In His Sheet

Episode 004

The next morning came too soon. My alarm buzzed as it hated me personally. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, dragged myself out of bed, and went straight for the coffee pot.

Mom was still asleep. I checked her breathing, adjusted her blanket, and set her pills on the nightstand before heading to the bathroom. The mirror didn’t do me any favors, dark circles, dull skin, and a mess of hair that looked permanently tired.

“Rich people wouldn’t survive a week of this,” I muttered, tying my hair up.

By noon, the café was less busy, so I clocked out, refreshing my inbox more times than I wanted to admit as I walked home. Nothing. Not from Allegra, not from the catering agencies. Just spam and a newsletter I never remembered signing up for.

I was halfway through folding laundry when my phone pinged. An email.

From: Clara Monroe

Subject: Event Assistant Opportunity

My heart actually skipped.

Hello Mara,

Thank you for reaching out. We are finalizing staff for an upcoming private event this weekend and may have an opening for a temporary assistant. Please confirm if you’re available for a brief in-person interview this afternoon at 3 PM at our downtown office.

Best, Clara MonroeAllegra Events

I read it twice. Then three times. Available? I would cancel my entire life if I had to.

I typed back immediately:

Yes, I’ll be there. Thank you for the opportunity.

Then the panic hit. What was I going to wear? I couldn’t exactly show up in my coffee shop uniform.

I tore through my small closet until I found a plain white blouse and a pencil skirt that still fit, even if the zipper needed a little prayer. I ironed them flat, dabbed on light makeup, and tied my hair into a neat low bun. Clean. Simple. Professional.

At 2:15, I was already on the bus, clutching my worn handbag like it held my future.

The Allegra Events office was nothing like I’d imagined, it was more. Tall glass walls, gold lettering, and a receptionist who looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine. I gave my name, signed the visitor sheet, and waited on one of those sleek chairs that made you too aware of how you sat.

“Mara Collins?”

I stood so fast I almost tripped. A woman in her thirties with sharp eyes and a smoother tone smiled politely. Clara Monroe, in the flesh.

“Come in,” she said, leading me down a quiet hallway. “You said you’ve done hospitality work?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered, keeping my voice even. “At clubs, hotels, private service. I’m used to working long hours and under pressure.”

She nodded, flipping through a clipboard. “Good. We need assistants who can adapt. This event is high-profile—discretion is important.”

“I understand.”

Her eyes lifted from the paper and studied me for a moment. “You look familiar. Have you done any events with Luxe Catering?”

I smiled like it was true. “Once, last year. Small corporate dinner.”

“Perfect,” she said, making a note. “We’re short on floor assistants, so if you’re available next weekend, consider yourself booked. The dress is formal black, minimal jewelry, and please be early. You’ll be working under my direct supervision.”

It took everything in me not to let the smile break through too fast. “Yes, absolutely.”

She handed me a badge, temporary ID, and a printed NDA. “Welcome to Allegra, Mara.”

The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped out into the afternoon air with the biggest grin I’d had in months. The sun hit my face, warm and sharp, and for once, it didn’t feel like the city was working against me.

I had a job.

Not just any job — an in.

People in expensive shoes brushed past me, talking into phones, rushing somewhere important. For the first time, I didn’t feel like an outsider watching them. I am part of it now, at least a little.

I fished my phone out of my bag and scrolled through my contacts until I found Joan’s name.

She picked up on the second ring. “Mara? Please tell me you’re calling to say you’re not coming to the club tonight, because I could use an extra shift.”

I laughed. “Actually, I got something better.”

“Better? What do you mean better?”

“I just left an interview at Allegra Events. They’re hiring me as an assistant for a private party this weekend.”

There was a pause. Then, a sharp gasp. “You’re kidding!”

“I’m not! They said it’s some big deal, high-profile people, formal dress code, the whole thing. I even got to sign an NDA"

Joan’s squeal nearly blew my eardrum. “Oh my God, girl, this is huge! You’re finally moving up from the club.”

“I know,” I said, laughing breathlessly. “I just— I need your help. The dress code’s formal black. You still have that dress you wore for your cousin’s engagement? The one with the slit?”

“The one you said made me look like I belonged in a perfume ad?”

“That’s the one.”

She giggled. “You can have it, but only if you promise to let me do your makeup. You can’t go in there looking like you’ve been running double shifts at the bar.”

“I’ll take anything you give me,” I said, walking toward the bus stop. “Just… make me look like I belong there.”

“You already do,” she said softly. “You just need the right dress to prove it.”

I smiled, the kind that sat deep in my chest. Maybe she was right.

As the bus pulled up, I caught my reflection in the glass, hair still neat, lipstick faded, eyes bright. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t see tired. I saw possibility.

Holysh*t! I'm actually doing this!

The rest of the week buzzed by fast, and the closer we got to the weekend the more anxious I got.

Joan’s apartment smelled faintly of coconut oil and body spray, a familiar mix that instantly made me feel lighter. Clothes were draped over the couch, makeup palettes scattered across the small coffee table like an artist’s war zone.

“Sit,” Joan ordered, already holding up her foundation brush like a weapon. “You’re late, and your face needs a miracle.”

I laughed, dropping my tote on the floor and sitting in the chair by her vanity mirror. “Traffic,” I said quickly, even though we both knew I’d been pacing my own apartment for an hour, too nervous to come over.

She raised a brow, smirking. “You mean overthinking again.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But I can’t mess this up, Joan. If I play this right, this could be the start of something.”

Joan dipped the brush into the foundation and began blending it across my cheeks. “Start of what?”

I hesitated, watching my reflection blur slightly under her touch. “Of a different life.”

Joan snorted. “You mean a rich life.”

“Why not?” I said, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “You’ve seen how these people live — the clothes, the cars, the ease. I’m tired of scraping by. Tired of choosing between rent and medicine. If I can learn how they move, what they do… I can find a way in.”

She stopped mid-brush, studying me. “You’re not talking about the event job anymore, are you?”

I shrugged, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Let’s just say this event is my classroom.”

Joan sighed, setting the brush down. “Mara, you’re smart, but those kinds of people don’t play fair. They’ll smile at you and eat you alive before dessert.”

“I’m not going in blind,” I said quietly. “I’m going in prepared.”

She looked at me for a long moment, then shook her head, a smile breaking through her concern. “You always did have a stubborn streak. Fine. Just promise me you won’t forget who you are when you start playing rich girl.”

“Promise,” I said, grinning.

Joan rolled her eyes but returned to work, brushing powder across my cheekbones. “Alright, Miss Ambition. Time to make you look expensive.”

We both laughed, and for a few minutes, the tension faded. Music hummed softly from her phone as she curled my hair and dusted shimmer over my eyelids.