Layla My phone buzzes when I exit the subway station in Newark. I pause, st epping to the side to avoid the flow of people on the sidewalk and glance at the screen. There are two messages. The first is from an unknown number. Unknown: Mrs. Sorensen was impressed with Isla’s party yesterday. She’d like to meet to discuss another event. Please r eply if you’re interested. This is her assistant, Patty. My heart pounds and I have to lean against the grimy wall to stay upright. Leif’s mother wants to hire me? I let out a little squeal, clapping my hand over my mouth. A stream of people flows past me, oblivious to the excitement coursing through me. Maybe this morning isn’t such a disaster, after all. But the second message is from someone I know. Joe: Hey Layla! Missed you at the bar last night. Are we still on for dinner and a drink tonight? I bite back a groan. I forgot about Joe. Last time I was at the bar, on Thursday night, I told Joe I was free today. I told myself that I’d be done working for Leif and it would be a good thing to move on. I didn’t know I’d end up spending last night in Leif’s bed. I stare at the message, fighting with myself. I’m not interested in Joe, so I should refuse. But am I uninterested simply because I’m hung up on my billionaire boss? Of course I am. It’s pathetic, really. I need to move on as quickly as possible. As they say, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Exc ept I absolutely do not want to get under Joe. Ignoring that little detail, I type out a quick message. I tell Joe to meet me at the local Italian restaurant by my place at seven o’clock. As soon as I hit send, my stomach drops. I might have just made a horrible mistake, but I immediately push that niggle aside. Joe is cute. He has a good job, he’s nice, and he would surely make a good boyfriend. I should be happy to go on a date with him. There’s nothing wrong with him at all. Instead of dwelling on all the reasons I’m not interested in Joe, I focus on the first text I read—the one that could quite literally be life-changing. That’s what I want to think about. So, my mind on the good news, I hurry down the streets and take a de ep breath of crisp, late-winter air. Soon, the weather will warm. Summer will come, and I’ll be able to enjoy the city at its best. And who knows? Maybe I wasn’t meant to be a nanny. Maybe I can become an event planner—after all, rich people all know each other, don’t they? This could be my big break. This could be The Job, but for real this time. By the time I make it to my four-story walkup apartment, I can’t ke ep the smile off my face. Things will work out. I’ll talk to Mrs. Sorensen’s assistant, I’ll ke ep food in the fridge, my grandparents will get to ke ep their house, and everything will be A-OK.
Leif will be a distant memory, as he should be. When I enter the apartment, Emma is once again sprawled over the living room floor with books and scribbled papers spread out in front of her. I feel a pang in my chest when I think of Leif’s gorgeous properties and how I’d love to give my sister a proper study space. Emma doesn’t seem to mind. She rolls onto her back and throws her arm over her face with a groan. “I’m going cross-eyed, Layla. I can’t study anymore. I’ll go blind.” “That bad, huh?” I drop my bag onto the floor and flop into the worn sofa near Emma’s feet. “Organic chemistry again?” She shifts her arm and peeks underneath it, grimacing. “College is so much harder than I thought it would be.” I nudge her toes. “You can do it.” “You don’t get it, Layla. It’s hard. I have three assignments due tomorrow and three hundred pages of case studies to read by Tuesday. I don’t know if I can do it.” I slump down and lean my head against the back of the couch, giving her a sympathetic smile. Despite her grousing, my sister is on track to get to medical school by the time she’s allowed to drink legally. My resume, on the other hand, includes one year of an unfinished event planning course. Is it any wonder I’ve been trying to make sure Emma makes it, even if I never do? “What are you learning about?” “I don’t even want to talk about it,” Emma answers with a scowl. She pushes a textbook with her elbow as if the mere sight of it disgusts her. I grin. Emma is so responsible and studious, sometimes I forget she’s barely seventeen. But like any other teenager, she’s perc eptive and not afraid of being nosy. She lifts herself up on her elbows and tilts her head. “Where were you last night? How’s Dani’s baby?” I clear my throat. “The baby hasn’t arrived yet, actually. I’m going to shower and head back to the city to check on her.” Maybe if I just ignore the other question, Emma will drop it. No such luck. My sister arches her brows. “And last night...? You sent me a text that you’d be back this morning, but you never told me what you were doing. And you look...” She frowns. Like I had a night of hot, dirty, feral sex? If only. I need a shower. “Disheveled,” my sister finishes. “I went out with a few friends to celebrate,” I answer placidly. Needing to change the subject, I blurt out, “The party was a success. Your cupcake tower was genius—a big hit with the kids.” I paint a hopeful smile on my face. “Mrs. Sorensen’s assistant texted me this morning. She said she wants to hire me for another event.” Emma sits up, eyes bright. “Awesome. She’ll pay you to plan it?” “I certainly hope so.” My fake smile widens. She brings her long legs in to sit cross-legged. “Whatever you’re thinking of charging, you should triple it.” I start. “What?” “Rich people value things that cost a lot. If you charge more, she’ll respect you and assume you’re worth it.”
