"The day Mom and I moved into the Sterling estate, a year to the day after Mrs. Sterling’s death, was the day my real life began. Mom had finally landed her whale, Mr. Sterling. It didn’t matter that there was no ring, no title. From now on, there would be food on the table and designer bags in her closet. That was enough. But it wasn't enough for her to simply secure her own position. She had to secure mine, too. She pushed me in front of the Sterling heir, Conrad, as if offering up a sacrifice. A handmaiden for the young prince. Conrad Sterling hated my mother with a vengeance that was practically biblical. By extension, he was disgusted by me. I didn't care. I loved being his shadow. When he ate shrimp, I peeled them. When he ate grapes, I was there with cupped hands to catch the seeds. After I graduated high school, I slid seamlessly into an internship at his company. I squeezed out his favorite executive assistant and took her place. This continued until the news of his engagement broke. He gripped my hand, his knuckles white, and gave me an ultimatum: choose him, or choose the Sterling fortune. I shoved him away without a second thought. ""You go alone,"" I said. ""I'm staying to inherit the family fortune."" 1 In the opulent, sun-drenched living room of the Sterling main house, I saw him for the first time. He descended the sweeping spiral staircase slowly, a king surveying a hostile takeover of his castle. He wore a black turtleneck that made his pale, fine-boned face seem almost sculpted from marble. His legs were long, his posture perfect. But the gaze he fixed on me from his elevated position was filled with a thick, undiluted hatred. I shrank behind my mother, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. ""Ivy,"" my mother cooed, her smile stretched thin and brittle. ""Say hello to your new brother."" She nudged me forward, a deliberate, cruel little jab at him. As expected, before I could even open my mouth, he spat on the floor at my feet. A clear, deliberate insult. I swallowed the hot sting of tears, wiped my face with the back of my hand, and looked up at him. I smiled. ""Hello, Conrad."" Mr. Sterling's face flushed with embarrassment. He rushed over to play peacemaker, scolding Conrad in a low voice before turning to me with a strained smile. ""Ivy is so mature for her age,"" he praised. Mature. I almost laughed. In that, at least, he was right. I was mature enough to understand the precariousness of our position. My mother came from nothing. She had no connections, no family money. Her only leverage in this house was Mr. Sterling's affection. And Mr. Sterling had built his empire on the back of his late wife's family money. After her death, her entire stake in the company—a controlling interest—had passed directly to her only son, Conrad. As for me? I was the daughter of the other woman. I had no blood ties to Conrad, and Mr. Sterling's fortune would never, ever fall into my hands. On the surface, my mother and I were living a life of unimaginable luxury. In reality, we were powerless. Which is why I had to get close to Conrad Sterling. If not friends, then at least not enemies. So began my decade-long performance. I orbited him, anticipated him, served him. He ate shrimp; I peeled them, my fingers slick with brine. He ate grapes; I held my hands out to catch the tiny seeds, a human receptacle. I was more efficient than any paid servant in that house. They whispered about me behind my back, of course. The maids, the cooks, the drivers. Their scorn was a constant hum in the background of my life. But Conrad, for all his hatred, found my devotion… useful. He never gave me a kind word, never a warm glance. But the benefits were undeniable. Elite tutors were hired for one-on-one sessions in the library. Invitations to exclusive summer programs at Ivy League schools appeared on my pillow. My allowance was deposited in five-figure increments. As long as the money kept coming, I didn’t care what anyone thought. My mother, however, couldn't stand it. At thirty-five, she threw herself into a desperate, high-risk pregnancy, trying to produce a new heir, a new claim. She didn't understand. It didn't matter. Her games had no effect on my own. Because I wasn't just after his power. I was after him. 2 My mother’s attempt at a third child ultimately failed. I knew it was the result of a quiet, multi-pronged war waged behind closed doors, and I knew Conrad was the victor. It only made me double down on my efforts. He was the sole heir. Mr. Sterling had his life mapped out: an Ivy League education in the States, then a seamless transition into the CEO's chair at Sterling Corp. But Conrad refused. After graduation, he came back and started his own firm. His mother’s brother, my late step-aunt's brother, doted on his nephew and pulled strings, flooding Conrad's new venture with investment capital. The company took off like a rocket. Conrad poured everything into his work. First, it was late nights and early mornings. Then, he moved out of the Sterling estate altogether. The opportunities for me to see him dwindled, and a knot of panic began to tighten in my chest. Finally, as