MUSE still did not have a job, and it had been a week.

     Clutching her resume to her chest, she pushed open the door to Applebee's. She hadn't heard back from anywhere, not even Denny's. Did just one incident, involving a billionaire and a pot of fondue, really have the ability to ruin her forever? How on earth could everybody know what she'd done? It felt like being blacklisted.

     Muse approached the front counter. Maybe the manager at Applebee's had been living under a rock for the past seven days. "Um, hi. Are you guys hiring?"

     The woman behind the counter―her name tag read Martha―scowled. Not a good start. But she pulled out a stack of papers from somewhere beneath the desk and slid them over. "Fill this out."

     Muse brightened. Finally.

     Except, as soon as she spelled out her name in pen on the first paper, Martha craned her neck and squinted. Her eyes widened. "Does that say Muse Gardner?"

     "Yes?" Maybe Muse's best bet at this point was a new identity.

     Martha yanked the sheet of papers away from Muse and put them back under the desk. "We're not hiring."

     "But I just―"

     "We're not hiring. Please leave this fine establishment."

      This was Muse's twenty-third attempt at a job application. What the fuck had Julien Vitale done to her reputation that Applebee's wouldn't even hire her? How did one man even have that much power?

      Muse slammed the pen onto the counter. "Since when has Applebee's ever been considered a fine fucking establishment?"

      Martha just narrowed her eyes, and Muse left before she could make things worse. She'd made a scene, but the anger didn't make her feel better in the slightest. It didn't do anything to dissipate her rising sense of dread. If nobody wanted her as a waitress, she had no idea what she'd do. She needed a stable source of money. What choice would she have but to leave New York City?

      The city was her home. But Muse needed to feed herself, and her cat. So if that meant living somewhere else . . . starting over in Ohio or Oklahoma or whatever state would take her . . .

      No. There had to be at least one restaurant that would hire her. Julien Vitale couldn't have that much influence.

      As Muse shoved her resumes back into the safety of her jacket and strode out onto the crowded sidewalk of New York City, she thought about her name. Muse Gardner. That alone had been enough, it seemed, for twenty-four restaurants to dismiss her. It wasn't like Julien Vitale had personally gone to every Applebee's and Denny's and East Side Mario's in the city, so what had he done? Put yourself in his place, Muse thought. And if she was a billionaire who hated someone, if she had friends in high places, she'd probably talk to the CEO of every restaurant chain in New York.

      That would explain how her name had been ruined. If the CEO of fucking Applebee's passed out a warning, everybody in the chain of command would get it.

      Muse really shouldn't have gotten on the bad side of a billionaire.

      Maybe her problem, this whole time, had been going for the enormous restaurant chains. Sure, they were bigger and had more financial security―less chance they'd fuck her over or fire her suddenly―but then, maybe a family-owned kind of place wouldn't outright dismiss her.

      But after four attempts at small family-owned businesses―"We just don't have the resources to take on another staff member right now"―it started to rain. Muse ducked under the shelter of a nearby street vendor.

      "Are you here for a palm reading?"

      Muse shook her head, on the verge of snapping, Leave me the fuck alone. But it wasn't some street fortune teller's fault she was at rock bottom. "I'm just trying to wait out the rain, sorry."

      The street vendor Muse had chosen for shelter was occupied by an old woman, dressed in brightly coloured scraps of silk and sequins. She had long waist-length braids interwoven with starry charms, and bright red lipstick smudged a little around the edges. The stand behind her twinkled with a waterfall of crystal beads, clattering gently against one another with the rain and the wind. On the other side of the makeshift curtain awaited a foldable table, gleaming with a crystal ball and a collection of hand-painted tarot cards.

      The old woman seemed to understand Muse's mood perfectly. Her smile, if it was possible, grew warmer.

     "What's your name, love?"

     After a long, long day of being rejected, Muse found herself relaxing at the word love. At the caring, maternal warmth of this woman. For a moment, right here and right now, she didn't have to worry about a job or the city or the eviction notice that was burning a hole in her bag. She'd found it taped to her door this morning in big red letters, glaring at her. She'd ripped it down with shaky hands, meaning to throw it out at some point today. She swore she could feel it even now, crumpled underneath her resumes, warning her time was almost up.

     Muse held her breath and considered. She was at her lowest already. Could it really hurt to have one conversation with some street psychic?

     "My name's Muse Gardner."

     The old woman didn't even blink. "It's nice to meet you, Muse. I'm Arabella. May I read your palm? Free of charge."

     Muse had faced far weirder things in New York City. She obediently held out her palm, and waited as Arabella traced her fingertips over the lines. The rain pounded like bullets on the tent above Arabella's fortune telling stand, dampening the air.