A laugh slips out of me. “Emma... I’m not sure that’s how it works.” “Of course it is,” my sister answers. “If you undercharge, she won’t hire you. Plus, she’s loaded, right? Get everything you can out of her!” “I don’t even know what the event is,” I answer, squirming uncomfortably. “All I’ve ever planned is an eight- year-old’s birthday party. I don’t even know if I can do anything bigger.” “Of course you can,” my sister r eplies. “Don’t be silly.” Unshakeable confidence in me—that’s what Emma has. My heart thuds, and my sister gets up as if she didn’t just give me the biggest compliment ever. But... tripling my fee to plan a billionaire family’s event? I don’t know... I don’t even know how much event planners cost! “Okay, I just googled typical event planner fees. Weddings are more, of course, but here, I’ll email it over,” Emma says as she bends over her phone’s screen, apparently reading my mind. “You can do a flat fee, a percentage of expenses, an hourly rate... Hmm...” She bites her lip, lifting her head to meet my eyes. “You should go for a percentage of expenses. I bet she’ll want the best of everything. Say, twenty percent of expenses? If she spends a hundred grand, you’ll make twenty thousand dollars. For one event.” Her eyes shine. “Awesome.” I nearly choke. “Emma, stop. This is ridiculous. I’ll charge her an hourly rate and triple what I make at the café just to make you happy.” “Absolutely not,” my sister—my seventeen-year-old sister —r eplies. “You make minimum wage. That’s way too little. Do the percentage.” “That’s taking advantage of her.” “It’s business.” I just came from a penthouse in Manhattan where I had to sneak out of a billionaire’s bed. I am not in the mood to get lectured by my seventeen-year-old sister about money. The sheets I sl ept in are probably worth more than the sum total of all my belongings. Still... What if Emma was right? If I could make that much money from one event, I could pay for a lawyer for my grandparents’ problem. Rent would be covered. I’d finally, finally have a bit of stability. Standing up, I walk over to the kitchen. Our apartment is basically one small room with a peninsula-type counter s eparating the living and kitchen spaces, so Emma’s eyes follow me the whole way. I turn on the coffee machine and start brewing a pot. “Layla.” “Yeah?” I turn to open the refrigerator, even though I know it’ll be empty. Well, not completely empty—there are two soft, floppy carrots, some mustard, and a jar of pickle juice with half a pickle floating in it. Even with my creative meal skills, I can’t do anything with this. “Look at me,” my sister says, and I hear the rustling of clothes and papers as she stands up. I turn around and lean against the counter s eparating us. “What?” The coffee machine gurgles as Emma meets my gaze. “You’re worth twenty percent.” “No one would pay that,” I protest, even though I’m not sure it’s true. “Aren’t rich people usually cheap? If I come on too strong, she’ll laugh in my face and I won’t get the job.”
