Autumn's POV
The text comes at midnight on the last day of school.
I'm already packed. My locker is cleaned out. My textbooks are returned. Tomorrow morning, I walk out of Crestwood Academy and don't come back for three whole months.
I should be relieved. Instead, I'm staring at my phone screen, hands shaking.
Unknown: Tomorrow 9 AM. Zhang Technologies. Your summer starts now. Come ready to work. And Autumn? Leave the hoodie at home. —Uncle James
Leave the hoodie at home.
I read it three times. How does he know about the hoodie? I never wore it to my interview. I've been "Reed" in all our conversations—professional, put-together, confident.
But somehow, he knows.
My finger hovers over the keyboard. I should ask questions. I should demand to know how he knows my real name, why he's texting at midnight, what "come ready to work" actually means.
Instead, I type: I'll be there.
His response is immediate: Good. You're going to meet someone tomorrow. Someone who will change everything. Trust me.
I stare at those words until my vision blurs. Someone who will change everything.
I don't want everything to change. I just want to survive.
But something whispers in the back of my mind—the part of me that's been buried under hoodies and fake glasses and carefully constructed invisibility: What if you could do more than survive? What if you could actually live?
I set my alarm for six AM and try to sleep. But my brain won't shut off.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
I just don't know if I'm ready.
I stand outside Zhang Technologies at eight fifty-five AM, wearing jeans and a simple black t-shirt. No hoodie. No glasses. My hair is down, brushed until it shines.
I feel naked. Exposed. Like everyone passing by can see exactly how scared I am.
The building is all glass and steel, modern and intimidating. Through the front doors, I can see people in business clothes walking purposefully, carrying tablets and coffee cups, looking important.
I don't belong here.
But I also didn't belong at prom. I didn't belong in AP Literature sitting next to Crew. I didn't belong anywhere at Crestwood.
Maybe it's time to stop waiting for permission to exist.
I walk through the doors at exactly nine AM.
Uncle James is waiting in the lobby, smiling warmly. "Reed! Right on time. How are you feeling?"
"Nervous," I admit.
"Good. Nervous means you care." He gestures toward the elevator. "Come on. There's someone I want you to meet. He's... well, you'll see. He's not like most people."
We ride the elevator to the tenth floor in silence. My heart pounds so loud I'm sure Uncle James can hear it.
The doors open to reveal a massive open office space. People work at sleek desks, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything is clean and modern and completely terrifying.
"This way," Uncle James says.
We walk through the office. People glance at me curiously but don't stare. No whispers. No judgment. Just brief, polite interest before they return to their work.
It's the most normal I've felt in six weeks.
Uncle James stops at a glass-walled conference room. Inside, a guy around my age sits with his back to us, hunched over a laptop. Dark hair falls across his forehead. His fingers fly across the keyboard like he's fighting a war with code.
"That's my nephew," Uncle James says quietly. "Kade Zhang. He's brilliant, stubborn, and allergic to small talk. He's also managing the product launch you'll be photographing this summer."
"He's my age," I blurt out.
"He's eighteen and already runs half this company's creative department. Like I said—brilliant." Uncle James knocks on the glass door. "Kade! Your photographer is here!"
The guy doesn't turn around. "Tell them to wait. I'm busy."
Uncle James sighs. "This is why people don't like you."
"People do like me. I just don't like them back." Kade's voice is sharp, distracted. "Five minutes."
Uncle James looks at me apologetically. "Welcome to working with Kade Zhang. I'll leave you two to get acquainted. Try not to kill each other."
He walks away before I can protest.
I stand outside the glass door, watching this Kade person attack his keyboard. He types angry, like the computer personally offended him.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. Then fifteen.
Finally, I knock on the glass door myself.
"I said five minutes!" Kade snaps without looking up.
"That was fifteen minutes ago," I say clearly.
His fingers pause on the keyboard. Slowly, he turns around.
And I forget how to breathe.
He's not traditionally handsome—not like Crew with his perfect features and golden-boy smile. Kade has sharp cheekbones, dark circles under his eyes like he hasn't slept in days, and an expression that says he's three seconds from telling the world to go away.
But his eyes. Dark brown, intense, intelligent. They look at me like he's reading a book written on my soul.
"You're the photographer?" He sounds skeptical.
"You're the manager?" I shoot back. "You look like you need a nap and an attitude adjustment."
For a second, he just stares at me. Then the corner of his mouth twitches.
"I like you already," he says. "Most people are too scared to be honest with me."
"Maybe you should be less scary."
"Where's the fun in that?" He closes his laptop and stands up. He's tall—maybe six feet—and moves with casual confidence. "I'm Kade. You must be Reed."
"Autumn," I correct automatically. "Reed is my middle name."
