But me? I'm here with a very specific goal: borrow a little luxury for my Instagram.
My feed is becoming a graveyard. Grad school doesn't pay for itself, and my two part-time jobs barely leave time for sleep, let alone proper photoshoots. So I make do. I hunt for decent light, throw on the best outfit I own, and fake my way into these neighborhoods.
An oversized cream sweater hangs off my left shoulder. Twelve dollars at a thrift store in Brooklyn. My jeans have a hole in the knee I didn't pay extra for, and my boots have seen better years.
Still, step into the right light, angle yourself just so, and honestly, I could pass for anyone.
Anyone, even, who owns a car worth more than my entire student loan debt.
I line myself near the driver's side door and check my reflection in the window of a shop nearby. My hair has that messy wave going on because I skipped the blow dryer, and in this light my hazel eyes look almost gold. That'll do.
I'm mid-pose, phone lifted, trying to pull off casual-but-expensive, when I hear it.
That laugh.
Every muscle in my back goes rigid. I know that sound. Everyone at Columbia does.
Bianca Moretti.
Her cherry-red convertible pulls up alongside the G-Class, engine purring. She's windblown, highlighter catching in her blond hair, designer sunglasses perched just so, three friends draped across the leather seats like they were placed there for a magazine shoot.
I don't move.
*Please don't see me. Please.*
"Adeline?" Bianca's voice cuts through the street noise. "Is that you?"
Of course she spotted me.
I lower my phone slowly, trying to look like I was doing literally anything else. Checking messages. Reading a caption. Certainly not posing next to a car I'll probably never sit inside.
Bianca slides her sunglasses down her nose. Her eyes gleam. "Nice car."
The words just hang there.
Her friends shift forward in their seats, all familiar faces from campus. The ones who spend more on coffee than I spend on groceries.
One whispers. The rest giggle.
"Is it yours?" Bianca smiles.
A trap, obviously. She knows I take the train. Knows about my part-time jobs and the way I count change at the grocery store. My taxes get filed in a bracket that can't even spell Mercedes.
I should laugh. Shrug it off. Walk away.
But my mouth has its own plan.
"It is."
The lie pops out before I can haul it back.
*Damn. Why did I do that?*
Three years of Bianca's dominance pressed into my chest. Three years of never measuring up. Showing up with leftovers while everyone else ordered sushi, rotating the same thrift finds while the rest swapped stories about their dads arranging internships over scotch.
She yanked me from the Milano program without blinking. One call from her father and five months of my work vanished. My professor said it was a funding issue. Bianca said nothing at all, which was worse.
I want to win, just once.
Her eyebrows arch even higher. Her friends shoot each other loaded looks, recalibrating, filing away whatever this is about to become.
"Really." Her tone dares me.
*Tell her you're joking,* my brain screams. *Get out. Don't dig this hole any deeper.*
But I will not hand this moment to her.
"Prove it," Bianca says.
Phones are out now. Her friends look way too eager to watch me unravel.
*This is the stupidest thing I have ever done.*
My feet move anyway.
I walk toward the driver's side door with confidence I absolutely do not feel. My hand reaches for the handle. The metal is warm from the afternoon sun against my palm.
Locked. Of course it's locked. I'll make some lame excuse. Forgot my keys, maybe. Or.
The handle clicks. The door swings open.
Sound drops out.
There is someone inside.
A man, mid-text, stares up at me. Dark hair. Steely gray eyes. A suit tailored within an inch of its life. He looks expensive and stunned, hands suspended over his phone, perfectly still.
We stare at each other.
I should bolt. Grovel. Call it a mix-up and run until Brooklyn swallows me whole.
But Bianca and her gallery are still pressed against the glass, phones raised, probably streaming all of it.
There is only one thought left: commit to the lie or be humiliated forever.
My body moves before the thought finishes forming.
I slide in.
Everything happens in slow motion. Expensive leather beneath me. Solid resistance where I expected empty space. I land hard, a second too late to fix it. I am sitting on him. A total stranger. A lap that did not consent to any of this.
His body goes rigid instantly. His arms lift wide, hands spreading open, as if I'm radioactive. A muscle ticks once in his jaw and I feel his breath catch. His eyes travel slowly over my face. I look away first.
His cologne reaches me.
Cedar. Expensive. The kind of scent that lingers in elevator air long after the man has gone.
I hate that I noticed.
I don't even have the brain space to be truly mortified yet.
