Chapter 1: A Nervous Transformation
The single bulb in the studio flickered, a tired pulse that made the shadows on the wall jump and twitch. Camille stared into the cracked mirror propped on her milk crate dresser, a final stroke of crimson lipstick hovering at her mouth. Her hand wouldn’t stay still.
“Stop,” she whispered to her reflection. The girl in the glass looked back, wide-eyed, a stranger dressed in someone else’s life.
The little black dress was borrowed from Liza at the coffee shop. It was silk, and it felt like money against her skin, a cool, foreign slickness that hugged her ribs a little too tightly. She’d spent twenty minutes wrestling the zipper up the side, her fingers slick with sweat. It was shorter on her than it was on Liza. Everything was longer on Lileen, who was five-two on a tall day. On Camille’s five-nine frame, the hem skated high on her thigh. She’d tugged at it until the fabric threatened to pucker.
She smoothed her palms down her hips. The dress was simple, elegant. It was supposed to make her feel powerful. Instead, she felt like an imposter in a costume.
The room around her refused to play along. The flickering light glinted off the half-empty container of lo mein on the wobbly coffee table, the noodles congealing into a single, oily mass. Magazine clippings of cityscapes and fashion spreads were tacked haphazardly over the water stain on the wall, a desperate collage of the life she thought she’d have. A stack of unopened mail—mostly credit card offers and something official-looking from the university back home—threatened to slide onto the floor. The air smelled like the Sandalwood perfume she’d sprayed too liberally, undercut by the faint, greasy scent of yesterday’s dinner.
Her phone buzzed on the crate, screen lighting up with a new text.
Adam: Car will be there at 8. Don’t keep me waiting.
A jolt, equal parts thrill and nausea, shot through her. She picked up the phone, her thumbs clumsy over the glass.
Camille: It’ll be there. I’ll be outside.
She sent it, then immediately regretted the compliance of it. She should have said something clever, something detached. She looked back at the mirror, practicing. She tilted her chin up, forced the corners of her mouth into a curve that was supposed to be enigmatic. It just looked pained.
“Hi, Adam,” she said to the empty room, her voice barely a murmur. “This old thing?” She shook her head, disgusted with herself. He’d seen through her the moment she’d spilled a full latte across his open laptop at the shared-workspace cafe. He hadn’t yelled. He’d just leaned back in his chair, looked at her dripping apron, and asked, “New here?” He’d bought a new computer the next day. He’d asked for her number the day after that.
The memory made her face warm. She fumbled for the small clutch, also borrowed, and started shoving things into it: lipstick, a crumpled twenty, her keys. Her fingers brushed against a folded piece of notebook paper. She pulled it out, the edges soft from wear.
It was a list, in her own messy script. Month One: Find apartment (CHECK, sort of). Find job (CHECK, two of them). Make a friend (Liza counts, probably). Don’t call home for money.
At the bottom, added later in a rushed scrawl: Do not, under any circumstances, fall for a guy in a suit.
She stared at the last line. Adam wasn’t just a guy in a suit. He was the suit. The kind that didn’t wrinkle, that fit shoulders like his with architectural precision. He was a conversation about私募股权 over cocktails. He was a world of dos and don’ts she didn’t know the first thing about.
The buzzer by the door screamed, a raw, electric sound that made her jump. Her heart hammered against the silk of the dress. It was 7:55. He was early.
She wasn’t ready. She would never be ready.
She looked at the list one more time, then crumpled it into a tight ball and shoved it deep into the clutch. She clicked it shut. A final glance in the mirror. The girl looked back, all sharp angles and nervous energy, a collection of borrowed parts. She took a deep breath, willed her shoulders to drop, her expression to soften into something resembling ease.
It half-worked.
She killed the flickering bulb, plunging the studio into a darkness that was instantly filled with the streetlamp’s orange glow from the window. She navigated the narrow path from bed to door by memory, her heels clicking on the bare wood. The door felt heavy as she pulled it open.
The hallway air was cooler, smelling of dust and other people’s cooking. She walked towards the stairwell, the sound of her own footsteps echoing around her. With each step, the studio, with its safe, familiar mess, receded. The night ahead of her expanded, vast and glittering and terrifying.
She pushed open the building’s front door. A sleek black car idled at the curb, its windows tinted and opaque. The driver, a man in a cap, saw her and started to get out.
Camille paused on the top step, the chill of the evening wrapping around her bare shoulders. She didn’t move. For a long second, she was suspended between the box of her old life behind her and the waiting car in front of her. The urge to turn around, to unzip the dress, order more lo mein, and hide in the flickering dark was a physical pull in her chest.
The driver stood holding the rear door open, his expression neutral.
She swallowed. Then, lifting her chin, she descended the steps towards the open door, the city’s noise rushing in to meet her.