Chapter 1

The air in the Rodeo Drive boutique was usually thick with money and expensive perfume. Today, it was thick with Brittany Van der Woodsen’s rage. “Are you deaf, or just stupid?” she drawled, her voice dripping venom. “I said I want the store to myself for an hour. After closing.” I kept my smile fixed. Professional. Maya Rodriguez, top sales associate, at your service. “Ms. Van der Woodsen, unfortunately, store policy doesn’t allow for private after-hours shopping without a significant prior arrangement and fee.” “Fee?” She laughed, a sharp, unpleasant sound. “Do you know who I am?” I did. Everyone with an Instagram account and a pulse knew Brittany. Socialite. Influencer. Pain in the ass. “I’m aware, ma’am. But policies are for everyone.” Her perfectly sculpted face twisted. “You’re just a little shop girl from… where is it? East LA? You should be grateful I even breathe your air.” My smile didn’t waver. “I’m grateful for every customer, Ms. Van der Woodsen.” “Get your manager,” she snapped. My manager, a nervous man named Mr. Henderson, scurried over. He listened to Brittany’s tirade, then to my calm explanation. He wrung his hands. “Maya, perhaps we can make an exception…” “No, Mr. Henderson,” I said, my voice still even. “We can’t. It’s unfair to other staff and sets a bad precedent.” Brittany’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You’ll regret this, little charity case.” She stormed out, her heels clicking angrily on the marble floor. Mr. Henderson looked like he was about to have a stroke. “Maya, what have you done?” I just shrugged. Some things weren’t worth the commission.

Two days later, a man walked into the boutique. Tall, dark suit, expensive watch. He oozed a different kind of wealth than Brittany’s shrill entitlement. This was quiet, old money. He introduced himself as Ethan Vanderbilt. His eyes, a cool blue, scanned me from head to toe. Not in a sleazy way. More like… appraisal. “Maya Rodriguez?” he asked, his voice smooth. “Yes. How can I help you, Mr. Vanderbilt?” “I heard about your… interaction with Ms. Van der Woodsen.” News traveled fast in these circles. “She’s a valued customer,” I said, noncommittal. He smiled, a slight, knowing curve of his lips. “She can be… a lot. I admire your composure.” He paused. “I have a proposition for you, Maya.” I waited. “Quit this job.” My eyebrows rose. “I find you… intriguing. I’d like to get to know you. Without the name tag and the forced smiles.” He gestured around the opulent store. “This isn’t you, is it?” I thought of my cramped apartment, my mom’s latest drinking binge, my younger brother and sister needing new school shoes. “What kind of proposition, Mr. Vanderbilt?” “Call me Ethan. Let me take care of you. No more retail hell. Just… enjoy life. With me.” His offer was blatant. Almost crude. But his eyes were serious. “Why me?” “Let’s just say I appreciate someone who stands up for themselves. And you’re beautiful.” It sounded too good to be true. A lifeline. Or a trap. My mind raced. East LA didn’t prepare you for Vanderbilts making propositions. But it did prepare you to grab any chance you got. “Okay, Ethan,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I’ll quit.”

He set me up in a sleek, minimalist apartment in a high-rise overlooking Century City. The rent for one month was more than I made in a year. He gave me a credit card with a limit that made my head spin. “Buy whatever you like, Maya.” The first week was a blur of expensive dinners, rooftop bars, and shopping sprees where he’d watch me, a faint smile on his face, as I pretended to be overwhelmed by a $10,000 handbag. I played the part. Wide-eyed. Grateful. A little bit dumb. He seemed to like that. Then, one evening, he left his phone unlocked on the nightstand while he took a shower. A message notification lit up the screen. From Brittany Van der Woodsen. *“How’s our little Cinderella project coming along, E? Is she suitably dazzled yet? Can’t wait for the one-year mark. Payback’s a bitch. ;)”* My blood ran cold. Then, hot. Cinderella project. One-year mark. Payback. I stared at the phone, the pieces clicking into place with sickening clarity. This wasn’t about him finding me intriguing. This was a game. A cruel, rich-kid game, orchestrated by Brittany. And I was the pawn. The water in the bathroom shut off. I quickly put the phone back, my face a mask of calm. He came out, a towel around his waist, smelling of expensive soap. “Everything okay, beautiful?” he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners. I smiled, a sweet, innocent smile. “Perfect, Ethan.” Inside, a different kind of smile was forming. A sharper one. A game, huh? Okay, Vanderbilts and Van der Woodsens. Let’s play. And I always play to win. This wasn’t just about money anymore. This was about survival, and proving them wrong. They thought I was a toy. They had no idea.