Chapter 2 ARIA'S POV

Some mornings feel heavier than others.

Not because of anything dramatic, just the quiet weight of surviving.

I stared at the ceiling of our tiny apartment, sunlight creeping in through the broken blinds.

Mikey's alarm buzzed faintly from the other side of the room, but he was already awake, flipping through his science notebook and mumbling formulas under his breath.

"Are you sure it's Sunday?" I asked groggily, my voice still sleep-rough.

He glanced at me. "Yeah. Why?"

I sighed, rubbing my face. "Because it doesn't feel like I rested at all."

He gave a half-smile. "Maybe your dreams were doing night shifts again."

I chuckled despite myself and sat up. The floor was cold beneath my bare feet. I reached for the hoodie hanging by my bed same one I'd worn yesterday and pulled it on.

Another day, another dollar. Or more accurately, another ten if I was lucky.

I had a cleaning shift booked at Rosegate Community Hall, a multipurpose space two neighborhoods away. They paid cash, no questions asked.

I took Mikey with me when I could. It was safer than leaving him home alone, and he used the time to study. It made me feel like less of a failure.

"Ready?" I asked.

He nodded, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "Always."

We walked the mile to Rosegate. Couldn't afford a cab. The bus routes were slow on Sundays, and I'd rather save the fare for dinner.

The streets were still waking up. Damp sidewalks. A cold breeze cutting between buildings. Someone played jazz from an open window two floors up.

For a moment, I let myself pretend we were in some city where things worked where sidewalks didn't crack and electricity didn't blink twice before staying off.

The manager at Rosegate was a grumpy middle-aged man named Mr. Allen, who always smelled faintly like furniture polish and disappointment.

"You're late," he barked as we arrived ten minutes early.

"No, sir," I said, holding up my phone screen. "See? Nine forty-eight."

He muttered something about "kids with attitudes" and shoved a mop in my direction.

Mikey settled into a plastic chair in the corner and opened his book. I caught him watching me between math problems quiet, observant. He never complained, not even once, about having to tag along.

I hated that.

I hated that he was growing up learning how to survive instead of just being a kid.

Two hours later, my back ached, and my arms were sore. My knees had started to sting from scrubbing scuff marks off the marble stage floor. When we were done, Mr. Allen handed me $25 in cash.

No "thank you." No "good job." Just the rustle of bills and the sound of a man already forgetting I existed.

We stopped at a small diner on the way home, and I used $7 to buy Mikey grilled cheese and a milkshake. He offered to split it, but I shook my head.

"Eat," I said. "You're still growing. I'm already stunted."

He laughed and dug in. The milkshake gave him a whipped cream mustache, and I took a mental picture I'd keep in my heart forever.

These were the golden moments, the ones that didn't cost much but felt like everything.

Back at the apartment, I cleaned up, changed into sweatpants, and opened my planner.

Rent due in 10 days.

$690 still short.

I closed it again. Pretending it wasn't real was easier than staring at numbers I couldn't change.

Instead, I curled up on the couch and pulled a blanket over my legs.

Mikey had dozed off during his science reading. His head leaned to the side, mouth slightly open. His glasses slipped halfway down his nose. He looked peaceful.

I should've let that peace exist.

But my brain didn't rest. It never did.

I thought of everything at once:

The overdue phone bill

My third job cutting hours next week

Mikey's upcoming school trip he hadn't even told me about yet

And... oddly, irrationally...

Him.

The man from the café.

The one I spilled tea on.

I didn't even know his name. He hadn't said it. But the way he looked at me like he recognized me somehow, even though we'd never met it kept replaying in my head, like a line from a song I couldn't shake.

Why was someone like him in a place like ours?

And why did it feel like it wasn't the last time I'd see him?

We lived in a walk-up building on the east side of Brooklyn, not far from Prospect Avenue. The kind of place where the walls were thin, the neighbors were loud, and the rent was always rising but you stayed anyway because where else could you go?

The hallway always smelled like old takeout and bleach. Our upstairs neighbor played Spanish music like it paid his bills. And the heating clanked like it was in pain.

Home.

Or something like it.

I'd just settled on the couch when my phone buzzed. A text from our house agent, Mr. Gardner.

"Hey, Aria. Just a heads up your rent's overdue again. I need something by the 10th, or we'll have to talk about options."

"Talk about options." That was his way of saying find a miracle or get out.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over it.

I had nothing to say.

I dropped the phone face down on the table and sank deeper into the couch cushions. Mikey was still asleep beside me, wrapped up like a burrito in my old hoodie. I didn't have the heart to wake him. Not when he looked so peaceful.

By early evening, I'd gotten dressed again and headed a few blocks west, toward Lexington Avenue, where my friend Danika worked at a 24-hour bodega.

She and I had done a few gigs together back in the day cleaning jobs, food service, even one weird night working at a Halloween pop-up shop in Queens.