     After a few moments, Arabella looked up. "Your future is unclear."

     Muse sighed. Even some random psychic on the street, who probably made a living off lying to strangers, couldn't tell her her future. Another disappointment.

     Withdrawing her palm, Muse said, "Oh. Alright."

     "A question, dear."

     "Mm?"

     "Are you in love?"

     "Love?" Muse squeaked.

     "Because I see marriage in your future. Just marriage. But . . ."

      "Marriage?"

       "Marriage." A pause. Arabella seemed deeply troubled. "But . . . I didn't see the love that is supposed to accompany it. Are you engaged to someone you haven't given your heart to?"

       Muse thought of her long string of broken relationships, and shook her head.

       "Well." The worry faded from Arabella's face, sunshine slipping through clouds. As if by cosmic coincidence, the rain stopped its relentless tirade over the streets of New York City, and the sky cleared. Mist rose up in its wake, and Muse inhaled it deeply.

       "Well?" Muse repeated.

       "Maybe I misinterpreted," said Arabella.

       The thought of marriage brought Adrien to mind, and an idea began to form in the same way that the mist had, soft and wispy. "Maybe," said Muse, backing away from Arabella and her stand. Or maybe not. "Thank you so much. For the reading. And everything."

       The slash of Arabella's red lipstick softened into a bemused smile. "You're very welcome, darling."

       Marriage . . . that gave Muse an idea.

***

"I need money. You need a wife. Let's get married."

       Or, at least, that was how Muse imagined she'd say it. In reality, she waited on one of the prim white cushions that decorated the lobby of Emmaline Enterprises. Adrien's own multi-billion dollar corporation. She'd booked an appointment with the Chief Operating Officer, as close to the top of the chain as she could get. Adrien herself was untouchable―Muse had already tried. She didn't meet with ordinary clients and she had a dozen people to take the phone for her.

       This was Muse's only shot.

       After the street fortune teller had told Muse there was marriage in her future―a marriage without love―Muse had spent the entire night putting together a plan. Now, it was time to execute it.

       "Miss Gardner?" The receptionist flashed her white teeth at Muse, a pretty but blinding smile. "Mr. Honduras will see you now. Floor seventy, room ten."

       Muse was again filled with the same feeling she'd had upon entering the building: an almost breathless combination between anxiety and awe. From the outside, the Vitale Enterprises building was sleek, cold and silver, its tip seeming to scrape the very sky. Men and women in expensive, pressed suits strode in and out of it, wrists glinting with pale gold watches as they carried their briefcases. It was the kind of place Muse had never imagined she'd set foot in.

       Even wearing the most formal thing she owned, she felt out of place. Her little thrifted blue dress and white pumps probably cost only a fraction of a fraction of what these people made on a daily basis.

       She felt like an impostor. She had an appointment with one of the highest-ranking members of this corporation, so she could "manage her assets"―as she'd claimed over the phone. Not only did she have no assets, but she had no idea what even qualified as an asset financially.

       Still, Muse smiled at the receptionist and walked as confidently as she could to the elevator.

       She had a plan. She couldn't back down now.

       Her pumps clicked against the white marble floor. She caught a glimpse of herself in the shiny reflection: the mass of bouncy ringlets, the flushed cheeks, her kohl-lined eyes.

       The elevator music did nothing to soothe her nerves. She found herself next to a man with dark brown skin and a dark blue suit. He looked so professional, so calm and collected. He probably took this elevator up and down every day, a typical nine-to-five, and made six figures on the dot.

      Next to him, her instincts screamed, Impostor. You don't belong here.

      Muse pressed the elevator button marked 70. It lit up pure white. There were a hundred floors. Nearly as many as the Empire State Building.

     She held her breath. The elevator, entirely white, glowing, and decked in mirrors, felt like a scene from a movie―the kind where she might wake up, blink a little, and ask, "Is this heaven?"

      The elevator passed sixty-nine floors fast―too fast.

      Muse got off the elevator, stumbling a little. She didn't expect the floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying the entirety of New York City. Natural sunlight gleamed on the white marble of the seventieth floor. If she were afraid of heights, she probably would have fainted.

      Following the receptionist's instructions, she found herself before a door marked with the number 10 and knocked.

      It was almost time for her to put the plan in motion.

      "Miss Gardner? Come in."

      "That's me," Muse said, hesitantly slipping into the office. Enormous framed artworks and ancient-looking vases decorated the shelves. Mr. Honduras had to be a fan of history. "Here for the, um, advice."

     "Right." Mr. Honduras peered down his wire-framed glasses at her. He was a forty-something man with tan skin, a stubbled jaw, and a wave of black hair with a single strand that kept slipping into one eye. "Sorry, our conversation over the phone didn't reveal it, but you're a very beautiful woman."

