Chapter 2 #2
The last couple of years have been an unrelenting nightmare.
Mom finally lost her battle with cancer, leaving a void so vast it seems the house will never seem full again.
But her absence isn’t the only thing she left behind—there’s also the crushing mountain of medical debt that swallowed up what little stability we had.
And Dad? He’s no help. He disappeared the moment things got tough, leaving for another woman not long after Mom got sick. I can’t decide what’s worse—his timing or the fact that I’m not even surprised anymore. It’s another reason I’ve sworn off relationships for good.
My throat burns with nausea as I claim the final seat.
I shut my eyes, wringing my hands as the subway rattles along the tracks, the rhythmic sound strangely soothing.
One thing is certain—I can’t tell Gracie I’ve lost my job.
She’s only just found her footing again, shaking off the grief that had drained the light from her.
She’s back to hanging out with her friends, no longer retreating to her room like the world outside doesn’t exist. Her passion for soccer has returned, playing every spare moment she can. She’s even been accepted for a soccer scholarship at UCLA starting in the fall.
And I made a promise to Mom as I sat by her side, watching her slip away. To take care of Gracie, no matter what. I can’t break that promise. I can’t let her down.
By the time I’m putting the key to lock in our modest apartment in Sunnyside, Queens, I’ve formulated a skeleton of a plan.
I kick my heels off, calling, “Gracie, I’m home.
” But there’s silence. Then I remember her extra soccer practice.
There’s a big tournament coming up, and it’s all she can talk about.
But she’s burning through cleats like nobody’s business, so I need cash, fast.
I pull out my phone to text my boss, Sonny.
He’s been badgering me to work more hours, but until today, it’s not been possible.
To make up for my entry-level salary at Knightwell, I spend my weekends bartending at the Velvet Lounge on the Upper East Side.
It’s an exclusive, private-membership gentlemen’s club catering to the disgustingly wealthy.
Power players flock there to network, unwind, and seal high-stakes deals over aged whiskey and cigar smoke.
But despite its polished veneer, the club isn’t without its seedy underbelly.
I’ve seen doormen pocket bribes to look the other way when certain clients leave with cocktail waitresses.
On the flip side, I’ve seen waitresses fired without hesitation when caught.
Thankfully, I’m behind the bar—separated from the leering stares and occasional wandering hands by a thick slab of glossy, imported mahogany.
The job isn’t glamorous, but the tips are generous enough to keep me coming back. I’ve even kept a notebook filled with details about the regulars—everything from their drink orders and favorite basketball team to the ones who prefer to be left alone—those guys tip the best.
The Velvet Lounge wasn’t exactly part of my dream career path, but right now, it’s my safety net.
When my phone buzzes with a reply from Sonny, the knot in my stomach loosens.
“Hell yeah, we need you Friday night. You in?”
I fire back a quick Yes, relief washing over me. At least I’ll make rent this month.
Some days, I feel forty-five instead of twenty-five—like I’ve been carrying the weight of the world for decades already.
But I’m grateful for Gracie—my little sister, my only family now. Everything I do, I do for her.
With my phone still in hand, a restless urge itches at me. I should prepare dinner, research new tech jobs, but my thoughts keep circling back. Before I can talk myself out of it, my fingers move, almost on their own.
Chase Knight.
I type his name into Google, my thumb trembling ever so slightly over the screen.
The first link that comes up is his LinkedIn profile. CEO of Knightwell, a firm that’s been making waves in tech. The polished, corporate image I expect—sharp suit, sharper jawline, that smile of his that never quite reaches his eyes. I scroll past it.
I move to the next result: Chase Knight: A New Power in Cybersecurity.
It’s an article about his most recent venture—Knightwell’s latest move into the cybersecurity world.
The deal he’s been touting to anyone who’ll listen.
The one I was supposed to be a part of. It’s the one he just kicked me out of.
I scroll through it, my stomach knotting tighter with every word.
My algorithms. My work. It’s like seeing the fruit of my labor stolen, claimed under his name.
Then, something else catches my eye: Chase Knight: The Beast of Brooklyn—a headline from The New York Times.
