The ceiling of my bedroom has exactly forty-seven cracks if you count the thin ones branching off the main fissure near the corner. I know this because I've been staring at it for the past hour, my body refusing to leave the warmth of my sheets, my mind refusing to accept what I agreed to yesterday.
Forty-seven.
Forty-seven cracks in a ceiling I can barely afford to keep over my head. Forty-seven reminders that I don't get to say no when the price is high enough.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket up to my chin even though my alarm went off fifteen minutes ago. The morning light seeps through my thin curtains, pale and indifferent. My phone buzzes again—probably Sheila from the agency checking if I'm on my way. I silence it and press my palm against my forehead, replaying the conversation that stole any choice I had.
"Maya, sit down."
George Hadley had never asked me to sit before. In the two years I temped for him, he'd barked orders, tossed files, once thrown a pen so hard it stuck in the wall three inches from my head. But he'd never asked me to sit. That was the first sign I was about to get screwed.
I'd lowered myself into the chair across from his desk, already calculating how much I needed this assignment. The answer was always the same: enough. Enough to cover another month of my brother's therapy. Enough to keep the lights on. Enough.
George leaned back, his expensive chair groaning under his weight. He had the look of a man about to hand someone else's problem to a bigger fool.
"You know Damon Blackwood?"
I did. Everyone in the executive assistant circuit knew Damon Blackwood. The rumors were almost mythical by now. Six assistants in three years. One quit mid-flight—literally walked off a private jet at a refueling stop and never came back. Another had a panic attack in a board meeting and was hospitalized. The rest just… vanished into other industries, other cities, other lives where they never had to hear his voice again.
"I've heard the name," I said carefully.
George laughed, short and dry. "Heard the name. That's cute. Heard he's a nightmare, you mean. Heard he eats assistants for breakfast and spits them out before lunch."
I didn't confirm or deny. I waited.
"He's looking for a new one." George leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. "And before you say no, hear me out. Blackwood came to me personally. Personally, Maya. He's been through four agencies. No one lasts. He's down to temps now because permanent placements refuse to even interview with him."
My stomach had already started sinking.
"He's paying," George continued, his voice dropping like he was sharing state secrets. "He's paying triple the standard rate. Triple. For a three-month contract."
Three months. I'd done worse for less. I'd cleaned up after George's affairs, lied to his wife, watched him berate interns until they cried. Three months of anything was survivable.
"And," George added, sliding a folder across the desk, "he's covering your full benefits for the year. Plus a bonus at completion that would cover six months of rent."
He knew about my brother's bills. He knew I couldn't refuse money like that. He knew I'd been up at three that morning checking my bank balance, the numbers so low they looked like a typo.
"Why me?" I asked, though I already suspected.
George shrugged. "Because you're the only one who lasted two years with me without quitting, crying, or filing a complaint. You're the last temp standing in this agency who hasn't already been burned by him. And because," he added, and this time his voice softened just enough to make me hate him, "you don't have kids. You're not in school. You're… available."
Available. The polite word for expendable.
I opened the folder. A photo of Damon Blackwood was paper-clipped to the first page. He was handsome in the way a storm is handsome—dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that looked like they'd never been surprised by anything. The bio listed his age (thirty-one), his company (Blackwood Resorts International), and his reputation (demanding, brilliant, impossible). The last assistant's exit reason was listed as "personal emergency." Code for "fled the country," probably.
"I can't," I said, even as my hand tightened on the folder.
George was already shaking his head. "You can. And you will. Because I'm not asking, Maya. I'm telling you. If you turn this down, I'll have to explain to Blackwood why his only remaining option said no. And then I'll have to find someone else, and there is no one else. So you go, or I make some calls about that incident with the expense reports last year."
My blood went cold.
"That wasn't my fault," I said quietly. "You told me to approve them."
"I told you to review them. You approved them." He spread his hands like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. "I'm not saying I'd make trouble. I'm just saying… let's not find out what happens when references get complicated."
I sat there for a long moment, counting the cracks in George's ceiling. They were fewer than mine. Nicer ceiling. Nicer life.
"Three months," I said finally.
"Three months," George confirmed. "You survive three months with Damon Blackwood, and you never have to work for me again. You can write your own ticket anywhere. And you get the money."
I closed the folder. Stood. Walked out of his office without another word.
---
That was yesterday.
Now I'm in my bedroom, still in yesterday's t-shirt, my hair a tangled mess, and I haven't moved since the alarm went off. My phone buzzes again. Sheila. I let it go to voicemail.
I reach for my earbuds instead, shoving them in, scrolling through my playlist until I land on the one voice that always understands the war happening inside my head.
The beat drops. And then his voice, quiet at first, like he's sitting in the corner of my room.
