CHAPTER 14
Miley’s POV:
The heavy hum of my Monica’s sedan engine vibrated through the floorboards, a low, steady rumble that anchored me back to reality after the emotional hurricane I had just stepped out of.
Outside the passenger window, the familiar, weathered brownstones of Brooklyn blurred past in a smear of fading orange sunlight, neon corner store signs flickering to life as the New York twilight took over.
The interior of the car smelled intensely of vanilla tree air fresheners, Armor All wipes, and the faint, lingering scent of the dozens of strangers Monica had shuttled across the boroughs all afternoon.
"Miley, sweetie... I am so, so incredibly sorry about that," she said, her hands gripping the steering wheel tight at ten and two.
She didn't look at me, her eyes locked firmly on the brake lights of the delivery truck ahead of us, but the sheer embarrassment radiating off her was heavy enough to suffocate a person. "I swear to you, Angela isn't usually like that. Well, she is a handful, but she’s just... she’s gone through some things, you know? She’s incredibly guarded.
I didn't mean to drag you into a family feud the minute you stepped into my house. "
I let out a soft, low chuckle, leaning my head back against the worn headrest. I shifted my Telfar bag to my lap, my fingers tracing the smooth embossed logo.
"Monica, deadass, do not even worry about it," I said, my voice carrying that effortless, unbothered cadence I used whenever I needed to put people at ease.
"I told you back in the living room, I’m totally chilled about the whole thing.
Your daughter is a firecracker, but I don't scare easily. "
"She’s a broken heart pretending to be a brick wall," Monica sighed, a deep, maternal sound that came straight from the pit of her stomach.
She shook her head, tapping her manicured nails against the steering wheel.
"Ever since that girl Megan did what she did, Angela treats every single human being who walks through that door like an undercover assassin.
But did you see the way Max took to you?
I have never, in all my years of living with that demonic cat, seen him let a stranger do anything besides get scratched.
You got a good spirit, Miley. I knew it the minute you got into my backseat at the E-Corp. "
"Max is a real one," I smiled, looking out the window as we crossed the bridge, the Manhattan skyline rising up in the distance like a mountain range of glass and steel.
But as I played it cool on the outside, my mind was spinning.
I couldn't shake the memory of Angela’s face.
The raw, unfiltered intensity in her eyes when she told her mother she wasn't shunning people, she was protecting. There was something so intensely authentic about her defensiveness. In my world—especially corporate world on the forty-second floor of E-Tech—everyone wore a mask. Everyone was smiling while holding a knife behind their back. But Angela? She put all her cards on the table, thorns and all. And that last comment she made before she slammed the door... You’re even more beautiful in person.
A sudden, unfamiliar prickle of heat spread across my chest just thinking about it.
"Well, this is your stop, beautiful," Monica said, pulling the Altima up to the curb outside my apartment building.
She turned in her seat, looking at me with genuine warmth.
"Don't let my daughter's attitude ruin your night.
You go have fun at your fancy dinner, you hear me? You earned that E-Tech spot."
"Thank you, Monica. For the ride and the hospitality," I said, leaning over to give her a quick hug. "Tell Angela I said Vera Stone is still a secondary character, though."
Monica let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed in the quiet street. "Oh, you want her to burn the building down! I will surely tell her. Have a good night, Miley!"
I stepped out into the humid evening air, the door clicking shut behind me.
The transition from the heavy emotional baggage of Angela’s apartment to the high-stakes reality of my own life happened in the span of a single breath.
I hurried up the concrete steps of my building, my mind already shifting gears.
Tonight wasn't just a dinner. It was an invitation into Helisa’s personal sanctuary.
A boundary was being crossed, and I knew it was dangerous, but as I unlocked my apartment door, I knew there was no turning back.
An hour later, I stood in front of my full-length bathroom mirror, staring at the woman looking back at me. I had completely transformed. The corporate intern avatar was gone, replaced by something entirely captivating.
I was wearing a chocolate-brown, rib-knit maxi dress that clung to every single curve of my hourglass silhouette like a second skin.
The material possessed a subtle, metallic shimmer that caught the light whenever I moved, shifting from a deep espresso to a warm bronze.