my own college graduation approached, I saw my chance. At a rare family dinner, I timidly brought up the idea of an internship at his company. Mr. Sterling glanced at my mother, who gave his sleeve a subtle, pleading tug. ""Ivy has ambition,"" Mr. Sterling declared, his voice booming with forced cheer. ""That's a good thing."" He poured Conrad a glass of wine, a clear peace offering. ""You're her older brother. You should help her out."" Conrad swirled the deep red liquid in his glass, his eyes flicking over to me. He said nothing. I knew the very idea of my presence in his sanctuary must have felt like swallowing glass. But I would do what it took. I had to be near him. I lowered my head, curling my shoulders inward, making myself as small and non-threatening as possible. A little quail, trembling in the presence of a hawk. ""I won't be any trouble, Conrad,"" I whispered. ""I promise."" He let out a short, cold huff of air. ""Whatever,"" he muttered, pushing his chair back and leaving the room. Mr. Sterling's face was a mask of thunder. I watched Conrad's retreating back, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across my lips. A week later, I arrived at his gleaming downtown office building. The receptionist gave me a long, dismissive once-over and then gestured for security. ""We don't hire temporary staff,"" she said, her voice dripping with ice. Her eyes scanned my simple dress as if I were something she'd scrape off her shoe. My hands curled into fists at my sides. I opened my mouth to explain, but a security guard was already gripping my arm. ""Let's go, miss. Out."" ""Someone like you couldn't even get a job as a security guard here,"" the other one grunted, shoving me toward the glass doors. Laughter followed me out onto the scorching pavement. The sun beat down relentlessly. Conrad's phone went straight to voicemail. My texts went unanswered. I knew what this was. This was a message. This was him putting me in my place. 3 I waited on the curb outside his office building until nine o'clock that night. Finally, the familiar, low growl of his Porsche echoed in the parking garage. Conrad emerged first. He seemed unsteady on his feet, his usually sharp features softened by a faint flush. His tie was loosened, hanging askew, and the sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled up to his forearms, revealing the taut lines of his muscles. A business dinner, then. I hesitated. This was probably the worst possible time to approach him. A cold, imperious man drowning in alcohol would only become crueler. Just as I was about to turn and slip away into the night, he did something unexpected. He walked around to the passenger side of the car. He opened the door, bent down, and carefully placed a hand on the roof's edge to shield the person inside. ""Watch your head,"" he said. His voice was steady, calm. And then, as the person in the backseat looked up at him, I saw it. The corner of his mouth tilted upward in a small, genuine smile. It was a look of pure, unadulterated delight—a side of Conrad Sterling I had never seen before. It wasn't until the car pulled away that I got a clear look at her. A girl. She wore dark jeans and a plain white t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. She was clutching a stack of files to her chest, radiating an unpolished, collegiate innocence. She had to be a recent graduate. So. This was his type. All this time, I’d half-convinced myself he wasn’t interested in women at all. His entire life, he’d been a magnet for them. In high school, I was the one who collected the love letters from his locker, and I was the one who burned them in a metal bin in the backyard at home. For five years, the ash from those letters fertilized the rose bushes until they grew lush and wild, but the iron tree of Conrad’s heart never once bloomed. Until now, apparently. And his flower of choice was a simple, unassuming daisy. I squared my shoulders and walked toward them. ""Conrad,"" I said, my voice soft. ""I've been waiting for you all day."" The smile vanished from his face as if it had been wiped clean. ""What are you doing here?"" he asked, his brow furrowing as he feigned ignorance. But I saw the flicker of cruel amusement in his eyes. ""Please, just let me have the internship,"" I pleaded, twisting the hem of my dress. ""I've done so much research. I won't cause any trouble. I swear."" This was the game. Mr. Sterling had played the bad cop, forcing his hand. Now I had to play the good cop, massaging his ego. My display of groveling seemed to work. The hard lines around his eyes softened slightly. ""Anna,"" he said, turning to the girl beside him. ""Get her processed tomorrow. Intern."" He gestured vaguely in my direction. ""This is my secretary. Just coordinate with her."" I looked at the girl again. Anna. She offered me a bright, polite smile. She had an aura of quiet grace, and a nagging feeling told me I’d seen her somewhere before. I glanced at the employee badge clipped to her jeans: Anna Thompson. A nice name. But a little voice in my head insisted it was wrong."
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