Three Years To Love

The sky over New York was a dull, brooding gray, as though the city itself was as exhausted as the girl dragging her boots along its sidewalks. Arabella Quinn tightened her scarf against the wind and huffed as she reached the bottom of the worn-out steps leading to her apartment. Her heels—discount knockoffs from a thrift store in Brooklyn—clicked with a tired rhythm against the cracked pavement. Her left foot hurt, her stomach growled, and her pride had taken another brutal beating. “Dream job, my ass,” she muttered under her breath, gripping her resume like a failed love letter. Today was supposed to be different. Jackson Enterprises had sounded promising. The receptionist smiled. The coffee in the waiting room was free. Arabella even wore one good blazer, a navy one with satin buttons that made her feel like someone important. But no. The moment she sat down for the interview, the mood shifted. “You have a great portfolio, Miss Quinn,” the hiring manager had said with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “However, we require a guardian's recommendation as part of our vetting process.” A guardian recommendation. The words haunted her even now. Like a cruel joke, the universe played just to remind her that she wasn’t like everyone else. Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the spare key from the back pocket of her ripped jeans. She forced it into the lock, and the door creaked open, releasing a wave of warmth and the distinct smell of... was that bacon? And then—music. Not just any music. Lana Del Rey’s soulful, melancholy voice floated through the apartment like a ghost in velvet heels. Arabella paused in the doorway, lips curling upward. “Allison’s home,” she said to herself. She stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind her with her heel. The scent of something fried clung to the air like a loving hug and an ominous warning all at once. A few seconds later, a head popped out of the kitchen—flour on one cheek, eggshells stuck in her hair, and an apron looking like it had survived a war. Allison Greene. The only person who made this tiny New York apartment feel like home. “You’re back early,” Arabella said, letting her bag slump to the floor with a dramatic thud. “You’re back!” Allison beamed, eyes wide with excitement. “Wait—don’t come near me." I’m covered in breakfast.” Arabella raised a brow. “You mean breakfast as in ‘I made it’ or breakfast as in ‘I lost a fight with it’?” Allison scurried out of the kitchen and collapsed onto the faded couch. “Definitely the second one. I tried a new pancake recipe and... well, it fought back.” Arabella stripped off her blazer, revealing a faded crop top beneath. “I need sugar. Or revenge. I haven’t decided which.” “Interview?” Allison asked, glancing at her with soft sympathy. Arabella groaned and threw herself onto the couch beside her. “Another disaster. Apparently, qualifications mean jack unless you’ve got a ‘guardian recommendation.’ Their words. Like I’m applying for Hogwarts and need a letter from Yale.” Allison winced. “Oof. That’s ridiculous.” “I know, right?” Arabella tossed her head back. “As if I’d ever go crawling to my foster parents for a favor. I'd rather sell my soul.” “Well, technically, you already did,” Allison teased. “To capitalism.” Arabella snorted. “Touche.” Allison stood and peered down at her apron. “Okay, I’m going back to the battlefield. Do you want eggs, bacon, or semi-charred pancakes?” Arabella rolled her eyes. “Surprise me.” “Famous last words,” Allison said, disappearing back into the kitchen. Arabella pulled her legs up on the couch and reached for the remote. Her mood was already a stew of exhaustion and frustration, so flipping through news channels seemed oddly fitting. She stopped at a live broadcast labeled: World Companies Day – Elite CEOs in Attendance. On screen, a man walked through a wall of security. Dark tailored suit. Jet-black hair. Sunglasses even though the event was indoors. He looked like trouble, dressed in expensive cologne and arrogance. The camera zoomed in on him as a reporter shouted, “Mr. Xavier Knight, how do you maintain global dominance in such a competitive market?” He didn’t even look her way. With the voice of a glacier, he answered, “I don’t discuss business in public.” Then he gestured, and his security guards moved in—brisk, robotic, and terrifying. The reporter stumbled backward. The live feed cut out. Arabella blinked. “Wow.” Allison peeked back in. “What?” “That was the rudest man I’ve ever seen. And I haven’t even dated this year.” Allison laughed. “What man?” “Xavier Knight. You know, that billionaire from X Enterprises. I just watched him ice a reporter with one sentence. If looks could kill, that woman would’ve turned into ash.” Allison squealed, “Shut up! That’s my boss!” Arabella turned slowly. “Wait—what?” “I mean, I don’t see him. But I clean the X Enterprises building. His penthouse, too. Well, technically. We’re not allowed to be seen by him. If he shows up, we’re supposed to vanish.” “Vanish?” “Like cockroaches. Rich people don’t like seeing staff. It ruins the ambiance or something.” Arabella rolled her eyes. “Of course. God forbid the rich remember we exist.” Suddenly, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. An unknown number. She hesitated. “Answer it,” Allison urged. Arabella picked it up. “Hello?” A crisp, elegant voice replied, “Am I speaking with Arabella Quinn?” “Yes…?” “This is Harley Davidson, manager at X Enterprises. You’ve been offered a job as a cleaner at our headquarters and Mr. Knight’s private residence. The position includes full benefits, a generous salary, and begins immediately upon acceptance.” Arabella sat bolt upright. “I didn’t apply for a job at X Enterprises.” “Oh, but your friend did. Miss Allison Greene submitted your CV.” Arabella’s mouth dropped. “She what—” “You have three days to accept. Good day, Miss Quinn.” Click. Arabella stared at the phone like it had just told her she was adopted by aliens. “What?” Allison asked, poking her head in again. “You look like you just saw Jesus.” “Harley Davidson,” Arabella said, voice flat. “Wait, the manager? The manager-manager?” “She just offered me a job.” Allison gasped. “Oh my God, it worked!” “You submitted my CV?!” “You weren’t gonna do it yourself!” “I’m going to murder you with your own spatula!” They both broke into laughter, Allison squealing as Arabella pounced with a pillow. Between breathless giggles, Arabella whispered, “What the hell did you just drag me into?”