The next morning, reality hit me harder than the hangover.
I needed a job.
Like, an actual job. Not some spoiled rich kid hobby.
God help me.
I put on the cleanest clothes I had a black hoodie and jeans and set out into the city, trying to find something, anything.
I walked from place to place, store to store.
Nothing.
It was brutal.
Everywhere I went, the same look.
The same words.
"Do you have experience?"
"Do you have a degree in business, management, hospitality?"
"We're looking for someone with five years' experience."
"Sorry, you're not what we're looking for."
Five years experience?!
I just freaking graduated college three months ago!
This sector, Sector A, the land of the rich and powerful everything here was perfect, polished, competitive.
If you didn't have ten years' experience by the age of twenty-one, you were basically invisible.
By noon, I was about ready to punch a wall.
I sat at a bench, running my hand through my hair, trying not to lose my mind.
There was no way I could survive like this.
To even find a decent job, I'd have to move to Sector B ...the "middle class" zone.
Cheaper living. Easier jobs.
But leaving Sector A without a permit? Yeah. Good luck with that.
The gates were practically a damn fortress.
I pulled out my phone and called Ken.
He picked up almost immediately.
"Broooo," he laughed. "You finally remembered you had friends?"
"Ken, listen," I said, not even bothering to joke back. "I need a favor. A big one."
"Anything, man," he said. "You sound serious."
"I need a job," I said bluntly. "Could you maybe ask your dad if he can hook me up with something? Anything."
Ken went quiet for a second.
"Yeah. Yeah, dude, of course. Let me talk to him. Call you back in an hour."
An hour later, Ken texted me.
"Congrats. You're hired. Cafeteria assistant at your old college. Welcome to hell."
I stared at the text, feeling my stomach turn.
The cafeteria?
At my goddamn college?
The same place where I used to stroll in with my designer backpacks, throwing cash around like confetti?
Where girls used to trip over themselves just to sit at my table?
Now I was gonna be wiping tables and handing out soggy sandwiches?
I felt like throwing up.
Still… I needed the money.
I took a deep breath, trying to swallow what was left of my pride.
I started heading toward the campus.
Halfway there, I walked past the small coffee shop I used to hit every morning for espresso.
A bright red sign hung on the door:
"HELP WANTED — IMMEDIATE START"
I stopped in my tracks.
Maybe working at the coffee shop would be slightly less humiliating than being a cafeteria slave at my own college.
I walked in.
The owner, some tired-looking lady named Maria, barely glanced up from the counter.
"You want the job?" she said. "You're hired. Start now."
No interview.
No papers.
No background check.
I guess she was desperate too.
At first, I thought maybe I could pull it off.
It was coffee.
How hard could it be?
Very.
By lunchtime, I had messed up six orders, given two customers the butter espresso, and somehow managed to spill an entire latte all over some lawyer's thousand-dollar suit.
The final blow?
I lost my temper at some Karen who started screaming that her "cappuccino foam was too thin."
I slammed her cup on the counter a little too hard.
"Maybe if you weren't so thin-skinned, your coffee wouldn't be either," I snapped.
Maria pulled me aside, her face red.
"You're fired asshole," she yelled.
No second chances.
I grabbed my hoodie, muttered "whatever," and walked out.
Standing on the sidewalk, watching the world blur around me, I couldn't help but laugh.
Bitter.
Tired.
Completely defeated.
How worse could this possibly get?
Little did I know... it could get a hell of a lot worse.
I sat on the cold bench for hours, just... existing.
By the time the sun painted everything in depressing shades of orange, I dragged myself up and drove back towards the hotel.
The city blurred past me the flashing lights, the rushing people and all I could think about was one thing.
He won.
Just like he always does.
My father.
Reynolds Aston.
The almighty puppet master.
He was also right all along.
I was useless.
Pathetic.
I couldn't even hold down a damn job for 24 hours without screwing it up.
I scoffed bitterly, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
Soon, I'd have to crawl back to him, beg him to take me back just like he predicted.
Begging for forgiveness.
Begging for money.
Begging for a place at the table like some abandoned stray.
Play the perfect, obedient son.
Swallow every last shred of pride I had.
The thought made me sick to my stomach.
And then what?
Marry Bianca?
Spend the rest of my life trapped with a girl I couldn't even stand?
Hell no.
The thought made my stomach turn.
Before heading back to the hotel, I decided to make a pit stop.
One last act of rebellion before my defeat.
I pulled up at some random bar — the kind of place that looked dark enough to not ask questions.
Perfect.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the smell of spilled whiskey.
I threw myself onto the barstool and ordered a drink.
Then another.
And another.
Each shot burned my throat, but it dulled the pain in my chest just enough to keep breathing.
I was drinking to forget.
To forget how low I had fallen.
To forget the face of the man I hated most — my father.
To forget the life waiting for me back at the mansion.
To hell with it all.
I was so lost in my own misery that I barely noticed the guy who slid into the seat beside me.
At first, I didn't pay him any attention.
This was a bar — random people sat next to you all the time.
But something about him…
He looked too clean. Too sharp.
Black suit, pressed shirt, no tie.
Like he just stepped out of some underground meeting.
I ignored him at first.
Then glanced at him from the corner of my eye.
A cigarette dangling loosely from his lips.
He looked like trouble.
He didn't say anything right away.
Just ordered his own drink and leaned back in his seat, staring at me like he knew me.