Dirty Little Rich Girl

It's the cherries that do me in. Not the wine. Not the imported crackers. The cherries. A bag of dark sweet cherries, because I felt like it, because I never had to think about what things cost. The scanner beeps. Beep. Beep. Beep. Whole Foods on Houston. Six-thirty on a Tuesday. The after-work rush — everyone in Manhattan buying overpriced kale and organic chicken — and I'm standing here with a basket holding four things and a life that's about to implode across a credit card reader. The cashier, Chelsea according to her nametag, has purple hair and a tired smile. "That'll be seventy-eight forty-three." I slide my Amex into the reader. The machine hums. Processes. Thinks about it. Just go through. Just this once. Declined. "That's weird." I wipe the card on my sleeve, try again. "Run it again." Same result. "Maybe another card?" Chelsea's smile is thinner now. My Visa Black. The one with no limit. The one my father gave me when I turned eighteen, wrapped in a ribbon, with a note that said Don't embarrass me. Declined. The backup. Everyday purchases. Coffee. Ubers. Brunch at Sant Ambroeus. Declined. Three cards. Three. None of them worth a damn. The heat spreads from my chest to my neck to my face. The guy behind me clears his throat. The woman behind him shifts her weight. The conveyor belt is stopped. My four items sit there like evidence. I am holding up the line at Whole Foods because I can't pay for seventy-eight dollars of groceries. I've tipped more than that on a single cocktail. I pull out my phone. Call my father. Straight to voicemail. I call again. Straight to voicemail. He never answers. He has people for that — assistants, lawyers, accountants, a whole army paid to make sure Charles Kade never has to speak to anyone directly. Including his daughter. I call my mother. She picks up on the first ring. "Blake. Don't bother." "What did you do?" "What did I do?" She laughs. Hollow. Sharp. Not the dinner-party laugh she used on board members. The real one. "What did you do, sweetheart? Your father knows." I grip the phone. "Knows what?" "The Cayman account. The emails. The transfers. He knows everything. He knows you helped me." The air in Whole Foods feels different. Thinner. Like someone opened a window at high altitude. "He can't just—" "He can. He did. Every card, every account, the apartment at 432 Park, the car, the trust — frozen. Sealed. Gone." She says it like a weather report. "He wanted me to tell you personally. Said I should watch you fall since I helped you jump." "That's—" "That's Charles Kade." A beat. "I'm sorry, Blake. But you should have thought about that before you sent those emails." She hangs up. I stare at my phone. The screen goes dark. In the reflection: blonde hair, designer tank top, Lululemon leggings. The uniform of a girl who has never had to worry about money. Had. "Ma'am?" Chelsea is looking at me. "Are you okay?" I am the opposite of okay. I am standing in a grocery store with no money and no future. My entire life just ended in the time it takes a credit card machine to say no. "I'm sorry. I can't—" I walk out. Leave the basket. Leave the wine. Leave the cherries. The July heat hits me like a wall. Houston Street is chaos — taxis, delivery trucks, people with places to be. I stand there, letting the city move around me. I have nothing. No money. No home. No identity. Just me. Blake Kade. Twenty-one. An art history degree from NYU worth less than the paper. Zero work experience. A best friend with a couch I can crash on for three more nights before her boyfriend puts his foot down. I am so completely, utterly f****d. * * * Three days later, I'm in a Starbucks in SoHo. One coffee. Small. Black. Paid for with the last twelve dollars in my wallet — the same wallet that used to carry a thousand on a slow day. Tessa's couch is comfortable. Tessa's patience is not. She's been nice the way nice people are nice when they want you to know they're being generous. Three nights, she said. I've used all three. I scroll through job listings. Barista. Receptionist. Retail associate. They all want experience. They all want a resume. They all want something I don't have. And then I see it. No company logo. No friendly blurb about culture and growth opportunities. Just words that make my pulse skip. Upscale Private Club Seeking Hostess. Evenings. Discretion Required. Exceptional Pay. Apply in person, 218 Elizabeth Street, after 9pm. Ask for Nico. No website. No email. No phone number. This is sketchy. Probably illegal. Definitely a bad idea. I screenshot it anyway. What's the worst that could happen? I'm already at rock bottom. * * * 9:47 PM. I'm standing outside 218 Elizabeth Street in Nolita. The street is quiet. A boutique, closed. A café, closed. Between them, a narrow building with no sign, no window. Just a black door. Matte. Unmarked. Like a secret the street is keeping. Turn around. Go back to Tessa's couch. Figure something else out. But I think about the three declined cards. My father's voicemail. The coffee I paid for with my last twelve dollars. And I knock. A slot slides open. Dark eyes look out. They take me in — hair, face, clothes — in a single sweep that feels both quick and thorough. "Name." "Blake Kade. I'm here about the job." The eyes hold mine for a beat. The slot slides shut. Bolts turn. The door opens. I step inside. And everything changes.