I pause, my heart skipping a beat. Beast of Brooklyn. A name that says it all. I click.
The article digs into his past—his rough beginnings in Brooklyn, raised by his Italian grandmother after his father went to prison and his mother disappeared.
There’s no sugar-coating it: he didn’t have a chance to be anything but tough.
But even with those odds stacked against him, Chase found a way out.
He earned a scholarship to Stanford, a business prodigy with nothing but his brains and raw determination to fight for a place in a world that didn’t give people like him a chance.
And when he earned that nickname—The Beast—it was while working at a private equity firm.
A hostile takeover, they called it. He didn’t just buy companies; he obliterated them.
Companies fell at his feet, and his reputation as a cold, calculating powerhouse only solidified.
The Braxton acquisition was the defining moment in his career, a ruthless, high-stakes move that made Wall Street cower in fear. The one that earned him that nickname.
Briefly, I close my eyes, pushing back the sour taste in my mouth.
I’m not even sure why I’m still reading this.
Despite knowing the story, I still scroll.
I swipe to the next tab—a photo of him at some gala standing beside a model—leggy, perfect, as always.
He’s in his element, the man who never has to try hard.
I stare at the photo. He’s wearing that smile again.
The one that says he knows exactly what you’re thinking, exactly what he wants from you, like he could crush you in the blink of an eye, and you’d never see it coming.
I linger on it for a moment longer than I should, then swipe the tab away, forcing away the confusing feelings Chase Knight incites. Frankly, I’m annoyed at myself for allowing him headspace.
I hear the scrape of a key in the lock and the slam of the door, and Gracie comes bounding in, her face lit up with joy. It’s easy to tell the game went well.
“We won. Three—zero,” she says, shifting her kit bag on her shoulder, pushing her hair out of her face. “And I scored. Coach said it was a peach of a goal.”
“Nice one, Gracie. There’s no stopping you. UCLA won’t know what’s hit them. Why don’t you take a shower, and I’ll get dinner ready?”
“Can we get takeout pizza?” She asks, her palms pressed together in a plea.
“Not tonight, Gracie. Maybe at the weekend.” I leave out the depressing fact that money will be tighter. I don’t want to ruin her winning mood.
Gracie is pensive for a moment, studying my face. “You look tired, Vi. Is everything okay?”
“Of course, everything’s fine, just a busy day at work.” I shrug. I’ve never been the best liar, and Grace knows me better than anyone.
“Look, Vi,” she says, chewing her thumbnail. “You don’t have to pretend everything is okay all the time. I know I’m your baby sister, and I’m a moody bitch at times, but I’m old enough to look after myself, and if you need a shoulder to lean on, I’d like to think you could come to me too.”
My eyes well with quickly suppressed tears. My emotions are all over the place today. One moment, I’m hopping mad. The next, I’m ready to curl up in a ball and sob.
“Mom would be super proud of you, Gracie,” I say, standing to pull her in for a hug as she lets her bag drop to the floor.
“And you too, Vi, don’t forget that. Mom would want you to be happy, too.”
“I am.” If only Chase Knight hadn’t dropped a hand grenade on my life, I’d be doing just fine. But I keep that quiet. “Okay, get your stinky self in the shower, and I’ll sort dinner,” I add, playfully smacking her butt.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Gracie says, swatting my hand away and turning towards our tiny bathroom.
“By the way,” she shouts, looking back at me over her shoulder. “After dinner, we’re so making you a Tinder profile. You need to start dating again before you get donated to a museum.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Over my dead body.”
“We’ll see,” she singsongs as she elbows the bathroom door open. “Plus, your friend Seb said we need to.”
“Don’t listen to Seb. He’s full of shit.” Goddamn Seb. I’m going to kill him. Interfering with my life is his favorite hobby.
But I can’t help smiling to myself, happy that the old Gracie is back. The ball of energy that whizzes through life, barely taking a breath.
In my life, I’ve faced scarier and bigger monsters than Chase Knight.
He can go to hell and kiss my ass on the way there.