Danika was street-smart, unapologetic, and never afraid to hustle. If anyone knew where to find extra work, it was her.

She lit up when I walked in.

"Look what the 6 train dragged in," she teased, pulling her curls into a messy bun. "Haven't seen you in a minute."

"Been drowning," I said, leaning against the counter. "Rent's choking me again."

She clicked her tongue. "Same. Capitalism's a disease."

"I need another gig. Anything."

Danika hesitated, then gave me a look. "Okay. I do have something. But it's weird."

"Weird how?"

"Weird as in hush-hush. Cash up front. No receipts. Could be nothing. Could be a little shady."

I raised a brow. "And you trust it?"

Meanwhile, somewhere across the city Upper Manhattan, maybe Julian Styles sat in the backseat of his black Mercedes, scrolling through something on his phone.

The café's name popped up again.

Daily Roast Brooklyn.

That same girl's face flashed in his mind. Not clearly. Just a flicker. A memory.

What was it about her?

She wasn't stunning. Not in the way models were. But there was something... unshaken about her. Unapologetic. Messy, but grounded.

And she'd looked him in the eye.

Most people didn't.

His assistant, Blaze sat up front with the driver.

"Did you find the name of the girl from the café?" he asked suddenly.

Blaze blinked. "The one who spilled on you?"

"Yes."

She tapped something into her tablet. "Working on it. Shouldn't take long. The café manager said her name's Aria Reed. They have her on the books as part-time."

"Aria," he repeated quietly.

A pause.

"Want me to run a background check?"

"No," Julian said. "Not yet."

Back in our apartment, I returned home to Mikey reheating the last two frozen waffles and humming along to a song playing from his phone.

"Hey," he said, tossing me one. "Did you get another gig?"

"Maybe," I replied. "A friend's working on it."

He nodded, taking a big bite. "Think it'll be enough?"

"No idea."

We didn't speak for a few minutes after that. The silence between us was soft, not heavy.

I glanced at the rent note on the fridge. Then at Mikey, who was trying to balance his fork on his nose.I didn't know how we were going to get out of this.

But if it meant saying yes to something weird, something risky, something that felt just a little off maybe that was still better than sinking.

Maybe survival looked a little shady sometimes.

We lived on the east side of Brooklyn, in a worn-out walk-up where the pipes groaned louder than the neighbors and the house agent only showed up when the rent was late.

The streets here always smelled like concrete, deli grease, and damp pavement. Still, something about the New York air made it feel like anything could happen even if it rarely did.

I spent the afternoon cleaning the apartment. It was pointless, honestly. The floor was scratched beyond saving, and the sink dripped like it had a grudge. But doing something, kept the panic quiet.

When Mikey fell asleep after finishing his leftover grilled cheese, I sat with my knees pulled to my chest on the couch, just staring at the fridge.

Our overdue rent notice was still pinned there. I hated how casual it looked like a to-do list instead of a threat.

My phone buzzed beside me.

Unknown number.

I frowned and picked it up.

"Hello?"

There was a short pause, then a woman's voice calm, clipped, and eerily composed.

"Is this Aria Reed?"

"Yes?" My voice came out slower than I meant it to.

"I'm reaching out on behalf of a private client. They've expressed interest in arranging a brief, discreet meeting with you."

I blinked. "I'm sorry, who is this?"

The woman didn't answer directly.

"You were referred through a trusted source. That's all I can disclose at this time."

I sat up straighter. "Referred... for what, exactly?"

"The nature of the meeting will be explained if you choose to accept. The client is willing to compensate you for your time."

Compensate?

This was weird.

I looked over at Mikey, his face relaxed in sleep.

"I don't usually meet with strangers," I said carefully. "Especially ones who won't tell me what it's about."

"I understand," she said smoothly. "There's no pressure. But I'd advise keeping an open mind. Not all opportunities look the way you expect."

Before I could ask another question, she added:

"If you're willing, reply to the number that sent this. You may choose the time and public location. No obligations. We'll respect your decision either way."

Then the call ended.

I sat there for a full minute, phone still in my hand.

What the hell was that?

It didn't sound like a scam. It didn't even sound like desperation. Whoever it was... they weren't begging me. They were waiting.

I opened my texts and sure enough, there was a new one:

"We hope you'll consider. Your comfort and safety are our priorities. Location of your choice."

- B.

My stomach twisted. It was all too vague. No job title. No company name. No clear request.

I thought of Danika. Maybe she had something to do with this. But even she wouldn't toss me into something like this blind would she?

I didn't reply.

I turned off my phone and tossed it onto the coffee table like it had burned me.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I lay in bed listening to the city through our cracked window car horns, sirens, the occasional dog barking. Brooklyn never slept. And neither did my anxiety.

What if this was dangerous?

But what if it wasn't?

What if this was... a real