I pull the door shut, hands unsteady.
"Please," I whisper. "Just wait for them to leave."
Outside, Bianca's convertible makes a show of its engine. Phones still raised.
Through the glass I catch her face one last time. The smirk is still there. But her eyes have gone still, the way eyes go when someone expected an outcome and got a different one entirely. The light flashes green. They're gone.
Inside, the silence is enormous.
I scramble across to the passenger seat and press myself against the door. "I'm so sorry. I swear, I'm not usually... I'm sorry."
He doesn't move, except to smooth his jacket, a single deliberate gesture. The shock that crossed his face is almost gone now, replaced by an unsettling calm, like he's already solving the problem of me.
That calm makes the panic rise harder in my chest.
"At least," he says, "tell me why you're sitting in my car."
The faintest trace of an Italian accent in it, refined down to something that comes with old money and boarding schools.
The explanation tumbles out in one long humiliated rush. "There was this girl, Bianca, she saw me posing near the car, asked if it was mine, told me to prove it, and I panicked, and the door opened, and I thought the car was empty, I swear, and I sat down, and I really am sorry, if there's dry cleaning, detailing, I'll pay. This is probably trespassing. It's definitely trespassing."
He just listens. When I finally stop, the silence stretches long enough that I start calculating how fast I can reach the door handle.
His eyes move to the window. Back to me. His fingers rest flat against his knee, unmoving, while his gaze runs the length of my face like he's reading a document he didn't request.
He smooths his jacket. Once. Whatever he's calculating, it takes longer than I can stand.
"So." He leans back. "You trespassed. Lied. And now you expect my cooperation."
I shake my head. "I'm not expecting anything. I'll go. I'll turn myself in if you want."
My hand finds the door handle.
He nods, unhurried. "Very well."
I stop. Turn back.
Same composed expression. A small spark in his eyes. "You'll accompany me to several events over the next month," he says, the same tone he'd use for a business deal. "Consider it restitution."
"Sorry, what?"
He types something on his phone, slow and even. "I need a companion for some social functions. Galas, dinners, fundraisers. You showed some creative pressure management today. I value that more than polish." His gaze meets mine. "One month. Then we're even."
I stare at him. "You want me to go to events with you?"
"One month. Then your debt is paid."
"Unless you'd prefer I report the incident." He tilts his head slightly. "I imagine the police would find it interesting. Columbia's dean of students as well."
He doesn't think I can do it. I see it clearly, underneath all that professional calm. He expects me to apologize and disappear back to Brooklyn where I belong.
But the way out is right in front of me: pretend for a month, skip expulsion, avoid a scene. Let Bianca's story fall apart on its own.
The same bullheaded pride that put me in this car refuses to let me back down.
"One month," I say. "Then we're done."
A flicker passes behind his eyes, gone before I can read it. He holds out his hand.
"Albert Rossi."
His hand is warm when I take it. Firm grip. A brief spark travels up my arm before I can process it.
"Adeline Carter."
He produces a business card from his wallet. Heavyweight stock, deliberately understated: just his name and one word.
*CEO.*
Everything in my chest does a slow, full rotation.
"My assistant will send you information about the first event. Saturday. Black tie." Rossi glances over my thrifted sweater and wrecked jeans. His gaze settles briefly on the bare slope of my shoulder where the fabric slipped. "Do you own formalwear?"
Heat moves up my neck. "I'll manage."
The corner of his mouth shifts. Gone before it becomes anything. "I'll handle the wardrobe. Consider it part of the agreement."
Before I can answer, he nods toward the door.
I grab the handle and step out onto the sidewalk. The door closes behind me with a soft, final click.
Through the glass, he's already absorbed in his phone. As though none of this happened. As though I didn't just upend both our afternoons in four minutes.
The G-Class pulls smoothly into traffic and disappears toward Park Avenue.
I stand on the sidewalk and look down at the card in my hand. His cologne still clings to my jacket, faint and woodsy, and my pulse hasn't slowed once since that door swung open.
My screen lights up.
*Unknown number: First event Saturday 7 PM. Car will collect you at 6:30. Address on file. Dress will arrive Friday. M. Romano, Executive Assistant to Mr. Rossi.*
They already have my address.
Of course they do. I'm sure Albert Rossi doesn't do anything halfway.
Something new is lighting up the inside of my chest. Restless. Not panic, and I don't have a label for it yet.
I'm in his world now.
And somehow, that felt less terrifying than it should have.
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