Chapter 1 - MONDAY MORNING AT STERLING ENTERPRISES
Monday morning, I stood outside Sterling Enterprises with a portfolio under one arm and the irrational fear that someone would walk out of the revolving doors and explain the entire weekend had been a misunderstanding.
The building occupied twenty-seven floors overlooking the Chicago River.
Glass.
Steel.
Quiet money.
The kind of place Dad had always said people like me entered only to decorate the lobby.
I almost laughed.
Then I walked in.
Marcus Sterling’s assistant met me downstairs.
“Miss Mitchell?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Sterling is expecting you.”
That sentence alone felt unreal.
We rode to the thirty-first floor.
Marcus was already standing beside a conference table covered in architectural plans.
Not alone.
Six people waited.
Marketing.
Design.
Development.
Brand strategy.
Nobody smiled politely when I entered.
They looked curious.
Marcus pointed toward the empty chair.
“Amber, sit.”
I did.
Then he placed my charcoal drawing on the table.
“This is what our campaign has been missing.”
A woman in a cream blazer frowned.
“I’m Claire Benton, head of brand.”
“Hi.”
She studied my work.
“How long did this take?”
“About seven hours.”
“From what source files?”
“None.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“I walked the site.”
Marcus smiled.
Claire did not.
Not yet.
She slid a rendering toward me.
Sterile.
Technically perfect.
Emotionally dead.
“What would you change?”
Everyone looked at me.
My father’s voice entered my head.
Don’t embarrass yourself.
I ignored it.
“The sky.”
Claire blinked.
“What?”
“It’s too clean.”
I pointed.
“Chicago isn’t experienced like that. The building shouldn’t look dropped into an advertisement. It should feel like it belongs to the city.”
I moved another rendering.
“And this angle makes the tower look isolated.”
“It’s the hero angle.”
“That’s the problem.”
Silence.
I continued.
“The building is expensive. Everyone already knows it wants attention.”
Marcus leaned back.
“What should it want instead?”
“To belong.”
The room changed.
Claire looked at me more carefully.
For the next forty minutes, we talked.
Not about art school.
Not about my layoff.
Not about my father.
Work.
Real work.
Light.
Weather.
Street level.
Scale.
How buildings look from trains.
How people remember windows glowing in winter.
By the end, Claire had stopped challenging whether I belonged in the room.
She started asking questions.
That felt better than admiration.
Marcus offered me a six-month consulting agreement.
$18,000 a month.
Separate fees for completed campaign artwork.
No exclusivity over my personal work.
Credit retained.
My attorney would review everything.
I stared at him.
“You have an attorney, right?”
“No.”
“Get one.”
That surprised me.
Dad would have told me to sign before anyone changed their mind.
Marcus pushed the contract away.
“Good opportunities survive legal review.”
I remembered that sentence.
Before I left, Marcus stopped me.
“One other thing.”
My stomach tightened.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not discussing him.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to.”
Good.
Marcus folded his hands.
“Scott Thompson called me seven times this weekend.”
I said nothing.
“He says the restaurant incident was a family misunderstanding.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I know.”
“He says you’re emotional.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course.”
Marcus’s face hardened.
“He also implied you exaggerated what happened to damage your father professionally.”
That made me angry.
Not because Dad lost his job.
Because even now, his instinct was to make me unreliable.
Marcus continued.
“I canceled Scott’s leasing engagement because I don’t trust executives who abandon someone with a twelve-thousand-dollar bill as entertainment.”
“Scott left too.”
“Yes.”
“He knew.”
“Yes.”
I looked at Marcus.
“Did you cancel because of me?”
“No.”
That answer surprised me.
“I canceled because of what I observed about them.”
He paused.
“There’s a difference.”
That mattered.
I thanked him.
Then walked out.
My phone vibrated the second I reached the elevator.
Unknown number.
I answered because apparently blocking my parents had turned them into amateur telecommunications engineers.
Mom.
“Amber.”
I nearly hung up.
“Please don’t.”
Her voice shook.
“Your father hasn’t slept.”
“That isn’t my responsibility.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because it’s true.”
“You ruined his career over a joke.”
“No.”
My voice stayed calm.
“Dad left me with a $12,459 bill. Scott participated. Marcus made his own decision.”
“Your father thought you would call us.”
“You blocked me.”
Silence.
That detail always ruined their version.
Mom tried again.
“He was teaching you independence.”
I laughed.
“By ordering five-thousand-dollar wine?”
“Amber.”
“No.”
I stepped into the elevator.
“You don’t get to call cruelty education just because the target survived it.”
Her breathing changed.
Then she said the sentence I knew would come eventually.
“We paid for RISD.”
I closed my eyes.
No.
They had helped.
I had scholarships.
Loans.
Work-study.
But in our family, partial support became permanent ownership.
“Goodbye, Mom.”
“Amber, wait. Scott is threatening to sue your father.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
“He says Jason caused the Sterling account to collapse.”
The elevator doors opened.
I stayed inside.
“Why would Scott say that?”
Mom hesitated.
“Because your father handled the proposal.”
There it was.
Something new.
Something she had not intended to reveal.
“What proposal?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
“The Sterling leasing proposal.”
I stepped out slowly.
“What did Dad do?”
“I don’t know.”
Lie.
Then:
“Please just talk to him.”
I hung up.
Ten minutes later, Marcus’s assistant called.
“Amber?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Sterling asked me to tell you something before you hear it elsewhere.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Sterling legal has found irregularities in Scott Thompson’s leasing proposal.”
I stopped walking.
“What kind?”
She paused.
“Your father’s name appears on the certification page.”
May you like
And suddenly the restaurant bill was no longer the biggest problem Jason Mitchell had.
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