“And what if you do?” Sass drips off her words as my little sister tilts her head. She scoffs. “You need to start valuing yourself more. You did a fancy kids’ party in less than a week, and you spent probably fifty hours planning it. You haven’t sl ept. You’ve barely eaten. How much money would you have gotten if you’d charged twenty percent of expenses?” I bite my lip. Between the catering, the drinks, the furniture rental, the ballet dancers... I would have made a few grand. Leif would have paid it without blinking. I huff. “I don’t want to talk about it, Emma.” Maybe all those wealthy kids at her college are putting ideas in her head. Valuing myself more? How can I value myself when the whole world ke eps screaming at me that I’m worth nothing? I don’t even want to know how Leif freaking Sorensen would have treated me if he’d woken up in time to see me off this morning. Turning back to the coffee maker, I make my voice as hard as possible. “Emma, I can’t afford to be greedy. Your next scholarship disbursement won’t come until the fall semester. You insisted on paying for the lawyer’s consultation next week, and we need to save up for any legal fees after that. We need rent, food, bills.” “Yeah? I’m not really seeing your point. Wouldn’t it be better to have twenty thousand extra dollars?” Grr. I hate when Emma uses that sassy teenage logic on me. I don’t even know what the event is! I have no idea how much Mrs. Sorensen would want to spend. I don’t even know if she was serious about hiring me. “You just let me worry about that. You do your assignments, do your reading, and get that degree. I want to be calling you Dr. Reynolds in a few years, and I’m not going to let you worry about things that are my responsibility. We have a deal, don’t we? You worry about school, and I worry about everything else.” Emma’s face screws up. “Layla...” “No. I won’t hear it.” I pull a chipped mug from the cupboard and fill it with coffee. It smells strong and bitter and I gulp down a scalding mouthful. “The deal is you stay here, you study, and I take care of the rest. Once you’re a doctor with a fat salary, you can r epay the favor.” “I can get more loans,” Emma says. “Then you won’t be working yourself to the bone to support the two of us. You could find a job you actually enjoy. You could even finish your event planning course! You could do something you want.” I almost laugh. Something I want? When was the last time I did something that I actually wanted to do—other than last night? My heart aches. I woke up in a gorgeous apartment with a gorgeous man, and it only highlighted how obvious it is that I don’t belong in that world. My little sister, barely seventeen years old, thinks I’m undervaluing myself, but she doesn’t know the stakes. If I fail, we’ll be on the street, and so will our grandparents. How am I supposed to value myself beyond survival when all I know is how to scrape by?
Both our futures—and our grandparents’—rest on my shoulders. Emma’s more than mine. My life is already passing me by, but I won’t let Emma put her future at risk. Event planning? A future? For me? Please. “We don’t need you to get a loan out, Em. Ke ep your debt as low as possible until medical school. I don’t want you paying back hundreds of thousands of dollars for the rest of your life. We have enough with the grants, my job, and the scholarships to get by. We’ll figure it out. We always do.” “What about you?” Emma’s eyes are wide as she stares at me. “I’ll be fine, kid,” I tell her. “I’m going to call Mrs. Sorensen’s assistant, and after that I’ll talk to Linda about any open nannying positions. It’s all under control.” Liar, liar, panties on fire. “But what about you?” Emma says softly. “I’m good, Em.” I put a brave smile on my face and wrap my arms around her. “Hey, how about we go out for breakfast?” Emma brightens. “We can make a game plan for your call with the Sorensen assistant! Twenty percent will seem like nothing once I’ve got you convinced.” I give her a flat stare. “You’re like a dog with a bone.” My sister laughs, winking. “Let me just make sure I have enough cash for breakfast.” I reach for my purse, look inside, and frown. I dig through the bag and curse under my breath. Then, heart pounding, I grab the whole thing and dump the contents on the counter. “Shit.” I stare at the contents of my purse in horror. There are six lip glosses, four tampons, old receipts and candy wrappers, my phone with my Metro Card strapped onto the back of the case... but no wallet. Emma leans over the kitchen’s peninsula counter. “What’s wrong?” “My wallet. It’s not here.” I turn my purse inside out and check the lining, my stomach sinking lower and lower with every second. Groaning, I drop my head in my hands. My wallet is either at the club, on the floor of a Rolls- Royce... or at Leif’s place. When I think of my things scattered all over the kitchen counter this morning, I have a fairly good idea where my wallet happens to be... which means I’m going to have to see Leif again, and soon. I won’t be able to scurry to his townhouse, direct the cleanup, then run away. “Are you going to tell me where you were last night, then?” Emma crosses her arms and arches a brow. “Or will you ke ep deflecting?” “Don’t you have assignments to finish?” “Deflection it is, then,” Emma says with a grin. We both freeze when the apartment buzzer sounds. I stare at the intercom by the door for a few seconds before crossing the space. “Yeah?” I say into the microphone. A de ep voice answers, “It’s me,” Leif says. “I have your wallet.”