"Send that poor, ugly waitress over to Adrian. At least then we’ll get to watch him reject a woman who clearly doesn’t belong here." The sound of laughter echoed across the ballroom, carrying enough volume to completely drown out the string quartet performing near the stage

The morning sun cast a pale golden light across the narrow living room of the Queens apartment. The walls, painted a faded cream color, bore faint scuff marks from years of living, but everything was meticulously clean.

Noah was sitting at the small kitchen table, a textbook open in front of him, sipping a mug of herbal tea. When the front door unlocked and Emily stepped inside, holding a sleek garment bag and a designer shopping bag bearing the logo of a Fifth Avenue boutique, Noah nearly dropped his mug.

"Em?" Noah asked, standing up quickly, pressing a hand instinctively to his chest as his heart rate spiked from shock. "Where were you all night? You didn't come home from the catering shift, and your phone went straight to voicemail!"

Emily closed the door gently, leaning against it for a moment as the exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours finally caught up with her. But beneath the fatigue, a wild, disbelieving exhilaration pulsed through her veins.

"I'm sorry, Noah. It's a long story," Emily said, walking over to the kitchen table and setting the bags down. "A really, really long story."

Noah crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow at the expensive shopping bags. "Did you rob a bank on Fifth Avenue? Because if so, I need to know before the FBI kicks our door down."

Emily couldn't help it—she let out a genuine, bubbling laugh, the first carefree sound that had escaped her lips in years. She unzipped the garment bag to reveal a tailored charcoal-gray cashmere pantsuit and a crisp white silk blouse. Beside it sat a pair of Italian leather heels.

"Not a bank," Emily smiled, her eyes bright. "I got a new job."

"A new job?" Noah echoed, looking skeptically at the designer clothes. "Since when do catering companies issue Chanel-adjacent outfits and two-hundred-thousand-dollar attitudes?"

"Since I stopped being a catering worker," Emily said softly, taking a seat across from him at the table. She reached out and took her brother's hand, feeling the familiar, steady rhythm of his pulse beneath his skin. "Noah... listen to me. You remember the Bennett Foundation gala last night?"

"The one you were stressing about all week because of the double pay?" Noah nodded.

"Well, I had a run-in with the billionaire who runs it. Adrian Bennett." Emily took a deep breath. "He offered me a position. Executive coordinator and public liaison. Starting salary is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year."

Noah stared at her in absolute silence for five full seconds. Then, he reached across the table, pressed the back of his hand against Emily’s forehead, and checked her temperature.

"You're hallucinating. You overworked yourself scrubbing floors and serving canapés, and now you're having a billionaire fever dream."

"I'm serious!" Emily protested, swatting his hand away with a grin. "And that's not even the best part. The contract includes full, zero-deductible medical coverage for your heart condition through their private specialist network. No more waiting lines at the public clinic. No more rationing your prescriptions."

Noah froze. The playful skepticism vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion. His jaw tightened, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

"Em... are you serious? Is this real?"

"It's real," Emily whispered, her own voice breaking as she squeezed his hand tighter. "The contract is sitting in my email right now, waiting for my signature. We're safe, Noah. We're actually safe."

Before Noah could respond, a sharp, authoritative rap echoed against the apartment's wooden front door.

Brother and sister exchanged bewildered glances. Emily stood up and walked over to the door, pulling it open.

Standing in the cramped hallway was Marcus Vance, Adrian’s legal counsel, impeccably dressed in a navy three-piece suit, holding a leather briefcase. Behind him stood two delivery men holding a massive, sleek desktop computer setup and a secure corporate laptop.

"Good morning, Miss Carter," Marcus said crisply, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. "Mr. Bennett sent me to ensure your transition into the executive team proceeds without delay. Shall we review the employment terms before you report to the Fifth Avenue headquarters at nine sharp?"