm taken aback when he mutters the next words.

"Sit."

My head snaps back to him, wondering if I've misheard, but he merely gestures to the seat in front of him, his silver Rolex reflecting sun light from the window. He's not looking at his phone anymore but gauging my reaction, an amused glint in his eyes. When I don't move, he nods once more to the seat. I take it.

David Roman is a man of power, wealth, and success, his name as rich as his crisp Armani suit. He owns one of the largest medicine manufacturing companies in the north with apartment complexes dotting the whole of the country, from Las Vegas to New York. His son attends one of the most expensive prep private schools in the sub-area.

The family practically bleeds and sweats Benjamin Franklin green notes. But like every other wealthy person, the rich are blackcurrants; polished and perfect on the outside, until you bite into one and taste the lip-puckering sour fruit. It's hard to miss the scandalous headlines he stars in on tabloids every other day. Tax evasion, illegal procedures, dead workers, and other fishy schemes that have gotten him to his position of supremacy today.

Marlowe Lui's father, Jack Lui, is one of said dead workers.

Marli has been my only real friend since freshman year. We bonded over the little things life have had to offer us, and soon enough she became one of the few things that made my high school experience bearable.

Her dad died in our summer of junior year, four months ago. She's been complaining to me about his frequent visits to the factory and his long hours at night. I assured her it was nothing because Marli has always been a worrier. A week later they announced his death a 'terrible accident' in the factory—machinery error. But we knew better.

I watch him now as he takes off his sunglasses, revealing a pair of piercing grey eyes. They contrasted sharply against his dark skin, and I wonder how many filthy acts those eyes witnessed. I don't miss the way they travel from my brown braid to my dirty apron to my beat up thrifted shoes.

My mind runs through all the possible reasons that would make him confront me, and I can't help but wonder if he didn't like the coffee. But that's unlikely. The coffee is the product of the press of a button and a sugar cube, leaving no room for human error. A silly part of me wonders if he will offer me a job at his company, maybe a PA just for making coffee, but I quickly scold myself for the senseless thought. Don't be stupid. It will make no difference where I offer him coffee, whether that be in his office or a café down the street. And the coffee can't be that good.

As if reading my thoughts, he chuckles. The amusement lacing his voice sets my teeth on edge. I don't like to be made a fool. Especially by rich men looking down on me. "Don't worry, you're not in trouble. I just want to have a chat with you," he pauses, pondering over his words. "A simple offer maybe."

Rin rushes to write down an order for a table next to us. She catches my gaze over David's black-haired head. Her eyes question me sitting down to chat but she says nothing, pressing her lips into a grim line. She won't pull me away from her richest customer.

"An offer?" I return my attention to the man in front of me.

Once he realizes he has my undivided attention, he continues straight to the point. "Yes. I know of your. . . Daily struggles to stay above the water. Your mother is a simple cook in a restaurant, your father an unemployed man, and you and your younger brother attend a low-cost public school. You work this job to help pay the bills, sometimes even working double shifts. And your family lives in one of the tenements in Lexington Avenue. Correct me if I'm wrong."

He says the words in a matter-of-fact voice, meaning no offense. Yet, surprisingly, I am offended. Really offended. By the end of his little speech, my arms are crossed and my fingers are digging into the fleshy part of my upper arm.

Rich, privileged people will take every chance they get to look down on people they deemed beneath them. I feel the beginning of an anger I have tried so hard to contain swelling in the center of my chest. Like an ugly animal threatening to explode and tear his expensive suit.

Remembering my trainer's words, I inhale deeply through my nose and try to organize my thoughts. He is a rich man with no time to waste. He would not seat me here and list all my struggles in life without an objective worth his time.

"And how does this concern you, Mr. Roman?"

"I can help you."

All traces of anger disappear, replaced by confusion. Maybe he is here to simply waste his time.