      "Oh, thanks," said Muse.

       He narrowed his eyes. "What's your ethnicity? Wait, let me guess."

       Muse almost rolled her eyes. She hated playing this game.

       "Egyptian," she said, before he could start listing off ethnicities. She hoped the single curt word would stop any more flirting.

       He cleared his throat and shuffled through some papers. "Our financial records as of right now are not promising, but as I recall from our conversation on the phone, you said you had recently come into a fortune from a . . . dead great-aunt? Also, I see you aren't wearing a wedding ring. Are you single?"

       "Great-aunt Eleanor. Who left me her jewelry collection. Um." Muse paused. Was he asking if she was single for financial purposes? No―that was laughable. She could say she was a lesbian, or . . . she could wring him for information. This might work better if he thought he had a chance, as unfortunate as that was. "Yes, I'm single. Tell me more about Emmaline Enterprises. It's owned by Adrien Vitale, right?"

       "Yes, yes," he said distractedly. "Miss Vitale started the corporation at only twenty-one years old, and as you can see, it has flourished in the seven years since. She named it after her mother, who died of a tumor when she was young. Very sad. Anyways, we are supported by a great many reputable investors, with a wealth of financial knowledge, stocks, and trends, with a hundred floors built to accommodate the staff. It's the second tallest building in the state. Are you busy Friday evening?"

       "A hundred floors," Muse interrupted, distracted. "That's a whole lot. So, say, would a CEO have her office on the hundredth, or . . ."

       "Yes, CEOs typically reside on the top floor. But are you busy Friday evening?"

       Muse opened her mouth. How did she handle this? She could either agree, reject him flat-out, or . . .

       "I would, it's just . . ."

      "What is it?"

      She coaxed tears into her eyes. It wasn't hard, not with everything she'd been feeling lately from losing her job to getting an eviction notice. "It's just that I'm still grieving."

      Mr. Honduras shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't mean to offend."

      "No, really, you seem like a very . . . wonderful . . . man. It's just, you know, with Aunt Eleanor gone . . . and I got my period this week . . ." Muse let out a sob.

      Possibly Mr. Honduras had never experienced a situation quite like this: a pretty woman reduced to tears in his office after he'd asked her out. He frowned and pushed back his stray strand of hair. "Do you need to use the bathroom?"

     Jackpot.

     "Oh, I mean, I wouldn't want to waste our meeting time . . ." Muse let out another sob.

     "No, certainly, I insist. Please. Take all the time you need. There's one down the hall, next to the fire escape."

      Muse rose, taking a tissue with her, and patted her cheeks. "Thank you for understanding."

      She didn't plan on returning. She'd gotten the confirmation she needed: Adrien would be on the hundredth floor.

***

Climbing thirty flights of stairs had Muse dry-heaving. She questioned every life choice that had led to this one. With a weaker resolve, she might have backed down and called it a day.

       But she was determined.

       She had done some research on the Vitale family. Julien, Adrien's father, had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Five months to live. That explained the deadline. And from what Muse had heard at Cayenne Steakhouse, Adrien needed a wife before then.

       Adrien needed a wife, and Muse needed money. So she was going to proposition the billionaire with a deal.

       Muse at last pushed open the door to the hundredth floor.

       And had to keep herself from gasping aloud.

       Unlike the seventieth, which had been divided with hallways and doors, the space was completely open―like a studio apartment, if a studio apartment were made entirely of glass, with a view of New York City that overlooked at least a thousand feet.

       The elevator was centered in the apartment. On one side, an enormous circular couch had been sunken into the floor. The other revealed a desk in the corner, completely enshrined in skylights. They were so high in the air they were level with the clouds. Muse braced her palm against the door frame of the fire escape, her heart beating so loud she almost missed the chime of the elevator doors opening.

       Two high-class security guards stepped out, armored in bulletproof vests, rifles, and helmets. As if they knew right where she would be, they took aim at her.

        It had been less than ten seconds since Muse had even reached this door. Shit. She should have realized Adrien's security would be good. She was a billionaire. Likely she even had her own Secret Service―

        "Stay where you are," said one of the guards, rifle still drawn.

       Muse raised her hands and staggered back a step. Was she about to be sniped? That was not part of the plan. "I can explain, I swear―"

       "Muse Gardner?"

       The voice―feminine, assertive, perplexed―made Muse and the security guards pause for a half-second. Adrien, hidden by the opposite side of the elevator, came into view. A thick black pair of glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, her short dark hair curling softly around her sharp jaw. She was wearing a black suit, her silhouette carved by the daylight behind her. Oh, God. There was a short man next to her, holding a clipboard

        Muse's breath floundered in her chest.

       "Adrien."