The Contract

POV: Camille:

The first sound I heard on the morning of my first big girl job was my neighbor’s blender, loud and clear.

Of course.

It roared through the thin walls like an aircraft engine would, you know if you were right above it, which I was, chopping spinach, along with kale, and judging by the smell that seeped through the cracks, probably moral superiority too.

My neighbor, Kevin, was the kind of guy who ran marathons “for fun” and posted his mile times on Instagram with hashtags like #riseandgrind.

Major eye roll.

Meanwhile, I’d stayed up too late watching true crime documentaries and eating leftover Chinese food.

If he was grinding kale, I was grinding anxiety. And coffee beans. Mostly anxiety, though.

But today wasn’t just any old day.

Today was the day that I, Camille Martens officially joined the ranks of the gainfully employed. And not babysitting, not tutoring and not whipping up pumpkin cream cold foam at a barista gig either.

No.

Today, I was a lawyer.

A real one.

A Harvard Law graduate who was finally putting her vastly overpriced degree to use.

Cue the applause.

I threw the blanket off of my body, my eyes landing on the leaning tower of unopened student loan bills stacked by my nightstand. A reminder, as if I needed one, that I owed the government more money than I’d make in the next decade.

That pile was my motivator and my personal horror story all in one.

Relax, Camille, I told myself as I made my way towards the bathroom with my blonde hair in a tangled knot. “This is the start of paying those off. One day, you’ll look back and laugh at all this.”

I doubted it. But hey, positive affirmations were free.

The mirror greeted me with a crazy version of myself that screamed rookie attorney after all-nighter. I was met with puffy eyes, pillow creases on my cheek, and the faint shadow of stress acne. I sighed and reached for my concealer like it was liquid salvation.

I sighed as I stared into the mirror.

Blonde hair that was somewhere between “sunny beach waves” and I “didn’t brush this morning.” Blue eyes that looked perpetually tired, curves that meant I always had to size up in pants but size down in blouses thaat my mother liked to call me “well-proportioned.”

I wrangled my hair into a sleek bun, it was my go-to for pretending that I had my life together and then I slid into my navy suit. It was a Nordstrom clearance rack, but you couldn’t tell unless you knew what to look for.

I hesitated as I looked at my the shoes. My trusty black pumps were basically medieval torture devices for feet. But they made my legs look like I actually knew what a squat rack was, so the choice was clear. Blisters were temporary but first impressions were forever.

My bag was less luxury leather and more knockoff Prada if you squinted hard enough but it was functional. Inside weree my wallet, my phone, my emergency granola bar, and my lucky pen were all grouped together.

I paused at the door, inhaled, and reminded myself: You’re a Harvard Law graduate, Camille. You worked your butt off for this. Now act like you belong in that building.

Then I stepped out onto the New York City sidewalk.

The city greeted me the way it always did with a loud and a bustle of people around us and a scent that faintly smelled like hot dogs no matter what time of day it was. And me? I was one of them now. Part of the hustle.

I blended into the crowd, striding with purpose down the sidewalk in determination. A man in a suit brushed past me while shouting into his Bluetooth headset. A tourist couple stopped dead in front of me to gawk at a light up neon billboard.

On the subway, I wedged myself between a guy reading a literal paper copy of The Wall Street Journal and a woman balancing an entire iced latte on top of her yoga mat bag.

I clutched my tote close to my chest, rehearsing introductions in my head systematically.

“Hi, I’m Camille Martens, your new associate. Yes, I’m young, but don’t worry, I’m eager to learn.”

“Hi, I’m Camille Martens, and I swear I’m worth my salary, please don’t fire me.”

Okay, maybe not either of those. They both sounded strangely odd.

It still felt surreal that I’d even landed this gig.

Vanderbilt Technologies. One of the most powerful tech companies in the world. Their legal department was notorious for being competitive, cutthroat, and prestigious. It was the kind of place that created careers.

My interview had been… fine. Not with the great Michael Vanderbilt himself, of course. He was too busy showing up on Forbes lists. No, my interview had been with HR. A woman named Donna with a beige blazer and a pretty beige personality.

“So, Camille,” Donna had said, peering at me over her glasses like she was the judge of a debate, “what would you say your greatest strength is?”

“I don’t cry in bathrooms,” I’d blurted. Okay, maybe I didn’t say it out loud, but I’d thought it internally. What I actually said was something about resilience, multitasking, and commitment to excellence. Translation: I can juggle ten things and I’ll stay until midnight if you need me to.

Somehow, it worked and two weeks later, the job offer appeared in my e-mail inbox like a golden ticket. I’d screamed so loudly that Kevin had paused his blender mid-spinach massacre.

The subway came to my stop, and I climbed out with the crowd of other New Yorkers, joining the morning migration of suits and briefcases.

As I walked, my thoughts drifted to Michael Vanderbilt himself. On paper, he was a billionaire and one of Forbes’s top ten most eligible bachelors.

I hadn’t Googled him much, because honestly, I didn’t want to seem like a fangirl. But still, I wondered. What kind of man built an empire like this? Was he cold and calculating? Charming and brilliant? Was he someone people couldn’t read? That seemed almost as if he was imagined?

Not that it mattered because Billionaires lived in a different orbit.

I was an associate. He was my boss’s boss’s boss. He might as well have been a myth.

Finally, after fifteen blocks, I stopped.

And there it was.

The building.

Vanderbilt Technologies towered over the city like it owned the skyline itself. Like it was made for it. Sleek glass and polished steel— so tall it seemed to scrape the clouds.

People streamed in and out of the revolving doors. Everyone looked like they belonged. Everyone looked important.

My heart thudded against my ribs. I tightened my grip on my bag, squared my shoulders, and tilted my chin up. I had to be confident. Or at least look the part.

This was it.

The place where I’d spend the next chapter of my life. The place where I’d pay off my loans, prove myself, and maybe even make a name for myself in the legal world.

The place where I’d either rise or crash.

I smirked, staring up at the skyscraper. “Bring it on,” I whispered.