"I'm willing to offer you a place in my son's school with all the tuition fees pre-paid. The Wetherton High School is a notable private school, I'm sure you've heard of it. It will give you a different future that will help you and your family—one would never have dreamed of." He talks like he was offering me a job promotion, like this would cost him no more than the blink of an eye.

My lips part in disbelief, running his words over and over again in my head. I play with the necklace around my neck and looked for the joke in his words but realized there is none.

Just like him, I am a keen observer. His eyes are watching my every move; he wants me to accept it and he knows he has piqued my interest. He doesn't realize how much this can affect my life, and the different futures I could have flashed before my eyes. A better school, better life, better university, better job. All the things that fell out of my mother's reach.

But just as fast, the hope that has ignited in me is washed away with cold realization. People like him rarely have pure intentions. There is always a scheme playing for them, something that would benefit them in the long run.

"What's in it for you?"

His lips curl with mirth. "You are as smart as I expected," he mutters, placing his chin on a closed fist. "Do my intentions matter? When you can benefit so much from this?"

"Nothing comes easy, Mr. Roman."

The blood-red gemstone that rests between my collarbones burned, reminding me of Marli and her dad. We had found the pair of expensive stones in an alley, forgotten and abandoned. With a thick piece of thread, Marli made them into matching necklaces for us to wear. I never take it off.

He nods and takes a sip from the coffee that has now gone cold. "You're right, you're right. Well, there's no point beating around the bush, now is there?" He doesn't wait for me to answer, the glint in his eyes gone. "Recently, the tabloids have been spewing all kinds of nonsense about my work ethics, trying to bring my reputation down. And I don't plan on letting that happen. The offer I extend to you will help you as much as it will help me."

My mind flashes back to the tabloid headlines about his shady company and the picture finally becomes clearer, pieces of the puzzle falling into place. Another day where rich people use the poor to their advantage, I think with disgust.

But another part of me leans to the offer. I feel shameful as I think about it and can't help but hear my father's cold voice. If life gives you lemons, make lemonade, you stupid girl. I push the thought away and gather as much spite as I can in my voice.

"You want to use me as some sort of political pawn? A charity case to make you look good? 'David Roman pays to get the poor girl from Harlem into school,'" I scoff.

He doesn't look offended as I rant. Instead, it seems like he expected my reaction. He opens his mouth, probably to try to convince me again, when the bell rings and someone walks in. I don't lift my gaze from the man in front of me until I realize that the customer is heading towards our table.

"Dad, what's taking you so-"

I look up to the owner of the annoyed voice. A tall, lean boy that looks to be my age stands with his arms crossed. He shares the same winter gray eyes and chiseled face as the man in front of me. David junior.

"Who's this?" He eyes my uniform.

David leaves a few bills on the table before standing up to smooth wrinkles out of his suit. He looks to be an inch taller than his son.

"You'll know soon enough, son," the businessman replies with a finalizing tone, clasping his son's shoulder.

"Don't count on it," I spit as I stand up as well, crossing my arms to mirror his son. A surprised look flicker on David Junior's face.

"Sage, see it as you will. At the end of the day, this opportunity won't come knocking at your door twice," he sighs , looking at his watch. "I've got to go now, but think about it. I will give you time. Tomorrow, I expect a reply from you."

With a final nod, David steers his son away and they leave the store. An after-scent of expensive cologne trails their path where they once stood. His words replay in my head as I watch the sleek, black car drive away into the bustling streets of Harlem.

This opportunity won't come knocking at your door twice.

Someone nudges my shoulder, and I turn my gaze to a pair of tired eyes belonging to Rin. They are as bright as seafoam, reminding me of her brother's, and I feel the familiar pang of sadness I often get when he crosses my mind. I wonder what he'd have to say about this. Probably something along the lines of a fist and a bloody nose.

"I won't ask what that was about, but you better get your ass in the kitchen and make up for it," she jerks her head to the back of the café. Her words are scolding but her tone kind. I nod with a tight-lipped smile and push away all thoughts of the troublesome conversation I just had. The time for dwelling over it would come. Marli needs to know about this. Now, I do as she says.