"Autumn." He tests it out, like he's deciding if it fits. "Okay, Autumn. Let's see if you're as good as your portfolio, or if Uncle James is just being nice because he feels sorry for you."
Something hot flashes through me. "I don't need anyone's pity."
"Good. Because I don't give it." He walks past me, expecting me to follow. "Come on. I'll show you what we're working on. Fair warning—I have high standards and zero patience for mediocrity. If your work sucks, I'll tell you. If I'm wrong, you'll tell me. Deal?"
I follow him through the office, my mind spinning. This is nothing like dealing with Crew, who always said what he thought I wanted to hear. Kade apparently says exactly what he thinks, no filter, no performance.
It's weirdly refreshing.
We enter another room filled with products—tech gadgets, devices I don't recognize, sleek designs that look like they're from the future.
"These are launching in three months," Kade explains, gesturing to a table full of equipment. "We need photos that make people feel something. Not just 'oh cool, a gadget,' but 'I need this in my life right now.' Think you can do that?"
I study the products, my photographer brain already composing shots. Angles. Lighting. Mood.
"Yes," I say confidently. "I can do that."
"Prove it." He hands me a camera—an expensive one, way better than anything I own. "Show me what you've got. Right now. This product, five shots, make me feel something."
It's a test. A challenge. The kind of thing designed to make people nervous and mess up.
But I've spent six weeks being humiliated. I've spent three years hiding. I've spent my entire life being underestimated.
I'm done with that.
I take the camera, study the product—it's some kind of smart speaker—and start shooting. I move around it, testing angles. I adjust the lighting with nearby lamps. I get close, then far away, finding the story in the object.
Kade watches silently, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
After ten minutes, I hand him back the camera. "Look at the last five shots."
He scrolls through them, his face giving nothing away. The silence stretches so long I start to sweat.
Finally, he looks up. His expression is different now—surprised, maybe even impressed.
"These are good," he says grudgingly. "Really good. The third one especially—the way you caught the light reflecting off the surface. That's not just technical skill. That's vision."
Something warm blooms in my chest. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. I'm just stating facts." But there's something softer in his voice now. "Okay, Autumn-not-Reed. You can stay. But I'm warning you—I'm not easy to work with. I'm demanding, I'm blunt, and I don't do feelings."
"That's fine," I say. "I'm not here to be your friend. I'm here to take photos and get paid."
He grins—a real grin that transforms his whole face. "Oh, we're definitely going to get along."
We spend the next three hours going over the project timeline. Kade explains what he needs, when he needs it, and his (very high) expectations. He doesn't treat me like a kid or a charity case. He treats me like a professional.
It's the best feeling I've had in weeks.
At noon, Uncle James pokes his head in. "You two haven't killed each other yet?"
"She's tolerable," Kade says.
"He's manageable," I add.
Uncle James laughs. "High praise from both of you. Autumn, there's a staff lunch happening. You should join us. Consider it your official welcome."
In the cafeteria, people are friendly and normal. They ask about my photography, my plans for college, my interests. Nobody mentions Crestwood. Nobody knows about prom or bets or humiliation.
Here, I'm just Autumn. The new photographer. The girl with talent.
After lunch, Kade catches my arm as I'm heading back to the workspace.
"Hey," he says, and for the first time, he seems almost awkward. "Uncle James told me you go to Crestwood Academy. That's where I went, actually. Graduated last year."
My blood runs cold. "You went to Crestwood?"
"Yeah. Hated every minute of it. Bunch of fake people obsessed with status and drama." He studies my face. "You okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"Did you know..." I swallow hard. "Did you know Crew Maverick?"
Something dark flashes across Kade's face. "Yeah. I know Crew. Golden boy, quarterback, everyone's favorite perfect student." His voice drips with sarcasm. "Why?"
I can't answer. Can't breathe. If Kade knows Crew, does he know about the bet? Does everyone know?
Kade's expression shifts to concern. "Autumn? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I say quickly. "I just... I need some air."
I walk away before he can stop me, my mind racing.
Kade went to Crestwood. Kade knows Crew.
Does he know what happened to me?
I make it to the bathroom and lock myself in a stall, trying to breathe. In three months, I'll be back at Crestwood for senior year. Back in those hallways. Back with those people.
What if nothing changes? What if I spend this whole summer getting stronger, only to crumble the moment I see Crew's face again?
My phone buzzes. A text from Riley.
Riley: How's day one at the new job??
I start to type a response when another text comes through. This one from an unknown number.
Unknown: Saw you going into Zhang Tech this morning. Nice try with the makeover. Still the same pathetic nobody underneath. Have fun playing dress-up this summer. —A Friend
My hands shake so hard I nearly drop the phone.
They found me. Even here, miles away from Crestwood, they found me.
I'm never going to escape.