"Send me your paycheck screenshot." Jenna Roland demanded, skepticism lacing her voice.

"Wait."

Stella Laurent hung up abruptly. A screenshot popped up on her phone moments later.

The number $20,000 glared back at her.

Jenna stared at her screen, fingers trembling slightly.

That was three months' worth of fruit stand profits.

With that kind of money, her and Milo's lives could change overnight.

"What if someone harasses me?" Jenna gnawed at her fingernail.

"Our boss owns Los Angeles!" Stella's tone turned cocky. "No one would dare touch you."

Five years of friendship eased Jenna's nerves slightly.

Still, she waited until dawn to reply: "Introduce me."

Morning light filtered through the curtains as Milo packed his schoolbag.

Jenna shoved a twenty into his hand. "Get lunch yourself."

An unknown number flashed on her phone.

"Selling your fruit stand?" A no-nonsense female voice asked.

The woman arrived in stilettos, eyes darting like a hawk.

"Five grand. Take it or leave it." Her manicured nail tapped the counter glass.

Jenna eyed the nearly spoiled strawberries and nodded through gritted teeth.

Regret hit the moment the contract was signed—she'd agreed too hastily last night.

A Maybach glided soundlessly beside her.

Grandma Blanche rolled down the window. "Your new place is ready."

Beverly Hills' glass towers reflected blinding sunlight.

Jenna gripped her e-bike handles—the battery indicator blinked its final bar.

The gray-toned living room felt as cold as a morgue.

"Master bedroom's for you lovebirds." Grandma Blanche grinned ear to ear.

Heat rushed to Jenna's ears.

Her gaze snagged on the men's leather shoes by the entrance—size 38, radiating the same keep-out aura as Ethan Roscente.

The price tag still clung to the Italian leather sofa.

Jenna inhaled sharply—that could buy ten of her e-bikes.

"All Zwilling knives in the kitchen." Grandma Blanche opened a drawer. "Ethan said you cook."

Jenna stared at the gleaming cookware.

Every molecule of air here whispered: You don't belong.