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People always notice me twice. The first time, it is the dress, fitted just enough to turn heads, the color that makes my skin look like I live under permanent golden hour lighting. The second time, it is how I look back at them, like I know a secret they will never be invited to share. I am Stella, Nineteen, supposed to be in love with books, exams, and the promise of a “stable career;” But i am in love with something else, the gleam of a Cartier bracelet under soft restaurant lighting, the way a champagne cork pops in a rooftop bar, the weight of an envelope thick with cash in my handbag. I am not here to just graduate. I am here to escape. Growing up, my mother worked two jobs and still counted coins at the end of the month. I remember her saying, “One day you will understand the value of hard work.” I do, I just do not believe in waiting forty years to enjoy it. What I want is simple: financial freedom, designer everything, and a lifestyle so polished it makes people choke on their jealousy. What is holding me back? Tuition bills, Rent, a part-time café job that barely pays for groceries. The suffocating slowness of “making it” the respectable way. That is where my secret comes in. While other girls in my dorm are up late, highlighters in hand, cramming for midterms, i am slipping out of campus dressed like i am walking onto a Vogue cover. My destination is never random, velvet-lined lounges, penthouse suites, candlelit tables with men old enough to be my father and wealthy enough to never check the price of the wine. Married? More often than not. I tell myself it is a transaction; my time, my smile, my attention in exchange for the life I deserve. It is not love, it is strategy. Tonight is no different. The girls in my corridor are hunched over laptops as I click down the hall in four-inch heels. Someone calls out, “Where are you going, Stella?” I flash a smile over my shoulder. “Group study,” I lie, letting the words float behind me like perfume. Outside, the night air is warm, humming with the city’s heartbeat. I slide into the back seat of a sleek black car. My driver does not ask questions, he never does. The streetlights cast gold ribbons across the leather interior as I check my reflection in the tinted window. Perfect! My phone buzzes with a message; “I cannot wait to see you. Suite 1502, D” D is Daniel, Forty-six and married, owns a string of luxury car dealerships. He is generous, Predictable, Safe, or at least safe than most. But here is the truth; the higher I climb into this glittering world, the more I feel the shadows stretching toward me. Men get possessive. Wives get suspicious. Whispers have a way of reaching the wrong ears. Still, I push the thought aside as the hotel lights come into view. A queen does not stop moving just because the board gets dangerous and I have no intention of being anyone’s pawn.