The neckline dipped into a modest but striking halter, exposing the smooth, dark velvet of my shoulders and collarbones.
My box braids were freshly styled, gathered intricately at the crown of my head with a few long, thick plaits left down to frame my face, grazing my collarbone where a delicate gold chain rested.
I applied a final swipe of high-shine brown lip gloss, smacking my lips together as the scent of sweet vanilla filled the small bathroom.
Buzz.
My phone vibrated against the marble counter. A text from an unknown number: Marcus is outside in the black Escalade whenever you are ready, Ms. Palmer.
My heart gave a heavy, irregular thud against my ribs. Marcus. Helisa’s private driver. This was the level of luxury I had only ever viewed through the lens of a social media feed, and now it was idling at my curb.
I grabbed my bag, took one last deep breath to steady the fluttering in my stomach, and walked out.
When I stepped onto the street, the sleek, blacked-out SUV was waiting, its engine purring with quiet, expensive power.
Marcus—a tall, impeccably dressed older man in a crisp white shirt and dark tie—was already standing by the rear passenger door.
The moment his eyes landed on me, he offered a respectful, understated bow of his head, opening the door wide.
"Good evening, Ms. Palmer. Beautiful night," Marcus said, his voice smooth and professional.
"Good evening, Marcus. Thank you," I said, sliding into the leather interior.
The cabin of the Escalade smelled of expensive leather, new carpet, and a custom ozone air purifier.
The city lights flickered across the tinted windows as we glided through the streets of Manhattan, moving away from the gritty charm of the outer boroughs and heading straight toward the towering, glass structures of the ultra-wealthy.
When the vehicle finally pulled up to the private residential entrance of the penthouse tower in Tribeca, my breath caught in my throat.
Marcus opened my door, guiding me out with an umbrella in hand just in case a stray drop of rain fell from the humid sky.
He led me through the pristine, marble-clad lobby where a concierge in a tailored suit nodded silently, straight toward the private elevator bank.
"Floor fifty-two, Ms. Palmer. Enjoy your evening," Marcus said, placing a keycard against the scanner before stepping back.
The elevator ride was so smooth it felt like floating, the numbers ticking up with terrifying speed. When the silver doors finally slid open, I stepped directly into the foyer of Helisa’s penthouse—and the sheer, intimidating opulence of the space nearly knocked me off my feet.
The floors were wide-plank white oak, buffed to a mirror shine.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls wrapped around the entire perimeter of the living room, offering an unobstructed, multi-million-dollar panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline, the lights of the city glowing like a carpet of fallen stars.
The furniture was minimalist but dripping in wealth—a massive, custom cream-colored bouclé sectional sofa, abstract bronze sculptures resting on marble plinths, and lighting fixtures that looked like modern museum art.
But what completely broke through the sterile, high-end luxury of the penthouse was the scent.
It hit me the moment I stepped past the foyer—a rich, heavy, intoxicating aroma that was entirely undeniable.
It was the unmistakable scent of slow-cooked Jamaican oxtail, the deep, earthy fragrance of pimento berries, browning sauce, scallions, and scotch bonnet peppers cutting right through the expensive candle scent of the penthouse.
It smelled like home, like a Sunday afternoon in the middle of a corporate fortress.
"Miley! You made it," a voice called out, smooth and dripping with an underlying warmth that I rarely heard in the office.
I turned my head toward the open-concept kitchen.
Helisa was stepping out from behind a massive quartz island.
Dayum, she looked incredible. She had traded her structured corporate blazers for a relaxed, cream-colored silk button-down shirt, the top three buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of her dark skin, and a pair of perfectly tailored wide-leg trousers.
Her hair was pulled back into a sleek, low bun, and as she walked toward me, her eyes locked onto my chocolate-brown dress.
For a fraction of a second, her professional mask completely slipped, her gaze tracking down the length of my silhouette before rising back to my eyes with a sudden, intense hunger.
"Wow," Helisa murmured, stopping just a few inches away from me. The faint scent of her expensive woodsy perfume mixed with the rich aroma of the food. "Miley... you look absolutely magnificent. That dress is... it’s a crime, honestly."