In His Sheet

Episode 003

I tried not to look interested, but my reflection betrayed me; my brows lifted just a little.

“Is it an open invite?” Dani asked, already knowing the answer.

Sasha laughed. “Honey, please. You don’t just walk into an Adrian Holt event. You need an engraved invitation and probably a bloodline of money.”

The room buzzed with excitement. Everyone started talking over one another, about what they’d wear if they ever got the chance, about the kind of men who’d be there, about how it wasn’t fair that people like that lived in another universe entirely.

I kept quiet, pretending to scroll through my phone. But inside, something sharp and alive stirred beneath my exhaustion. The kind of hunger that made your pulse pick up.

“Can you imagine?” one of the girls said, half-dreaming. “The champagne, the gowns, the view from that place…”

I could. Too easily.

The laughter faded around me, but my mind kept going, painting pictures I’d never seen in real life. Chandeliers, velvet dresses, hands that didn’t smell like coffee and sanitizer.

Sasha was still talking, “He’s thirty-two, single, and get this, he doesn’t do public appearances often. This might be the only time this year he’s seen in person.”

My heart gave a small, uninvited flutter.

“That man could buy the whole city if he wanted to,” Dani sighed. “What would it even feel like, living that kind of life?”

“I don’t know,” I said quietly, more to myself than anyone else. “But maybe one day, I’ll find out.”

They all laughed playfully, harmlessly, but I wasn’t joking.

Because I just had a crazy thought.

"To win the game you have to study the players....if there's one thing being broke has taught me is to win no matter what."

The apartment hummed like a tired refrigerator when I came in, the same familiar, low-grade noise that meant the world kept turning even if mine felt stuck. I dropped my bag by the door, walked straight to the table, and opened my laptop. Joan was on the half-dead couch; her snores were the only sound indicating that she was alive.

The screen lit up my face in blue light, blinding me for a split second. I glanced at the clock; it was past two in the morning, my next shift is in four hours, and I really need my sleep; if not, I'd be a walking zombie by morning, but I can wait.

I typed: Adrian Holt and hit enter.

Results spilled across the page: a dry press release from a tech magazine, an overheated gossip blog, a restaurant review, one blurry i********: story that might have been from last year. Not that said, come one, come all. Everything was small, coded, private.

I clicked through anyway. A society column named The Lattice had a short post about Holt’s philanthropy, donations here, investments there, but not the party. Someone in the comments speculated it might be a black-and-gold gala at his penthouse. Someone else said it would be by invitation only, “If you’re not on the list, don’t even try.” The words felt like a slap and a dare at once.

I opened a new tab and searched for how to get into exclusive events without an invite. Twice as many results. Forum threads about fake invitations, temp event staff, charity volunteer portals, and one blog post about photographers needing assistants, even people offering their "services" to get me a fake invite with just a small discounted amount...300$!!!

Then I typed something different, "event planners for Adrian Holt," and there it was, Allegra Events, a top-tier planning company that handles private clients. I clicked through their site, scanning every line, every detail, then a name popped up, Clara Monroe, __ founder/senior coordinator. Her email was listed under staffing & Assistance.

Bingo.

I opened a new message and started typing.

*Hello Clara,

I’m reaching out regarding your upcoming event for a high-profile client. I’ve worked in hospitality and guest coordination for over three years and would love to offer my assistance if there’s still an opening.

CV Attached*

Best, Mara Collins*

Short, simple, professional. I read it twice before hitting send.

Then I opened i********: and searched "Allegra Events". The feed was a stream of gold: rooftop dinners, champagne towers, people who’d never worked a double shift in their lives. I scrolled until I found a recent photo of Clara—red blazer, confident smile, glass of wine. Her caption read, “Final preparations for next week’s big event. Proud of my team.”

Next week. It had to be the party.

I zoomed in on the photo, studying the room reflected in the glass behind her. Marble floors. Gold detailing. Somewhere expensive.

My phone buzzed. A message from the pharmacy, reminding me of the late payment on my mother's medication, I typed back a quick response asking for more time, then went back to the screen.

If Clara didn’t reply, I’d find another way. Assistant positions, catering staff, guest registration, anything that got me in the door. I searched again, this time for event assistant temporary openings. Dozens of listings appeared, most for the same weekend. A few even mentioned “private clients in partnership with Allegra.”

I sent in three applications before the Wi-Fi started lagging.

When I finally leaned back, my eyes burned from the light, but I didn’t care. I had names, emails, company contacts, and dates. That was enough to start.

I shut the laptop, tossed the noodle cup into the bin, and looked around the small apartment.

I had a plan.

Get in.

Learn.

Become one of them.

Beat them at their own game.

Then find myself a rich man.

I wasn’t like the models or TV stars, but I knew I was beautiful. With a little makeup, a new dress, and a new identity, I could pass for one of them. All I had to do right now was to find someone kind enough to be friends with me, and she will be my ticket to more events, so that I can finally be out of this hell I call life.