Gabriella adjusted the straps of her thrift-store backpack as she stood outside the Grand Luxe Hotel, staring up at its gleaming exterior. The revolving doors, the valet out front, and the lineup of sleek black cars—it was a world she could barely imagine fitting into, much less surviving in. But the job was hers, at least for now, and she wasn't about to mess this up.
It wasn't like she had anywhere else to go.
Fresh out of foster care, Gabriella had spent the last few months bouncing between shelters, scraping together what little money she could. The job at the hotel as a housekeeper was her first step toward something stable. The pay wasn't great, but it was better than nothing.
"Alright, Gabby," she mumbled to herself, tugging at her oversized sweater. "Don't mess this up."
Inside, the lobby smelled like money. Marble floors stretched out like something in a movie, chandeliers sparkled overhead, and well-dressed people moved about like they belonged there. She kept her head down, her sneakers squeaking faintly as she made her way toward the service elevator.
"Yo, watch it!" a voice barked as she rounded the corner too quickly, almost smacking into someone.
"Sorry," Gabriella said automatically, stepping back.
The man she'd nearly collided with was tall, probably mid-20s, with smooth brown skin and tattoos creeping up the side of his neck. His fitted sweats looked expensive, and a heavy chain swung around his chest. He looked out of place in the hotel, too—but in a way that said he could afford to be here.
"Nah, you good," he said after a pause, his voice smooth but laced with something sharp. His eyes swept over her, lingering just a second too long.
Gabriella felt heat rise in her cheeks and quickly looked down. She moved past him, slipping into the elevator before he could say anything else.
Later that day, after scrubbing sinks and folding towels for hours, Gabriella took a quick break in the back alley. She sat on an old crate, unwrapping the sandwich she'd brought from the shelter.
"You always eat alone?"
She jumped, her sandwich nearly slipping from her hands. The same guy from earlier stood leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, watching her.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Chill, shorty. I ain't tryna rob you. Just saw you out here lookin' mad lonely."
Gabriella narrowed her eyes. "Maybe I like being alone."
He smirked, stepping closer. "I'm Zay."
She hesitated. There was something about him—his confidence, the way he looked at her like he was trying to figure her out. She wasn't sure if it made her nervous or curious.
"Gabriella," she said finally, her tone wary.
"Gabriella," he repeated, his voice dragging out the syllables like he was testing the name. "Pretty name for a pretty girl."
She rolled her eyes, stuffing the sandwich back into her bag. "If you're here to flirt, don't bother. I'm not interested."
Zay chuckled, the sound low and deep. "Who said I was flirting? Maybe I just like talkin' to you."
"Why?" she shot back.
He leaned against the wall, shrugging. "Don't know yet. You just... different. Quiet, but you ain't scared."
Gabriella didn't know what to make of him. He carried himself like he owned the world, but there was something rough around the edges—something that reminded her of the streets she'd tried so hard to avoid.
"I gotta go," she said, standing up.
"Aight," Zay said, watching her with that same unreadable expression. "But I'll see you around."
Gabriella didn't respond, but as she walked away, she felt his eyes on her, like he was already memorizing her.
Over the next few days, Zay kept appearing. Sometimes he'd be lounging in the lobby, his expensive sneakers propped up on the furniture. Other times, he'd show up near the service entrance, leaning against his matte-black car.
"What's your deal?" Gabriella asked one evening when he caught her leaving.
"My deal?" he echoed, smirking. "What's yours? You workin' all these hours, lookin' like you ain't got nobody."
"I don't," she said flatly, her voice colder than she meant it to be.
Zay's expression shifted, his smirk fading slightly. "Yeah, me neither. Least, not like that."
Gabriella frowned. "You? Don't you got, like, a mansion or something?"
Zay laughed, the sound carrying a bitter edge. "Nah. I built everything I got, but that don't mean I got people. Money don't fix that, trust me."
For the first time, Gabriella saw past his flashy exterior. There was something raw underneath—something that mirrored the emptiness she'd carried her whole life.
"Why do you keep talking to me?" she asked softly.
"'Cause," Zay said, his voice quiet but firm, "you real. And I'm tired of fake."
Gabriella didn't know what to say. For the first time, someone wasn't looking past her. He was looking at her—and for some reason, that scared her more than anything.
But it also made her want to stay.