"Yeah, the door is open, always has been
Why does it feel like everyone's locked in?"
I close my eyes. Let the words wash over me. He's the only artist I've found who gets the weight of being trapped—trapped by circumstances, by choices you didn't really make, by the feeling that everyone else sees a way out except you.
"I don't wanna talk right now, I just wanna think
I don't wanna talk right now, I'm just on the brink
Of losing my mind, I can feel it sinking
Fighting with time, I don't know what to think."
Yeah. That's it exactly. On the brink. Sinking. Fighting with time.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see colors burst behind the lids. Three months. Three months of a man who terrifies everyone. Three months of being the sacrificial lamb so George can cash a check and Blackwood can add another assistant to his body count. And me? I get to survive. Barely.
"I'm looking for an exit
But I'm lost inside my head
I'm sitting here just staring at the wall again."
I laugh, but there's nothing funny about it. Staring at the ceiling. Counting cracks. Wondering how I ended up here again—taking the job no one wants because the money is too good and my options are too few.
I check my phone. 7:48 AM. I'm supposed to be at Blackwood Resorts International headquarters by 8:30. That gives me forty-two minutes to shower, dress, and somehow transform from the woman lying in bed paralyzed by dread into a professional who looks like she can handle anything.
I think about calling George. Telling him I changed my mind. Letting him make those calls about the expense reports. Letting him ruin my references, my reputation, my ability to work in this city ever again. What would be worse? Unemployment? Or three months with a man whose last assistant had a panic attack in a boardroom?
"I've been in this room before
I just can't get out
I've been in this room before
And I'm so tired now."
My throat tightens. I push the earbuds deeper, letting the music fill every corner of my skull, drown out the voice that keeps whispering you don't have to do this. Because I do. That's the truth I've known since I was nineteen, signing my first hospital admission form for my brother, watching my mother cry in the hallway because she couldn't afford the specialist. Some people get choices. I get bills.
I sit up slowly, the blanket falling away, the cold air hitting my arms. I look at myself in the dresser mirror across the room. Dark circles. Pale face. A woman who looks like she's already lost a fight she hasn't even started.
"Get up," I tell my reflection. My voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.
The song shifts. Another one starts, softer, sadder.
"I've been looking at the sky, wondering why
I've been feeling like I'm nothing, you don't even have to try
To make me feel like I'm invisible, I'm not even gonna lie
I've been feeling like I'm better off alone and that's fine."
I pull the earbuds out. The silence rushes in, louder than the music was. My room is too quiet. My life is too quiet. All that noise in my head, and no one to hear it but me.
I stand. My legs are unsteady. I walk to the bathroom, turn the shower on as hot as it will go, and stand under the water until my skin is pink and I can't tell the difference between the steam and the tears I refuse to shed.
---
At 8:27, I'm standing outside the Blackwood Resorts International building. It's a glass tower in the financial district, all sharp edges and cold angles, like someone built a monument to ambition and forgot to add warmth. The lobby is marble and chrome. Security guards with earpieces. A reception desk that looks like it cost more than my entire apartment building.
I smooth my blazer. I practiced my smile in the elevator. It didn't look real then, and it doesn't feel real now.
The receptionist—a woman with perfect hair and an expression that says she's seen people like me crumble before—glances at my name on her screen.
"Maya Santos?" She says my name like she's checking it against a list of expendable items. "He's expecting you. Thirty-seventh floor. Take the private elevator."
She gestures to a set of doors to the left, guarded by a keypad. She hands me a temporary card.
"Good luck," she adds, and there's something in her voice that isn't quite kindness. Sympathy, maybe. Or the grim acknowledgment of someone who's watched others walk into that elevator and come out different.
I take the card. My fingers are cold.
The elevator is silent. No music, no chime, just the quiet hum of machinery lifting me higher and higher. Thirty-seven floors. Each one feels like a warning.
I watch the numbers climb. 12. 18. 24. 30. I think about the cracks in my ceiling. Forty-seven. I think about my brother's next therapy appointment, the one I almost couldn't afford. I think about the bonus that would cover six months of rent.
Three months.
The elevator stops. The doors slide open.
And I step into the waiting room of Damon Blackwood's office.
It's pristine. White walls, a single orchid on a glass table, a desk where an assistant should sit but doesn't—because there is no assistant yet. I'm the assistant. Or I will be, if I survive the first conversation.
Behind a set of frosted glass doors, I hear a voice. Low. Sharp. He's on the phone, and even through the glass, even without making out the words, I can hear the edge in his tone. The impatience. The absolute certainty that the world should move faster.
My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
I don't sit down. I stand in the center of that pristine room, clutching my bag, and I wait.
The doors don't open.
The voice on the other side continues, clipped and commanding.
And I stand there, counting the seconds until my three months begin.